Willow's path; The Way of the Wicked - Campaign Journal

[Braininthejar2]

It is cruel to tell you this after so much writing, but the autocorrect seems to have pulled a couple tricks on you. I think it made Vethra an archdeacon among other things, but more tricks lurk among the text

[minderp]

It is cruel to tell you this after so much writing, but the autocorrect seems to have pulled a couple tricks on you. I think it made Vethra an archdeacon among other things, but more tricks lurk among the text

He was an Archdeacon of Pestilence, according to our DM.
Though I'm sure there would be mistakes, its not a professional story lol.

[Braininthejar2]

Ah. In that case, you might have called him anarchdeamon once.

I'm up to the start of the ritual, and so far I'm impressed with how smart your party is

[minderp]

Ah. In that case, you might have called him anarchdeamon once.

I'm up to the start of the ritual, and so far I'm impressed with how smart your party is

Oh man, if our party appears smart, i must have embellished the story a whole lot lol. ;)

[Braininthejar2]

I've seen some mistakes, like "past-passed" or muscles sore from lack of inactivity. As a fanfic author, I can only tell you that I know the pain; I have experienced many a time the impotence of proofreading.

Spoiler

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Oh man, if our party appears smart, i must have embellished the story a whole lot lol. ;)

Well, after reading the Inquisitor part, it occurs to me that you failed to utilise the Horn to its full potential. I understand your reluctance to sacrifice minions - they needed to last, and you wanted to avoid morale problems. But from a typical adventure point of view, you're the boss encounter there - the rest of the dungeon exists to soften up the heroes and delay them, so you can buff and armor up - not meet them at the front door in your night gowns.

(also, I would have expected the treant to do something by that time - did the GM forget about him?)

(also, who managed the ritual on the nights where you were all in town?)

[Braininthejar2]

Also:

"Fifty shades of Grey 4: Whipping Willow"

[minderp]

Well, after reading the Inquisitor part, it occurs to me that you failed to utilise the Horn to its full potential. I understand your reluctance to sacrifice minions - they needed to last, and you wanted to avoid morale problems. But from a typical adventure point of view, you're the boss encounter there - the rest of the dungeon exists to soften up the heroes and delay them, so you can buff and armor up - not meet them at the front door in your night gowns.

(also, I would have expected the treant to do something by that time - did the GM forget about him?)

(also, who managed the ritual on the nights where you were all in town

This was actually the problem we had. The group got bored with waiting for the intruders to make it through, and continually raced to meet them. We are actually the worst at being the defenders. Infiltration and brute force are definitely more our forte.

Treant and a few others were disregarded as some of our group were getting sick of the Horn and starting to get crabby and frustrated.

Thought i mentioned that Grumblejack took care of the ritual, but it was kind of shrugged off so everyone could be included in the going to town fun.

Also, if the Fifty Shades of Willow thing bothers you, you should probably stop reading... :P

[Braininthejar2]

He should have let you control the dungeon monsters, like a reverse scenario with him being the adventurers.

What happened to the hydra, the wraiths, and the golem? were they ever of any use?

What happened to Trik and Trak?

Did the DM fudge the roll for your antipaladin, or did he really win the duel by the skin of his teeth?

Did your wizard leave the party permanently?

If I were to defend it, I would have probably put a cauldron of something hot in the ritual chamber, to pour down the stairs in emergency. Also, someone should really teach Grumblejack to exploit reach with flight.

I think I've spotted two mistakes. One of the flashbacks mentions Ezra Thrice Damned being beheaded - but he was only Twice Damned then - he didn't become Thrice Damned until he returned as undead.

More importantly, your lighthouse side quest mentions the baron's possible reaction - but he's already dead at that point.

As for Willow's private life, I just couldn't resist the pun

Okay, onto the next book.

[minderp]

He should have let you control the dungeon monsters, like a reverse scenario with him being the adventurers.

What happened to the hydra, the wraiths, and the golem? were they ever of any use?

What happened to Trik and Trak?

The DM did, each encounter we began as whatever minions we had in each area, as well as our own PC. But some of our players are very easily bored and distracted, and it got to the point where no one was having fun. They wanted to do the massive damage they could as their own PC. The DM just ended up glossing over alot to move the game along and ensure everyone was still having fun, not just me, because i'm easily entertained by pathfinder lol. Trik and Trak were never to be seen again, which still irks me, because their return would have been good for the story.

Did the DM fudge the roll for your antipaladin, or did he really win the duel by the skin of his teeth?

By the very shred of skin lol. By memory (though it was more than a year ago), he had to use a Hero Point.

Did your wizard leave the party permanently?

Yeah, our player moved interstate.

I think I've spotted two mistakes. One of the flashbacks mentions Ezra Thrice Damned being beheaded - but he was only Twice Damned then - he didn't become Thrice Damned until he returned as undead.

I'll have a look, he was barely mentioned in game, apart from the initial meeting in the treasure chamber. Was another victim of bored players, so he was forgotten. I'm still convinced he was supposed to rise up and try to take over the ritual himself, but the DM glossed over it for the other players.

More importantly, your lighthouse side quest mentions the baron's possible reaction - but he's already dead at that point.

I'll definitely look into this. Sometimes the sidequests happen out of sync and i slot them in story wise where they fit, as i do them alone with the DM so the others aren't bored listening to the "Willow Show".


Super rad that you're reading the stories. I appreciate the feedback.

[minderp]

Also, newest chapter. :)

Spoiler: Chapter 39 - A Plague of the Heart - Part 1

Show

Shadows clung to the crevices in the jagged stone that lined the walls, shapes and patterns cast by the light of a single simmering flame. Hidden deep within the underground, compressed by the heavy weight of foreboding dread, surrounded by the ruins of a time long passed. As the decades had gone by, the stone had formed into tapering structures, from the ceiling the salts dripped and hardened into rough and protruding stalactites. Eyes of feral and savage glee gazed upon them, black as night and cold as ice.
“Who told you we were coming?” Pellius asked suspiciously.
The towering devil’s grin slid higher upon his cheeks, creasing the skin of his eldritch face.
“You know exactly who,” he rasped, his deep and resonating voice echoing through the chamber, “And of course, here you are.”
The beast looked to Willow, devouring eyes of barely restrained hunger.
“The Nameless One…” he smirked.
He looked to Bor, “The Renegade…”
He arched his brow towards Garvana, “The Prophet…”
Finally, his gaze came to rest upon Pellius, “And The Fist…”
The Forsaken stared towards him, frowns of suspicion and intrigue upon their brows.
“Prophet,” he growled, flashing his eyes at Garvana, “You have the power to free me.”
“I do,” she replied coldly, narrowing her sight, “But such a thing always comes at a price.”
Though his lip curled with distaste, he motioned to a curious of collection of items strewn within the pentagram.
“You may take these,” he snarled, “Along with your lives…”
Garvana brow rose high as she stared down the terrible fiend.
“How did you come to be trapped within this circle?” Willow asked, tilting her head curiously.
Suddenly, his fearsome chain lashed out, carving chunks from the stone inches above her head. Though she was not a stranger to outbursts of vicious fury, the proximity and precision of the hacking stone had her shudder in reaction. His feral grin seethed with venom as he looked to her in ferocious warning.
“It is impolite to ask such a thing,” he gritted through his teeth.
Though Willow felt the blazing heat of hell’s embrace while standing in the presence of the terrifying horned devil, another pulsing drum thundered in the chamber. Garvana screeched a savage cry, calling upon the Infernal Lord to encompass her figure. Her skin bled a seething scarlet, her muscles swelled and expanded, her height rising higher. Two jagged horns shot from her skull, long sharp teeth fell from her lips, talons extended from her thickened fingers. When she spoke, her voice deepened into a feral hiss.
“You wish freedom?” she rasped, “Then you shall receive it, in return for your name.”
A malicious growl rumbled from the devil’s chest, surging anger and ire spiralling far from his control. His chain suddenly lashed in a whirlwind of fury, lunging towards Garvana. Though its links simply ricocheted off the steel casing of her armour, it wrapped viciously around her leg, coiling in a crushing embrace. With terrifying strength, the fiend yanked violently on the chain, tearing Garvana from her feet as she crashed into the stone floor. As she was dragged towards him, Pellius and Bor leapt into action. Pellius drew his weapon from its holster, thrusting its handle into the enormous fist that gripped the chain. Though he pummelled with all of his might, the fiend’s hand barely flinched. Bor grabbed Garvana’s arm, heaving as hard as he could; but found himself unable to stop her drawing further towards the devil. As the fearsome beast reached his free hand for Garvana, Willow snarled.
“Stop this infantile display!” she seethed, with enough venom to draw the devil’s gaze, “Are we no more than a pack of savages? Can we not simply converse like civil creatures?”
Though his gaze remained upon her, his hand continued its path to grab hold of Garvana by the throat.
“It seems some of your number are more uncouth than your words,” the devil rasped.
Slowly, he lifted Garvana high into the air, ignoring Bor and Pellius’ attempts to free her. As he turned towards the centre of the pentagram, holding Garvana almost fifteen feet in the air, Willow stepped forward.
“Release her!” she snarled, eyes flashing a menacing crimson.
The fiend returned his head towards her, raising his brutish brow in intrigue.
“As you wish,” he grinned, throwing Garvana’s enlarged body into the floor, cracking the stone under the weight of her collision.
“Killing me will not free you!” Garvana snarled.
“No,” he grinned, “But it will be much entertainment watching you suffer, it will be some time until you eventually die…”
“This is foolish!” Willow snapped, “You think we would be tempted by mere gold and trinkets? I do not care to know your name, but you know there is much you could simply tell us in return for your freedom.”
As the devil ignored her words, Bor roared in anger. He threw himself forward, leaping into the air in an attempt to grab hold of the fiend’s carmine scaled neck. Quicker than eyes could follow, the fiend’s tale lashed out and swung wide, with might enough to throw Bor backward into the wall.
“Stay out of this, renegade,” he warned viciously, “I will deal with you later.”
“You will deal with me now,” Bor growled, standing from the floor, drawing his blade in threat.
A hideous glee lit the devil’s face, a hunger for bloodshed being given right to unleash. As he turned towards Bor, venom dripping within his gaze, his grin slithered higher in thirst.
“ENOUGH!” Willow screeched, looking over all of them with frustration, “This is pathetic! Pointless fighting will give us nothing but carnage! You wish your freedom, and you think this is the best way to get it?! We draw our blades, and either you die or we do! I will not die for such a pointless venture!”
“Ah,” the fiend crooned, “Wisdom. Very well, let us settle this traditionally, by the old way.”
“A trial by combat,” Pellius agreed sternly.
“It is the old way for a reason,” Willow scoffed, shaking her head gently, “Brawn against brawn, no room for acuity, leading to pointless bloodshed.”
“Words of the weak,” the fiend rasped harshly.
“On the contrary,” Willow replied, arching her brow, motioning to all of them, “A wise mind leads while the muscle merely follows.”
“The greatest generals of hell lead by force!” the fiend growled angrily.
“No,” Willow laughed harshly, “They did not get where they are by simply wading through the carnage. They choose their battles. They know which weapon is best suited to which fight; whether it be words or blades.”
As a moments pause lingered in a slow breath from the devil’s chest, Willow watched the scene in intrigue. Garvana remained on the ground, under the crushing weight of the fiend’s foot. Though she appeared ready to launch into defensive battle, a curious frown of doubt pulled upon her brow. Pellius stood to the side of the chamber, his mighty greataxe held tightly in hand. Though a warning of tempered fury clenched his teeth, his unwavering control held it in check, as he allowed Willow’s attempt to converse with the fiend a chance. With a seething hatred, Bor held his threatening stance, ready and eager for the opportunity of mighty contest. Yet, it was the fiend’s curious reaction that had Willow awaiting his response with bated breath. Though she would prefer to dissolve the conflict and simply talk to the devil, knowing well the secrets he held and knowledge in which he could divulge to them; she knew it was a futile attempt. The horned devil was not a being of words and diplomacy; he was one among the deadliest of the archdevils’ warriors and able commanders of lesser fiends. His kind spread the rule of Hell wherever they walked. The greater devils were trained, forged, and reforged to be among the most lethal, merciless, and obedient warriors in the hierarchy of Hell. They were beings of pure battle and bloodshed. What she was asking him to do, was to go against the very nature of what he was created to be. So it was, that she felt a portion of pride as she watched him battle the logic of her words, to hesitate for even a moment as he finally dismissed them in anger.
“Enough of this!” he roared, “I will not succumb to your silver tongue! Choose, renegade! Do you wish weapons, or fists?!”
Bor grinned a feral joy, brandishing his vicious blade, “Weapons.”
“Very well,” the devil seethed, looking to Willow, “The rules of conduct shall be presided by the wise one, of course.”
Willow arched her brow as she looked to Bor, conceding to his eagerness as she curtly nodded her agreement. The fiend finally released Garvana from the heavy weight, slowly prowling in preparation to attack. Garvana swiftly stood, escaping the pentagram as she joined Willow and Pellius to watch the duel unfold. The chain lashed relentlessly, tearing shreds of flesh from Bor’s arms and legs, while his blade plunged deep into scarlet scaled skin. It was a terrifying display of raw and brutal violence, bloods of black and crimson spraying the stone in a sickening portrait of sheer strength. Bor lunged forward to strike the fiend, without care for defence as the talons of the beast clawed across him. As he leapt towards him with his vicious blade carving mighty devastation, the devil struck out with his feral thorned tail, striking him directly in the stomach. As the sadistic point of the tail withdrew from his skin, it left ebony tendrils of searing wrath in its wake. The blackened wisps spiralled along Bor’s flesh, painting trails of seething malice. Though he paid it no mind and continued his relentless onslaught, the malevolent furling wisps pulsed in savage glee. While they clashed weapons and traded bestial blow for blow, Willow honoured the tradition and remained silent. She watched the duel with wide eyes of authority, knowing she must accept the result of duel without question. Bor had entered the barbaric act with full understanding of how it would be played out. Only one of them would leave alive, and there would be no intrusion or aid from those who watched. As the blades hacked and barbs tore, the blood continued to cascade. With a fearsome and feral cry, Bor threw himself forward with his blade. The edge of the sword thrust through the chest of the fiend, as his chain swung with the last muster of his strength. As it collided with Bor’s skull, it ruthlessly ripped chunks of skin and hair from his scalp. Though his eyes rolled back in his head, he screamed a savage wrath and propelled his blade further through the chest of the devil. As seconds passed, and the sounds of wheezing breath ricocheted off of the chamber walls, the fiend finally fell to his death. Slowly, his limp body slid down the length of the sword, until his collapsed atop it in a thundering slump that shook the stone beneath their feet.
Garvana was quick to Bor’s side, calling forth the divine healing to repair the worst of the wounds. She growled as she fought the will of the dark tendrils that wrapped around Bor’s torso like spiralling vines. With a push of willpower, she surged the arcana through her white and shining hands. Though his eyes had closed, Bor suddenly choked upon the blood that had pooled in his throat, coughing up slick and coagulated crimson. After he hurled the contents of his stomach to the floor, he slowly stood upon his trembling legs. While Pellius helped steady Bor, Willow approached Garvana’s side, a deep and disappointed frown clenching her brows.
“You cannot be so brash,” she scalded, “You must learn to show more respect than that, Garvana. You could have killed one of the Knot, with your loose and irreverent tongue.”
“He did not die,” came her bitter reply.
“Yet he could have,” she snapped, “Because you could not keep your ego in check!”
Willow turned from her, shaking her head as she looked over Bor. His sheepish grin had her smile fondly despite herself.
Bor chuckled through a rasping throat, “Tougher than he looked…”

Leaving behind the bloodstained chamber, the Forsaken moved about the ancient and abandoned temple. While Garvana and Pellius decided to speak with the necromancer’s soul for more information on the fiend’s presence, Willow took time to slowly peruse the other chambers that linked the lost place of worship. As her eyes scanned the decrepit and rotten debris that once decorated the halls, she listened to the summoning in intrigue.
“Who was the devil in the lower chamber?” came Garvana’s stern question.
“I know not who he is,” an ethereal voice wailed.
“Who summoned and imprisoned him?”
“The woman did…”
“Who is she?” Garvana growled in frustration.
“She, who searches…”
A brief silence met his words, before Pellius intervened.
“What does she search for?”
As his question lingered, Willow strolled to the archway, to peer into the main chamber. Just as she saw the limp body of the deceased and withered necromancer, she watched his frail bones lift and point a trembling finger towards Bor.
“She searches… for him…”
As the enchantment released, withdrawing the arcana from his vessel, the life vanished once more from the mans body. He slumped to the ground, returning to the bitter embrace of death.
“For you?” Pellius frowned, “Do you know who would be searching for you?”
“No,” Bor growled, crushing his brow firmly.
“Someone from your past?” Garvana offered, though her voice was laced with suspicion.
“I have never been to Talingarde before now,” Bor snarled, beginning to pace the length of the chamber, “At least I cannot remember being here!”
While Garvana soothed his temper, Willow returned to her exploration, an eyebrow arched high in curiosity. It vexed her to no end that Bor’s past remained so shrouded; although she had spent much time with him, she knew so little. As her feet guided her further through the doorways, she smiled as she mused on the devil’s words. The Prophet, The Renegade and The Fist. They were fitting names; well suited titles. Garvana, the eager student, inspired teacher and proclaimer of the will of Asmodeus. Her devotion to his will and his way was passionate and absolute. As she moved through the journey of devout and pious servitude, her reverence for Him only grew. Then there was Bor, the being who escaped Hell itself. The soul condemned to eternity in the misery and torture of the walls of Nessus. The one who treacherously denied his fate, and commanded a second chance for himself. And Pellius; the judge, the jury and the executioner. The enforcer of Asmodeus’ retribution, the leader of his crusade, and the last cleaving blade before death. He followed the Infernal Lord’s word, and endured to ever serve his ambition. Finally, there was Willow. Nameless. The being she adored and served, her true master and her only god – referred to her as nameless. Her cold and still heart seemed to clench in ache. Was she truly so worthless? Was she so low in His eyes that he denied her even a name? Was he ashamed of her? Willow laughed at her self-importance. The Lord of the Nine had no time nor want to think so much of her as to be ashamed. She was nothing, compared to him. She was so insignificant, perhaps she did not deserve a name. Willow’s curious exploration of the temple had morphed to a heavy bitter resentment. She scuffed her feet along the stone, kicking piles of rocks and rubble, a metallic taste of animosity on her tongue. Her temper continued to rise as her mind wound in circles over the implications of the devil’s words, when out of the corner of her eye, a peculiar scrap of parchment caught her attention. On slow feet, she approached the torn and decaying paper, frowning as her eyes traced its edges. It was an ancient scroll of some kind, written in a script Willow could not decipher. Though torn shreds of parchment were missing, she could see slight similarities to the written dwarven language. Though, if it was once a dialect dwarven, it was long lost and forgotten.
“What is it?” Pellius asked from the doorway, frowning to see Willow crouching in the corner of the mould rotten chamber.
“A scroll of some kind,” she shrugged, “Though I cannot read it.”
As the others entered, Bor cast a curious spell, enchanting his eyes in a mystical cyan sheen. His brow furrowed tightly as he read over the peculiar words.
“It is too decomposed,” he commented, pointing towards certain symbols, “I can see useless words, like he and priest and decree. And there, the word Ashmohdah.”
“Another term for Asmodeus,” Willow guessed.
“Makes sense,” Bor nodded.
Willow quickly pulled free one of her scroll cases from her pack. With cautious hands and soft grace, she rolled the decrepit parchment carefully, sealing it safely within the wooden case.
“It would be worth looking into restoring it,” she said, placing it tightly upon her belt for safe keeping, “It is fascinating. These rooms look almost dwarven, and so did the language. Do you think this was a functioning temple that far back? Before the Markadians, the Barcans, and the Iraen?”
“Makes sense,” Bor repeated with a throaty chuckle.
“It is curious,” Willow mused, forgetting her wallow of prior thought, “Dwarves usually serve dwarven gods, beings of steel and battle. Though I suppose it is not unfathomable that our Lord’s touch seeps that deep, even into the underground cities and their inhabitants…”

As they wound their way up through the chambers of the temple towards the surface, Pellius pulled Willow aside quietly.
“I have a favour to ask, my lady,” he said softly.
As he placed his hand upon Willow’s arm, she instinctively pulled away. They had not spoken since her abrupt departure the evening before; she had not mentioned where she had slept the daylight hours away, and he had not asked. As she smiled a polite smile, she saw his chest deflate in a sigh.
“What is it I can do for you?” she asked cordially.
Though a small frown of disappointment pulled upon his brow, he continued mannerly.
“I have need of an arcane scroll,” he said quietly, “One to read the magic of an object. It must be far more powerful than what we have access to currently, for the magic seems to be shielded by something. I assume your contacts in the city can procure such a thing?”
“Is there a certain spell you are looking for?” she asked, arching her brow.
“There is one known as Analyse Dweomer, I believe it shall suffice.”
“Very well,” she inclined her head, turning from him, “We have a few hours left before dawn, I shall meet you back at the manor.”
“Willow…” he sighed, reaching for her hand.
“Is there anything else you need?” she questioned sharply.
As he looked into her eyes, an expression of frustration contorting his brow, she broke contact and swiftly turned to exit the shadows of the chamber.
“I’ll return before dawn…”

When the morning sun lifted over the horizons edge, Willow entered her quarters to find Pellius sitting by fireplace, lost in thought as he watched the sway of the flickering flame. As she closed the door behind her, contemplative eyes found hers. Though his lingering gaze told of unspoken thought, she quickly looked away and rummaged through her pack for the scroll case.
“Not an easy find,” she said conversationally, “But here it is.”
As she held the scroll out to him, he simply kept his eyes on her. Willow knew he wanted to talk of other things, she knew his mind was far from the parchment she held in her hand. But she was not willing to face such things, her own mind was compressed with confusion and fixed within the turmoil of uncertainty. Though inside, she felt the guilt weighing heavily upon her heart, anger was all that would surface outwardly.
“Just take it, Pellius,” she growled.
A slow sigh expelled from his chest, as he roughly grabbed the scroll from her hand. Willow forced out the aching regret as she watched the dejection play across his face. She turned towards the door, pausing as she placed her hand on the brass handle.
“I still need you to cast the spell, my lady,” he said softly.
Willow closed her eyes tightly, holding her breath by instinct before she could compose the polite smile on her face. She moved to the chair on the opposite side of the small table, retrieving the scroll from his hand.
“What would you like it cast upon?” she asked.
Slowly, he reached up to his hair, slipping free the circlet that rippled into sight as he withdrew it. With an arching brow, he held it out to her.
“This…”
Curiosity sparked fiercely as she tenderly accepted the silver crown. She had long wondered of the circlets true intentions. Suspicion had flared as the secrets of Cardinal Thorn’s past had unravelled, his paranoia and growing distrust of the Forsaken had led her to believe he would have initiated more than a blood contract for control. But she had never thought to delve deeper into the mysterious gifts they had been given so long ago. With no needed words to explain Pellius’ request, she held the circlet and rasped the scripted incantation. Suddenly, she felt a curious foreign knowledge drift through her mind. Her eyes glowed an ethereal blue, as a pulsing arcana surrounded the circlet.
“Oh,” she breathed quietly, “Do you see it?”
“See what, my lady?” Pellius frowned.
“I can see the charms, I can… read them.”
“What do they say?” he asked warily, in a deep and stern tone.
Willow frowned as she focused her mind and tried to understand the arcane whisperings in her ear. Magic did not come naturally to her. Though she had used countless scrolls and wands, she had never felt the touch of enchantment try to communicate with her directly. It was hard to comprehend the words that were not spoken, but impressed.
“There are many enchantments upon this,” she said quietly, narrowing her eyes as if better to see, “The gem holds strength of mind and will… the circlet is teeming with illusion… but there is something else…”
“What is it?” Pellius scowled in impatience.
“Some kind of tracking,” Willow guessed, “Some kind of locating…”
As the words slowly began to make sense, her brows rose as her eyes flew wide.
“It’s an enchantment to weaken resistance. There is a second piece to these circlets, a talisman. Whom ever holds the talisman is granted greater strength to scry the weakened wearer of the crown…”
“So he’s watching us?!” Pellius snarled.
“We knew this,” Willow soothed his anger, “It does not mean he watches every moment, it simply allows him a far better chance to do so if he chooses.”
“And you’re alright with this?” he balked, “It does not bother you?!”
“Of course it does,” Willow scowled, “But it is nothing more than we suspected.”
“We should destroy them,” Pellius seethed, ripping the circlet from her hand.
“If he does not already know of our plans…” Willow began.
“How could he not?” Pellius interrupted, “Do you think he did not watch our conversation with Dessiter? Do you think he simply believes we are loyal servants following his word?”
Willow frowned as a curious thought came into her mind.
“Perhaps he does not know of the conversation,” she said carefully.
“That is extremely naïve, Willow,” Pellius scoffed.
“The fiend offered us the alternative of betraying him to Cardinal Thorn,” Willow frowned, “Insinuating that the Cardinal did not already know of his words. He may have been wise enough to shield the talk from watching eyes and listening ears…”
“I do not think we should take the chance,” he shook his head gently, “I will not wear this again. I will not grant him such a gift.”
“Do as you will,” Willow shrugged, “I suppose we should tell the others, and allow them to make up their own minds…”

The sound of crackling flames echoed off the rough stone walls, breaking the silence that drifted peacefully through the underground chamber. As the sun fell to allow the darkness of the following evening to arrive, Willow sat with her back resting against the leg of the large golden shrine, her eyelids drooping lazily as she traced the words of a book she had read many times over. Surrounded by the comforting presence of the infernal sanctum, her mind was at ease, in a scripted stupor of the tales of old. When she heard the stone scraping upon the floor, she looked up from her book as the walls opened.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Garvana said, smiling as she entered.
“Did you need something?” Willow replied, closing the pages before rubbing her tired eyes.
Though she smiled politely, Garvana’s frown was pulled tight along her brow.
“I do,” she said carefully, “Have you heard the name Larris Hamble?”
“Lady Hamble?” Willow recalled, tilting her head, “Yes, if I remember correctly, she was a lower noble, from Hamiltyrn in the east I think.”
“Was?” Garvana asked warily.
“She died, not long before I left Matharyn.”
“Do you know where she was buried?” she enquired hopefully.
Willow scoffed, “There are more than fifty cemeteries in the city. She was a countess, not high enough to have a private burial ground.”
Garvana sighed a frustrated breath, “Alright. Thank you.”
“May I ask why you wish to find her?” Willow questioned in intrigue.
Shrewd eyes looked to her, before Garvana pursed her lips tightly.
“Her name was revealed to me upon waking.”
“More numbers?” Willow smirked.
“I hope so,” Garvana frowned, “It is infuriately slow.”
“Patience, Garvana,” Willow smiled, “They shall reveal themselves in time.”
As the woman huffed her annoyance, she nodded and strode from the chamber. When she turned to seal the walls behind her, a voice halted her hand.
“You may leave it open, Garvana,” Pellius’ deep and courteous voice said.
With the book clenched in her hands, Willow swiftly stood from the dais and made quick work of returning the tome to its shelf to the side of the chamber.
“My lady,” Pellius smiled, inclining his head, “You are well this evening?”
“Indeed,” she replied politely, “And yourself?”
“Very well,” he smirked, “Now I have finally found you.”
Willow laughed softly, though the sound was painfully fake to her ears.
“Unfortunately,” she said regretfully, “I must beg leave, I have much to do.”
She inclined her head and gave a small polite bow, before quickly walking passed him towards the stairs.
“Willow…” he sighed heavily, “You cannot spend the rest of your life avoiding me.”
She closed her eyes tightly as her steps halted, when she turned to him, she wore a forced and easy smile.
“I am not avoiding you, Pellius,” she replied, “I simply have much to do…”
“Enough Willow!” Pellius snapped viciously, “You cannot even look at me without that fake smile on your face!”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Willow scowled, “I have simply been busy, as I am now…”
“ENOUGH!” he seethed, stepping towards her threateningly, brandishing his finger in her face, “If you cannot be forthcoming, if you cannot be honest, then at least be silent! Do not lie to me! I deserve better than that from you!”
Willow flinched as his words lashed like blades across her soul. Though his words were harsh, she knew with the deepest understanding that they were true.
“Yes,” she breathed, sadness dragging upon the wells of her eyes, “You do. You deserve so much better than that. You deserve so much more than I can give you…”
“No!” Pellius growled in anger, gripping her wrist and wrenching her towards him, “You do not get to do that. You do not get to play the self-loathing, self-pitying, self-scarifying heartbroken maiden. After all we have been through, after all we have shared; you owe me more than that!”
“And what do I owe you?!” Willow spat, ripping her hand from his grasp, burning eyes of vexation locked in his ferocious gaze.
“THE TRUTH!” he yelled vehemently.
Standing mere inches from her face, Willow felt the anger and savage rage that coursed beneath the surface of his skin. His eyes blazed in hurt, a fierce desperation and frustration, morphed into barely contained outrage. A cold and spiteful laugh sounded from her throat, though she knew well there was no humour in either of their words.
“You have to hear it from my lips?” she rasped coldly, “You wish me to speak the words you so desperately want to hear?”
“I want you to be truthful,” he fumed though gritted teeth, calm and controlled words forced out of bitter lips, “With me, and with yourself.”
Taken aback by his words, Willow’s mind raced with worry that clenched tightly in her chest. She could not stop the tears that began to shine in her eyes, as she saw the painful truth of his own heartache. She could not bear to face him, she could not bear to listen to the misery that trembled his voice; the misery that she was the sole cause.
“I cannot,” she replied coldly, turning her face away from him.
“And why not?” he snapped in utter frustration, “Why can you not simply admit the truth?”
A slow sigh fell from her lungs, as her heavy heart whined in sorrow, the strenuous weight of her troubles clear along her face.
“Because I do not know it,” she said quietly, looking to him with anguish in her eyes, “You are asking me to be something I am not. I can never be that faithful wife or lover. I am supposed to give up everything that I know, the greatest advantage and tool that I have? And for what? To stay in your arms and live a happy and long life? Am I supposed to become virtuous and lay with you, and you alone? Because I cannot promise that. I cannot deny the only thing about me that I truly understand…”
“I am not asking you to deny yourself!” he growled in dismissal, “I am asking you to face the truth!”
“The truth?” she scoffed, though the tears threatened to fall along her cheeks, “The truth is that I do not know if I can ever return the feelings you have for me.”
“You already do!” Pellius scowled harshly, his lip curling in rancour, “You know you do!”
Frustration and anger took hold of the bitter sadness that held Willow in its clutches.
“I do not even know who I am!” she snarled, “I know nothing! I have lived my life surrounded by people of light and charity, found by the darkest and most fearsome of them all! And then thrown to the wolves, not only by those who raised me, but by HIM! The one I served, the one I worshiped! He feeds me to the waiting jaws of death, and expects me to simply survive! And if that was not enough, not more than I can possibly handle, he forgets to mention that I was brought to this world by a damned angel!”
Her words pulled Pellius’ frown low, as he recoiled in confusion.
“You were what?” he balked.
She marched to the large glimmering statue of their Infernal Lord, reaching into the folds of the hard metal cloak, pulling free the bound journal that belonged to the wandering priest. With bitterness lacing her tongue, she threw the parchment book towards him.
“A secret!” she shrieked in anger, “Another damn secret! I cannot deal with anymore! I cannot cope with another truth!”
With slow and cautious movements, Pellius turned the pages of the journal, skimming its contents.
“The last page,” Willow sighed, trying to simmer her building fury.
As he flicked to the end of the book, and slowly read the scripted words of her past – his eyes went wide with realisation.
“Everything I thought I knew was a lie,” she said softly, her voice wavering in resentment, “I am not a Monteguard. I am not even Talrien. I do not even know what I am. The only truth that I can not refute… is that I am His.”
She felt the tears that welled in her eyes finally unleash, falling slow shimmering drops down her cheeks.
“I told you when this began that my heart was not mine to give,” she said with a burning sadness, “It has never been mine. I cannot give it to you Pellius.”
“And why not?!” he growled, frustration and rage warring with his words as it grew too much to withhold, “You say those words, and yet you do it anyway! Can you look at me, truly look at me, and tell me you feel nothing?!”
Willow laughed gently, shaking her head as she let the tears fall.
“On the contrary,” she whispered, a pained smile gracing her lips, “I look at you, and I feel everything.”
On tentative feet, she stepped closer towards him, reaching a tender hand to caress his cheek.
“I feel the strength in your determination. I feel the devotion in the way you serve. I feel the joy in how you succeed. And I feel the agony, as you suffer. That, is why I can never love you. For I will only bring you nothing but unending suffering.”
In defeat and resignation, her hand dropped away as she turned from him, ashamed by the sob that trembled in her throat. She heard his slow steps beside her, feeling gentle fingers wipe the tears from her cheek, his voice as soft as a whisper.
“And if I wish to suffer through eternity with you?”
His question tore upon her heart strings, the bitter turmoil of uncertain doubts and aching need thundering in her mind. Slowly, his finger traced her chin, guiding her sight towards his. As she looked to him, it was with eyes dancing an array of emotions. Sorrow, heartache and hope. When he lowered his head, Willow had little control over her actions. She lifted her face and met his kiss, slow and heartfelt, she brushed her lips against his. As they met, she battled between the indescribable need to fall further into his embrace, and the desperate need to flee. His hand slid into her hair, caressing her head as he kissed her deeply, a soft and yet firm declaration of dominance. As he pulled back slowly from the joining, staring deeply into her eyes, she laughed softly as she rested her forehead against his.
She whispered, a breath of dolorous bliss, “Then you are the greatest fool.”


The bright sun blazed in the sky, lighting the city of Matharyn, warming the soft breeze that drifted through the cobblestone streets. Though outside, the markets and shops were filled with wakeful people and creatures, the heavy drapes shielded Willow’s bedchamber from the scalding burn of day light. A swift knock on her door woke her from the restful slumber. Tired eyes slowly opened, blinking lazily until the knock sounded again.
“Mistress,” Atwood called loudly.
Slowly dragging her tired legs from their entwinement within Pellius’ embrace, she dropped them to the side of the bed, her hands pulling her nightgown around her shoulders. She walked in lethargy to the door, pulling it open as she shielded her yawn with her hand.
“Yes Atwood?” she sighed.
“I apologise to wake you, Mistress,” he bowed, “But there is someone to see you.”
“Here?” she frowned, shaking her weary head to clear it, “Is it important?”
“I believe so, mistress,” he nodded, “She comes baring something I think you will find most important.”
“She?” Willow replied warily.
“Yes, mistress.”
Willow exhaled tiredly upon reflex, looking over her nightgown.
“Do I need to dress?” she frowned.
“I do not believe so,” he said, a small smile lifting the corner of his lip, “Your guest looks a little worse for wear herself.”
“Very well,” she droned, “I shall be down in a moment.”
Atwood bowed low as Willow closed the door and turned back to the bed. Pellius had risen from the sheets and pulled on his loose trousers and shirt.
“Curious,” he frowned.
“Suspicious,” she scoffed.
With tired arms, she dropped her silk nightgown and quickly retrieved her ebony robes from the armchair. After quickly wrapping her long raven locks into a braid upon her head, Willow swiftly made her way to the entrance with Pellius in tow. As she descended the stairs, her brow arched high at what she saw.
“Traya De Marco,” Willow said, “You’ve returned from the dead.”
“Not as dead as was believed,” she replied.
The sorcerous gave a small sly grin, as she inclined her head in greeting to Willow. She wore robes of mahogany, lined with charred and tattered burns, smears of black soot wiped along her olive complexion. Though her appearance was surely a peculiarity, it was the long steel that she held in her hands that had Willow’s brows rise. Shrewd eyes looked to the vicious sword of profane and malicious might; it was Hellbrand, the sword Bor brandished in his foul and righteous crusade against good.
“Explain yourself,” Willow demanded.
“I have made my peace with him,” Traya said solemnly, holding the sword out to her in offering, “He has met the repercussions of a broken oath, and paid the price due.”
“He is dead?” Pellius asked in anger.
“He is,” Traya nodded, “It was always to be his fate.”
Willow eyed the woman with intrigue, slowly reaching out to accept the unholy blade. With it clutched in her fingers, her mind churned in thought. With calculating eyes, she looked over the slender woman, coming to a hesitant decision. Though Pellius glared his ire towards Traya, Willow stepped back and motioned for the sorcerous to enter.
“Will you organise tea in the sitting room, Atwood?” Willow requested, leading the way to the eastern chamber.
“At once, mistress,” he bowed.
Willow opened the large double doors, grimacing at the harsh rays of sun that shone through the open windows. Though bright and burning, she ignored the simmer and gracefully continued, sitting in the large chair best shielded by the drapes. Traya followed quietly, eyes scanning the chamber as she took up the seat Willow indicated in offering. Pellius kept his face cold and hard as he walked to stand behind Willow’s chair, arms crossed over his chest in clear disdain. For a moment, they sat in silence, simply eyeing one another. Atwood returned with a silver tray carrying an ornate ceramic teapot and three cups and saucers. He poured the brew, then politely drew the blinds closed and swiftly retreated from the chamber, sealing the doors behind him.
“Well,” Willow said in expectation, “I believe you have a lot to explain…”
“I suppose I do,” Traya sighed, “I do not know where to start.”
“The beginning,” Willow said plainly, “You did not die in the Horn of Abbadon?”
“No,” she said quietly, “I was trapped, and gravely injured. But not dead, like you had all assumed. Someone had dragged my body into the chamber with that deceased cretin, the minatour. I called out for hours, but no one came, and i could not move for my legs had been torn to shreds by those feral hounds. And then, the Horn collapsed around me. For a time, I had hope that someone would find me. I had hope that Bor would fulfil his promise to me. But when three days had passed, no food or water, trapped under the mountain of ruin; I knew he had turned his back on me. So I called out, to any god that would listen. I called out for help, but mostly, I called out for vengeance. On the fourth day, a devil came to me. He offered me freedom, he offered me revenge.”
“Revenge for what?” Willow asked curiously, “You knew what you were doing when we took the Horn, you knew what we planned. You were risking your own life by serving us.”
Traya scoffed quietly, shaking her head.
“I did not ask for his promise. But he gave it to me. He gave me his word that no harm would come to me, that he would keep me safe. And yet, there I was, trapped within the very place he swore to protect me from. Hope had me thinking he would return; he would sift through the rubble to find me. But he didn’t. He simply left, leaving the thought and memory of me behind with the ruins that you had made.”
“I knew he felt something more for you,” Willow commented slowly, “For him to vouch for you, allow you deeper into our plans than any of us were comfortable with. But I did not know he vowed such a thing.”
“It was an oath,” she laughed sadly, “And he broke it. The devil gave me a chance for vengeance. Though the cost was high, I had nothing else to give.”
Although Willow felt Pellius’ pulsing anger from behind her, she did not feel the same hatred. She felt Bor’s loss keenly, she had known him throughout almost the entirety of her journey of servitude to her Infernal Lord. Yet, she knew well that ones’ word was ones’ bond. When all was said and done, if your oath or promise meant nothing; then how could anyone form a bond of loyalty and trust?
“How did you find us?” Willow frowned, “There is barely a soul alive that knows of our plans, let alone our whereabouts.”
“Not easily,” Traya scoffed, “I have been tracking you ever since, all over these damn lands. You have proved most elusive.”
Willow grinned, inclining her head in understanding.
“But I fear I have not entered the city quietly,” she grimaced.
“Did anyone follow you here?” Willow asked in warning, narrowing her eyes.
“I do not think so,” Traya said quickly, shaking her head.
“You do not think so,” she questioned with fierce menace, “Or you know so?”
With quick hand gestures, the vision of the sorcerer vanished in a flash. Within a moment, she reappeared before them in her seat.
“I know I was not,” she smirked.
Willow eyed her for a time, looking over the weary weight of exhaustion upon her shoulders, and the black dirt and soot rubbing off of her clothes onto the plush velvet chair.
“Very well,” she said, coming to a decision, “For now, you may stay. I will have the servants arrange a suite, and perhaps a change of clean clothing, for you. We will of course have more questions, but perhaps it best we do so over dinner.”
“Thank you,” Traya sighed in relief, a small smile of gratitude upon her face.
Willow placed the Hellbrand upon her chair as she stood to open the door. After informing Niritta to prepare the guest chamber, Traya followed the servant to the western wing. As Willow turned back to the room, she saw Pellius’ stern and unimpressed expression.
“You are far too trusting, my lady,” he said quietly.
Willow smirked as she walked back to the chair, lifting Hellbrand from the cushion.
“I do not know if I trust her,” she said contemplatively, “But, it is best to keep your enemies close.”
She traced her fingers lightly along the vicious blade, lingering over its sharp edge. She had no use for such a large and bulky weapon, but she knew who would. It was well suited to the dark and fearsome man that led the charge along their journey by righteous might and unwavering devotion. She smiled, holding the weapon out to Pellius. Though anger still clenched his brow, he grabbed hold of the sword with a firm hand. Curiously, his brows rose as delight softened his face.
“Yes,” he breathed, eyes alight with an eager hunger.
“Yes, what?” Willow asked, arching her brow.
His eyes shot to hers, a strange passion aflame lighting the scarlet of his stare. Though she was intrigued to question him further, she could not help but feel enamoured by his lustful and hungered gaze. Slowly, she stepped forward, bringing her face close to his.
“It looks as if it was made to be in your hands,” she whispered, desire lifting her grin.
As she brushed her lips to his own, he grinned a sly and satisfied smile.
“It was…”

[minderp]

Spoiler: Chapter 39 - Plague of the Heart - Part 2

Show

While the servants prepared dinner and Traya refreshed herself within the guest chamber, Garvana returned to the manor after a day spent exploring the cities graveyards. When Pellius and Willow told her the news of Bor’s sudden death, she took it in a wave of fury. With a look of anger towards Willow for allowing Traya to stay within the manor, she stormed to her room in a rage, slamming the doors as she passed. Willow sighed, retreating to her quarters to bathe and dress for the evening. She wore a gown of solemn black, choosing to forgo jewellery and decoration, with her long raven locks tressed and set in gentle waves. As she smoothed cassia oils over the ends of her hair, she felt her frown pulling tightly on her brow. She would miss Bor, his brash attitude and sardonic wit. She had not foreseen his demise, she had not expected him to fall so soon. Though she knew they were all likely to face their deaths at the hands of beings primed with vengeance or retribution – she had not imagined it would be the sorcerer that brought about his downfall. She understood betrayal. She understood how it could consume a person, their thoughts, their actions and their time. He had given his word, and he had broken it. The Lord of the Nine was swift with his punishment. Bor had been given a chance, allowed to escape the very pits of hell that he was returning to. And he had failed in the most basic of ways. Misleading deceptions were one thing, but to speak untruths by swearing an oath that you were not planning to keep; it was worthy of a swift and brutal death.
“Mistress?” Niritta called, “Dinner shall be served shortly.”
“Thank you, Niritta,” Willow answered, returning the vial of oil to the shelf, “I shall be down in a moment.”
Upon instinct, she turned to the mirror to see her reflection. She sighed, seeing only the gown of mourning cast back at her. She pulled free the blanket from the armchair, throwing it over the mirror with her lip curled in disdain. It was with a churning mind and a heavy heart that she descended the stairs and made her way to the dining room. As she reached the door, she saw Pellius pacing the hall. Before she spoke, he looked up to her, vanishing his burrowed frown. He held out his arm in offering, guiding her in to the chamber before pulling out her seat at the head of the table. Willow inclined her head to Traya as she sat, glad to see the sorcerous looking rested, and far more respectable than before. Clean and shining chestnut locks, tied high into a bun atop her head, dressed in the emerald frock she had been provided. She was close to a head taller than Willow, but held a similarly slender frame, delicate wrists and arms with long yet slim legs.
“I trust your chambers are adequate?” Willow asked cordially.
“Very,” Traya nodded, “I want to thank you again, for letting me stay.”
“It is not yet clear how temporary that stay shall be,” Willow said, arching her brow with a small smile.
“I thank you for it anyway,” Traya smirked.
When the servants entered and hurried about with their trays of exquisite cuisine, Willow felt a lump form in her throat. It was not that she could not eat the food, it was simply that it no longer held any taste, let alone any enjoyment. Although she found the idea repulsive, Atwood had conjured a plan of a brew; fresh blood mixed with the heavy red wine. As she grimaced at the thought, she could not fault his execution. With the partnering of the two, she could taste and enjoy both of the burgundy liquids. As the plate was placed in front of her, her will to remain a gracious host won out. She gracefully sliced the tender meat and feigned her way through the meal. After only a few mouthfuls, Pellius placed down his knife and fork, standing from his chair.
“It seems I have no appetite,” he said plainly, before throwing a harsh glance towards Traya, “I think I shall see to Garvana.”
Willow merely nodded, attempting to keep her eyes from rolling. As he marched from the chamber, he slammed the door as he exited. Willow sighed, placing down her cutlery, having lost all motivation to continue eating.
“I apologise,” Traya said quietly, “It seems my presence here is truly affecting them.”
“They shall be fine,” Willow dismissed, “They have lost a friend, today. I, have lost a friend today. It will take time to process. I do not disapprove of what you did. It is merely a shame that it had to come to a head like this.”
Traya nodded gently, slowly pushing her food around on her place.
“So tell me,” Willow said, lifting her wine glass and relaxing back into her chair, “The devil who came to you, who is he?”
Traya arched her brow, a smirk upon her lips.
“I know you would well understand these things,” she said easily, “You know I cannot betray the contract.”
Willow smiled, finding a respect in the woman’s fealty.
“Though my curiosity is rampant,” she scoffed, “I will accept it. It is simply, we have had dealing with a few devils over the past few months, and I am intrigued to see how far they would go to interfere.”
Traya smiled, but said nothing more.
“How did he die?” Willow frowned, “You are a pyromancer, are you not? He was immune to the touch of flame…”
“It was part of the contract,” Traya replied, “His boon was granted by his lord, but having broken an oath, the boon was rescinded. He was burned alive, much as he will be in death.”
“Fitting,” Willow nodded solemnly.
Traya shrugged gently, “The devil thought so.”
“You are not Asmodean,” Willow commented, a frown of inquisitiveness forming, “Well you were not when last we met. You called out for aid, for a chance… and He answered. Where does that leave you?”
The sorcerous frowned herself, exhaling a heavy breath.
“I do not know,” she sighed, “I signed my soul away, for the chance at revenge. And I have it. Now, I do not know what to do. I know what awaits me after death… but there were no instructions for life.”
Willow smiled a true smile, “There never are. None of us truly know. We simply follow where our hearts and loyalties lead us. And they lead us into glory for the Lord of the Nine.”
Soft and careful footsteps sounded outside of the chamber, cushioned by the lush carpets that ran the length of the hallway. As Traya began to speak, Willow held a hand up to silence her. The door to the western wing opened wide, as Garvana stormed into the dining room. Tears shone in her eyes, heartache and loss painted on her face. Her hands trembled in fists as she approached the side of the large darkwood table.
“Who do you serve?” she rasped, her voice cracking with intensity, “Say his name!”
With widened eyes and raised eyebrows, Traya looked to Willow for approval.
“SAY IT!” Garvana snarled.
Willow slowly nodded her head, awaiting the sorcerous’ words.
“Asmodeus…” came her soft reply.
As if the word itself was a tender comfort, Garvana unclenched her hands and sighed a breath of sheer exhaustion. She frowned, flickering eyes scrutinising the small woman. As thoughts and emotion battled across the plane of her face, she lifted her head as she seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Hail Asmodeus,” she whispered, before turning from the table and retreating from the chamber.
With her brow pulled tightly in a frown, Traya looked to Willow.
“She may be a tad zealous and intense at times,” Willow smiled, “But she means well. She cherishes and idolises the Dark Lord above all else. If he has seen fit to grant you vengeance and take Bor’s life as payment; she will not contest or question it.”
“Unwavering devotion,” Traya commented quietly, a curious frown upon her brow.
Uncertainty was not usually an ailment Willow suffered from. When a decision was to be made, she threw all of her cards in, following her instincts whether a rash action or drawn out decision. She knew her instincts were usually correct, she was always a good judge of character. She could read lies as they played upon people’s faces, she could smell a deception as it weaved in intrigue. Watching the sorcerous had her frowning, as she could see nothing but truth. Slowly, Willow stood from her chair, placing her napkin upon the table.
“Follow me,” she instructed, taking her crystal wine glass with her, “I wish to show you something.”
Traya was quick to stand from her chair, wiping her mouth with her napkin before swiftly scuttling to keep up with Willow. She led her through the long hallways towards the library in silence, opening the way as she considered the repercussions of what she was about to do. A few short weeks ago, she would have seethed and recoiled at the idea of opening her only place of safety to any save herself. But she knew well the struggles of serving a god so hated and despised by those around you. She knew the presence of Him eased the struggles, calming the turmoil of the outside world.
“Where are you taking me?” Traya asked warily, as Willow opened the bookshelf to reveal the spiralling staircase into darkness.
Willow laughed, “If I wanted you dead, you would be already.”
She pulled the torch free from the library sconce and slowly descended into the cellar, with Traya’s hesitant footsteps following behind. When she approached the wall, she looked to the sorcerous. With sure hands, she pressed in the stones, tracing the inverted pentagram. When the two walls scraped open, the blazing ever-burning torches inside cast the immense figure of the statue in an eery and foreboding glow. Every time Willow lay her eyes upon it, she felt her heart clench in blissful fear. As she turned to Traya, she smiled. Wide eyes of awe looked upon the golden monument. A terror simmered with wonder as she stepped forward upon timid feet.
“You have a lot of searching to do,” Willow said gently, “Perhaps you will find your answers in prayer and meditation. I have always found this chamber comforting. Being in His presence, under the towering eyes of this shrine, it has always seemed to instil in me the vastness of the universe – and the reality of my place in it.”
“It is… overwhelming,” Traya breathed.
Willow smiled, “The Lord of the Nine is. He is everything. But, you will discover that yourself. You are welcome to use the chamber, I ask only that you seal it behind you, and do not touch anything.”
With no response coming to her tongue, Willow smirked in understanding. She remained for a moment, simply watching the sorcerous, revelling in the wonder that danced through her eyes.
“Oh, I forgot,” Traya frowned, reaching into her pocket, “His body burned, yet this remained unscathed. I thought you would want it back.”
She held out the obsidian amulet that Willow had commissioned for the Forsaken. Bor had worn it around his neck as he had first appeared from his chamber, and Willow had not seen him take it off for a moment since. She took the pendant in her hand, wiping the soot from the cracks of the intricate patterns with her thumb. She would miss him, his brutish grin and dry sense of humour. But as she looked to the sorcerous, she smiled.
“Keep it,” Willow said, tossing the blackened metal towards her, “His death is the beginning of your new life. You would do well to always remember that.”
As she turned to exit the chamber, she paused with a frown.
“There is one more thing,” Willow said reluctantly, “If you will be staying with us, you shall find out sooner or later, perhaps it is best to get the surprises out of the way…”
Though it seemed a battle to draw her eyes away from the pendant, Traya looked to Willow in curiosity. She gently opened her mouth wide, allowing her fangs to slide down and glisten in the fire light.
“Oh,” Traya said, eyes flying wide, “Uh, alright…”
“Do not fret,” Willow grinned, her sharp teeth flashing, “We will not eat you.”
“We?” she asked, frowning deeply, “All of you?”
“Yes,” Willow replied, giving a light shrug, “Much has changed in the past year.”
“What, what is it like?”
“It has its perks,” Willow chuckled, arching an eyebrow, “The taste of cooked food is definitely not one of them.”
Traya laughed despite herself, “You are very gracious to eat for my benefit.”
“That I am,” Willow grinned, retracting her fangs before tracing her tongue over her teeth, “Would you wish to turn, given the chance?”
Traya frowned again, though it was with less worry and more uncertainty.
“I am unsure,” she said quietly, “I shall need to think on it. Today has been an eventful and… strange day.”
Willow laughed, turning from the woman as she made her way towards the stairs.
“With us,” she chuckled, “It only gets stranger from here…”

Closing the bedchamber door behind her, Willow sighed a long and pointless breath. That in itself frustrated her. She had no need to breathe, yet it was a habit she could not break. She found no comfort in the long expelling of breath from her chest, she simply watched it deflate and sink. With her glass still in her hand, she found her feet pacing as she marched from one end of the chamber to the other. She was so absorbed in her thoughts; she did not notice Pellius sitting by the small table to the far side of the suite.
“You showed her the shrine?” came his question, waking her from her spiral, “You are far too trusting, my lady.”
Willow looked to him, eyes of frustration and pent up vexation, shaking her head in response.
“I have long known to trust my instincts, Pellius,” she said quietly, “And they tell me to trust her.”
“You do not think you are being too rash?” he scoffed, “You chastise Garvana at every opportunity for her impulsive actions, and yet you simply allow that woman in and show her around like old bosom companions.”
“Enough,” she sighed, shaking her head, “I do not want to argue this with you.”
“Then do not argue,” he shrugged, though his words were harsh, “Simply listen. Simply think of your actions, Willow.”
“My actions?” she laughed, “Your departure this evening was ill-mannered and childish, storming off like that! I expect that from Garvana, but I expect better from you.”
“She killed Bor!” he shouted angrily, “And you invite her to dinner! Tell me, how am I supposed to act?!”
“Bor brought his fate on himself!” Willow growled, “He swore an oath, his word upon his lord, and he broke it! Pellius, he was killed by fire! Asmodeus withdrew his protection to allow His will to be done, by her hand!”
Pellius laughed, a cold and harsh rasping sound, “And if I was killed? Would you welcome my killer, feast with them and converse over wine?”
“Would you break your word?” Willow countered viciously, “Would you swear an oath and abandon it?”
A gentle sadness came to his face, as he looked deep into her eyes, his hand slowly reached for her cheek.
“I would,” he breathed, “For you…”
Willow’s sight lingered for a moment, trapped within the heart wrenching rapture of his gaze. She sighed, sinking into his hand as she shook her head gently against it.
“I would never ask that of you,” she whispered softly.
She pulled away from him, turning towards the dressing room.
“Willow…” he sighed, stepping as if to follow.
“Don’t,” she shook her head, “I need to be alone for a while.”
“I-
“Pellius,” she exhaled, pausing by the stone archway, “Just leave me be. We can discuss it tomorrow until your heart is content. Right now, I need some time to think…”

After the consumption of three entire bottles of wine, Willow felt nothing but ill and bloated. Sitting upon the stone ledge of the balcony, looking over the glistening lights of the rolling expanse of the city, she groaned a regretful and uncomfortable sigh. The curse of vampirism had not yet proven to be anything save irritating. She was destined to never look upon her reflection again, she was denied the delicious tastes of food and drink, and she could consume liquor endlessly with not so much as a light-headedness. She knew there was more to the curse, but as she gripped the dark bottle by the neck, she was struggling to find a positive in the mix of denials. Eventful, that had been the word the sorcerer had used. Her own day had certainly been eventful. Her year, her decade, her life had been eventful. She knew she was simply whining, but as she allowed the last drops of vintage red wine to slip from the bottle, she fell into her wallowing. In frustration, she lifted the glass bottle high overhead, and threw it with all her might into the sky. But before it has made its journey passed the ledge, a swift hand lashed out and caught it mid-flight.
“Are we having a tantrum?” rumbled Switch’s voice in delight, “I do love your tantrums.”
Willow scowled, a frown pulling her brow as he rippled into sight beside her.
“Must we do this now?” she drawled, “I came out here to be alone.”
“And you have been, for almost three hours,” he said sardonically, “Staring off into the distance like a mournful painting.”
“Enough,” she sighed, “What do you want?”
“What is the matter, sweet Willow?” he crooned in his slither of a voice, “Trouble in paradise?”
“Enough!” she growled, turning to look to him, “What do you want, Switch?”
“What I always want,” he shrugged, grinning mischievously, “To appear at the most inconvenient time. To ruffle feathers and cause trouble, to make you doubt yourself.”
Willow could not contain the laughter that bubbled through her chest.
“I think that is the first true thing you have ever said to me,” she grinned.
“And even that was a lie,” he winked.
“What do you really want?” she asked, shaking her head with a smile.
“To give you this,” he said, throwing a heavy pouch of clinking gold towards her, “The contract was completed, the client was satisfied.”
Willow swiftly caught the pouch with one hand, casually dropping it beside her. What did gold really matter? As they drew closer to their goals of overturning rulership of Talingarde, coins and wealth seemed far the lesser venture.
“You’re not going to count it?” he asked, arching his brow.
“Would you dare cut me short?” she smirked.
His chest rumbled as he chuckled a deep and rasping laugh, “Never.”
Although she smiled, she sighed a heavy breath, looking out over the city expanse. Spiralling thoughts of intrigue danced through her mind, ever seeking their partnering answers, always seeming so far out of reach.
“Why am I nameless?” she asked softly, a frown touching her brow.
“Your name is not one to be spoken…” he whispered in reply.
Such cryptic words only raised more questions. Willow felt dejected, her confused heart still and un-beating, enclosed within her chest. Yet she still felt the way it craved the knowledge and understanding she was denied.
“Why?” she scowled, “Why can I not simply know?”
“Perhaps you will in time,” Switch smirked.
She growled her annoyance, yet knew it was futile to ask anything further.
“If you will not tell me mine, will you tell me yours?” she asked, tilting her head in curiosity.
“I have told you it before,” he shrugged, “I shall not speak it again.”
“Jonathan Cadwell Swichlem,” she scoffed, “I do not believe that.”
His brows rose slowly, “You have a sharp memory.”
“And a tendency to distrust any words that leave your mouth,” she laughed, “No, you are not a Jonathan. You are something else.”
“And what am I?” he grinned.
“A mystery,” she smiled, “And a scoundrel.”
Although he laughed at her words, he simply declined to comment further. As the leaves danced along the soft breeze, Willow stared out over the glistening lights of the city, watching the dark night sky caress the horizon. She felt Switch’s curious eyes searching her face, though she knew not what he saw. As a few moments passed, she finally gave in and looked towards him.
“What is it?” she asked tiredly.
“You look older,” he frowned.
Again, Willow felt a laugh escape her chest.
“What a brilliant observation,” she replied in sarcasm.
“You look tired,” he said softly, a crease of unease along his forehead.
“I am,” she chuckled darkly, “To all hell, I am. Does it worry you? Do you stress that I am not sleeping well?”
“I do…” he said quietly, casting his eyes down as if the admission shamed him.
“What?” Willow scowled, rubbing her eyes in frustration, “Leave it be, Switch. I have little patience left for your games.”
“Games?” he huffed a laugh, dropping his act of concern, a resentment tinting his cheeks, “It is a game I play only with you.”
Willow exhaled a slow and controlled breath, calming her temper as it threatened to erupt in words from her mouth. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. The past few days were supposed to have been restful; the calm before the storm as it were. Yet they had been more strenuous and draining than hours of fighting men and angels. She had been forced to truly look inside herself, and face what was there, whether she was willing to or not. As she watched the curious weight drag Switch’s usual smug grin into a deep anger, she clenched her eyes tight and sighed.
“Do you love him?” he asked coldly.
“What?” Willow balked, taken aback by his question.
“The warrior,” he said bitterly, curling his lip, “Do you love him?”
A harsh laugh sounded, as she slowly shook her head, “What a question to ask.”
“Is he everything you pictured in a man?” he growled, anger and hatred contorting his expression, “Tall, handsome, brave…”
“Enough!” Willow snarled, “What is this?”
“A simple question, sweet Willow,” he said quietly, bitterness crushing his tone.
As the turmoil swarmed like a vortex in her mind, feelings of anger and confusion dancing together like a battle between armies of emotion. She could not muster an answer, for even the light-hearted banter of her reply seemed drenched in petulance. What a pitiful and meagre thing, she thought, to be so overwhelmingly distraught over. As her eyes closed heavily, and her chest deflated in emptiness, she heard the barest sound of scuffed movement behind her.
“Am I to never know the taste of your flesh again?” his sultry words rasped in her ear, as smooth hands slid around her throat.
His grip slowly tightened, as a curious sensation sliced along her skin, as if sharp talons grew from his fingers. As one cutting point traced down her collarbone towards her chest, the breath she had drawn hitched in her throat. Her eyes shot down to watch as the skin split open, stinging viciously in terrible ache, by the keen edge of a bestial claw. It was not a simple hardened nail of a man, nor the talon of a devil. It was something else, something larger, more akin to the claw of a dragon. As its path tore through the fabric of her dress, continuing down her centre and along her stomach, she whimpered in renewed fear and in lustful desperation. When it reached her pelvic bone and simply lingered, she trembled in terrified anticipation.
“Will you deny me?” he whispered, sharp bursts of hot breath in her ear, sending chills that traced her spine.
With his chest flush to her back, his feral tongue glided gently along the length of her ear while the hand around her neck compressed its grip. She slammed her lips closed to supress the groan that sounded in her throat. Though she despised her body for betraying her calm, it arched to meet his brutal touch. The skin that had split ached in torturous suffering, yet rose to push his talon deeper in sinful masochistic desire. She felt his wretched grin slither onto his face as he lifted his hand high enough to refuse her wish.
“Say it!” he growled fiercely, “Tell me! Tell me you cannot deny me!”
Willow’s mind repelled against his command, she hissed a savage breath as her fangs plunged down into view of the soft light of the moon. Though her mind was stern and loyal, she cursed her traitorous body that begged and pleaded for more.
“Say it, Willow!” he snarled, “He can have your heart, but your body belongs to me…”
Her mind erupted in defiance, a futile attempt as his lower claws spread wide, all five of them shearing through flesh as he dragged them lower to her thighs. As he slowly began to carve his way higher, back along the tops of her thighs, her lips clamped tight to muffle the cry of carnal pleasure.
“Say it,” he breathed, “And I will give you what you want…”
It was his choice of words that sparked a flame of rebellion. Though his verbal attempt at ownership of her body was laughable, it was not what burned the defiance brightly in her mind. Willow would not graciously accept the scraps she was given; she would take what she wanted by force. Though she did not try to dispute that her body craved his savage embrace, she played along by desperately scuffing her heels on the stone ledge, as if to get better perch to further his touch. He chuckled, continuing to trace his claws along her thighs, pleased with his dominating stance. When she found grip on the ledge, she grinned mischievously. With an eery grace and dexterous agility, she propelled herself using every ounce of strength she could summon. She flipped her body high into the air, his claws plunging deeply into the flesh of her legs, as she used his grip on her throat to leverage her swing up and over his head. She sailed through the air, the black sheet of her shattered dress rippling in billowing waves. His hand around her throat reactively released its grip as he was thrown forward by the weight of her descent. With elegant and deft movements, she landed on her feet behind him. As he regained his balance, he spun on his heel towards her, in perfect time for her leap forward. As her weight collided with him, he crashed backward into the stone railing as her legs wrapped around his waist, while her hand quickly drew the blade from his sheath and forced it against his throat. When she brought her face close to his, his sight widened in vicious and devouring hunger. Though his eyes had ever pierced in wells of unending black, as he looked to her now, they blazed a brilliant emerald green.
“I will never say it,” she whispered with a wicked grin against his lips, staring deep truths into his gaze, “I am not yours, I will never be. You can only ever have me for as long as I wish it…”
Though the consuming hunger of his eyes did not dim, the intensity of his stare held her captive, as his brow arched high. When he spoke, he failed to shield the severity of the truth with his usual snapping wit. A feral possession seethed in his gaze, reigned in only by the barest of measures.
“I have never been any good at sharing…” he growled, lifting her weight as he turned to sit her upon the edge of the stone railing, ignoring the blade that pressed into his neck.
“Willow?” came Pellius’ concerned voice from inside the manor, “Are you alright?”
She arched her brow to Switch, a devious grin lifting her lips.
“You do not have a choice,” she whispered.
As Pellius heavy footsteps drew near, Switch’s gaze flashed a venomous green. His eyes narrowed in an unspoken warning that said she had not heard the last from him on the matter. With barely a second to spare, he crashed his lips viciously to hers in a feral dominating caress that slashed the flesh of his neck upon the blade, before he suddenly vanished from sight.
“My lady?” Pellius called, stepping out onto the balcony, “Is everything alright, I thought I heard-”
His words faltered as he saw the state of Willow. His eyes looked over the blade in her hand, the torn shards of her dress, and trailed the length of her scarred chest and stomach. To his credit, he simply arched an eyebrow in question. Willow could not help but laugh in reply, standing from the ledge and slowly walking for the door.
“Should I ask?” Pellius questioned darkly.
Willow grinned as she stopped beside him, lifting on her toes to place a kiss upon his cheek. She chuckled as she spoke and made her way towards the dressing chamber.
“I do not think,” she teased, “That you would approve of the answer…”
Suddenly, his hand latched on tightly to her wrist, forcing her steps to halt.
“You would kiss me with the lips that have just taken his?” he breathed viciously.
Before she had a chance to reply, he ripped her forward to face him.
“You would touch me with the hands that have just caressed him?”
His eyed blazed with feral rage, swarming with furious jealously and disgust, yet paired with dark and ominous desire. Slowly, he prowled towards her, forcing her to follow until her back ran in to the harsh stone wall of the manor.
“You would allow him to take you,” he growled venomously, a terrifying promise of retribution to his words, “While I lingered in the next room?”
As Willow’s body trembled in fear, carnal terror and excitement racing through her veins as if blood coursed its path – she knew better than to speak or attempt to justify her actions.
“I have been patient,” he breathed in choler, “I have been understanding. I have never told you that you were not to take another lover. I have never denied you your debauched and sinful satisfaction. Yet, I would have thought you would show me the respect I deserve.”
As his ire grew, and his minacious presence spread in a wave that licked her flesh in warning, Willow felt herself pressing further into the sharp edges of the stone wall. She felt small under the crushing weight of his intimidating gaze.
“You speak of suffering,” he seethed, “Is this what you meant? You will forever rouse the jealously in me, and force me to retaliate and forever induce my wrath?”
Her chest quivered, as her unnecessary breaths began to tremble. She clenched her teeth together to stop the whimper that quivered in her throat.
“This is how you want it to be?” he rasped, eyes flashing with acid, “Then so be it.”
For a moment, he simply glared down at her, the only physical contact being his crushing grasp on her wrist before he released it. The anticipation ached within her, terrified and delighted to await his next move.
“Take off the dress,” he commanded in a controlled voice, a baleful warning to his tone.
With an unrelenting lock on his gaze, Willow did as she was told, still clutching the blade as she slipped her arms from her tattered dress and allowed it to drop to the stone floor. She shivered as the cold chill of the night breeze drifted along the sweat that lined her delicate frame. She stood in only the light slip of fabric that was once her nightdress, though now the large tear in its front rendered it to a simple flank of silk.
“That one too,” he ordered quietly.
Slowly, she slipped it from her shoulders, allowing it to follow her gown to the floor. He simply watched her, dark eyes that burned a vivid scarlet, with an intensity that she had not seen before. She had never felt so exposed. She trembled beneath him, fingers grasping the handle of the dagger, sharp points of the stone digging into the bare flesh of her back. With wide eyes, she watched his hand reach for hers, guiding the blade to her own throat. He stepped forward, gradually forcing his weight against her as he crushed her back against the rough and tortuous wall. With calm and controlled movements, he forced her hand to drag the blade gently along the skin of her throat.
“This is what you want?” he whispered darkly, “This is what you crave?”
His savage and menacing glare had her hand quivering against her neck. Her legs shifted in restless lust that coursed through her limbs and threatened to overwhelm her senses. She felt the infernal pulse that surrounded him, drumming like a beat of wrathful demand. The waiting only heightened her excitement, the impending dread a frightening and intoxicating device. His dark gaze only grew more sinister, as a lecherous grin slowly lifted his lips.
“I told you once,” he growled, “That I am not a man of forgiveness; I am a man of retribution. And you, Willow, seem far too eager to seek punishment. You asked me why I had not taken a wife in Cheliax, and I told you I had not found someone who could entice my fascination for long. You make me fight for you. You infuriate me to no end, for I cannot simply command your obedience.”
His eyes flashed a wrathful scarlet, as his fierce anger struggled to remain contained. “Maybe that is why you entice me so…”
He thrust the blade higher, forcing her head to snap back into the jagged stone, as the cold slither of his hand traced down along the flesh of her stomach. As his eyes glinted in sadistic promise, Willow felt a true and paralysing fear chill her spine, urging the searing lust that burned within her soul.
“It seems I have been too lenient with you,” he whispered, a merciless assurance to his words, as his hand forced its way lower, “Let us see, if I cannot teach you why you should fear my reckoning…”

[Braininthejar2]

chapter 22. Wow, the vampire lord really dropped the ball there - revealing such a critical weakness to powerful villains he had just met.

[minderp]

chapter 22. Wow, the vampire lord really dropped the ball there - revealing such a critical weakness to powerful villains he had just met.

Could have been lulling the villains into a false sense of security, or simply resigned to the fact that his unending life was slowly withering without the power to create more than mindless spawn.
The Chalice was no use in any hands but his, and he was already without it and had no way to get to it.
Trusting the villains with the knowledge of his dwindling power (and the dwindling supply of strong warriors) was a show of faith i suppose. Whatever his motives; it worked lol.

[Braininthejar2]

He could have given you the mission without revealing that he's incapable of getting competent underlings.

Anyway, finished 23. You're crazy. Or very good at embellishing.

[minderp]

He could have given you the mission without revealing that he's incapable of getting competent underlings.

Anyway, finished 23. You're crazy. Or very good at embellishing.

Crazy. Actually crazy. Didn't embellish Seeking Valtaerna at all. Didn't mean to pry so deep, but Willow whole heartedly shares her intense and overwhelming curiosity with me.... Lol. It is, frustratingly and dangerously advantageous.

[Braininthejar2]

What was your new assassin doing during the battle? This guy is like a smarter Grumblejack.

If pathfinder oni are anything like the 3.5 ogre mages, then he was the perfect companion for such a scenario - an invisible, flying heavy hitter with SLA's to handle crowds, versitality to be quickly deployed where needed, and regeneration to sustain him through the lenghty battle - and in the end his presence could have made all the difference .

[Braininthejar2]

1 Ah, the problem with impressive bosses is that they often literally hit like a truck. I experienced this problem as a GM in other campaigns. It looks like the giant was the closest you got to a wipe.

2 For a team going there with an intent to fight angels and a phoenix, you seemed slightly underpepared to handle fire and airborne opponents.

3 It looks like you decided to leave Grumblejack dead. Was he not useful enough to spend a diamond?

4 Did you rest in between or did you really do the whole cathedral in one go?

5 Indiana Jones would like to know how did you all figure out that the name of Asmodeus must be invoked in infernal.

6 When you left the valley by air, leaving the remaining bugbear and cultist forces to possibly be crushed by the royal army in spring, what happened to your beloved 600 pound dog?

7 I expected a rogue to want to become a vampire. a full caster, not so much.

[minderp]

1 Ah, the problem with impressive bosses is that they often literally hit like a truck. I experienced this problem as a GM in other campaigns. It looks like the giant was the closest you got to a wipe.

It was almost a TPK. But it was a super fun fight to roleplay, what can i say? I'm a glutton for punishment.

2 For a team going there with an intent to fight angels and a phoenix, you seemed slightly underpepared to handle fire and airborne opponents.

Unfortunately, the unprepared for fighting airborne opponents is STILL a recurring theme in our game...

3 It looks like you decided to leave Grumblejack dead. Was he not useful enough to spend a diamond?

At the time, our party didn't want to waste the diamond in case we needed it for a PC. And from there... i think he was forgotten. WoTW is an awesome idea for ruling minions and armies, but its hard to actually put into action. We were actually just talking about this, we're given awesome beasts and wicked NPC's, but it is hard to find ways to use them that doesn't completely slow down the game. It was decided that unless specific to story, we don't use any of the cohorts in combat.

4 Did you rest in between or did you really do the whole cathedral in one go?

Straight through, no rest. There was nowhere for us to rest, if i was actually the one assaulting the cathedral, i'm not really going to just go for a nap...

5 Indiana Jones would like to know how did you all figure out that the name of Asmodeus must be invoked in infernal.

That would be my ridiculously cryptic head... the others call me the Wizard of Puzzles; +50 to solving puzzles, riddles and rhymes. -50 to how to open a can with a can opener.
"The worthy knows his foe – his ways and tongues. Amongst those unafraid to speak the enemy’s name shall ye find the worthy.” Enemy being Asmodeus, his tongues being Infernal. It is likely, though i don't remember exactly, that i figured it out and told the others. Sounds better for story if they all understood

6 When you left the valley by air, leaving the remaining bugbear and cultist forces to possibly be crushed by the royal army in spring, what happened to your beloved 600 pound dog?

He ran really fast... :P

7 I expected a rogue to want to become a vampire. a full caster, not so much.

I know... we had a long discussion, and our caster... well... he is very impulsive. He likes the new and shiny. When we asked why, he just said that it sounds cool.

[Braininthejar2]

WoTW is an awesome idea for ruling minions and armies, but its hard to actually put into action. We were actually just talking about this, we're given awesome beasts and wicked NPC's, but it is hard to find ways to use them that doesn't completely slow down the game. It was decided that unless specific to story, we don't use any of the cohorts in combat.

Ah, that explains how you died.

A massive battle is exactly where you use all your resources (getting the weaker ones killed, so they don't clutter the narrative - I think thinning out the cohorts was one of the points of that battle.)

Believe me when I say, I know the problem from my own experience - I'm currenly DMing a single player campaign based on Baldur's Gate series. The idea was that the protagonist, being very special, will be the player, and the rest will be NPCs like in the original game. But since they're colorful NPCs, fun to roleplay, I somehow ended up with this:

Spoiler

Show

[Braininthejar2]

And so I enter the uncharted waters - I don't know that part of the campaign.

It seems I've missed the part when Pellius freed his old underlings. when was it?

The tarot guy seemed a bit random. I can't quite piece together why you reacted to him like you did.

Also, my words about Raiju being an upgrade over Grumblejack proved prophetic.

[minderp]

Ah, that explains how you died.

A massive battle is exactly where you use all your resources (getting the weaker ones killed, so they don't clutter the narrative - I think thinning out the cohorts was one of the points of that battle.)

Believe me when I say, I know the problem from my own experience - I'm currenly DMing a single player campaign based on Baldur's Gate series. The idea was that the protagonist, being very special, will be the player, and the rest will be NPCs like in the original game. But since they're colorful NPCs, fun to roleplay, I somehow ended up with this:

Knowing it was a meatgrinder kind of encounter was why we just ploughed only through the specific combat we did. We had more or less forgotten about using cohorts by then. Either way, some of them are still left, just off doing minion business (out of sight lol.)

Lol wow, how on earth do you remember all of the personalities?

And so I enter the uncharted waters - I don't know that part of the campaign.

It seems I've missed the part when Pellius freed his old underlings. when was it?

The tarot guy seemed a bit random. I can't quite piece together why you reacted to him like you did.

Also, my words about Raiju being an upgrade over Grumblejack proved prophetic.

Pellius' underlings is a still to come one day when the side mission is actually set up. I will slide it in the story when we actually play it. Don't ask to much, it's a sore spot for a completionist like me...

Harrower was the DM getting a Pathfinder Harrowing card set and wanting to test it out. What reaction were you referring to?

And yes, hence the lack of comment on my behalf. He is absolutely Grumblejack 2.0...

[Braininthejar2]

Harrower was the DM getting a Pathfinder Harrowing card set and wanting to test it out. What reaction were you referring to?

Finding an untouched, obviously magical house in the middle of a plundered city, walking in to chat with the owner, and leaving peacefully.

I have a DM who is a professional fortune teller and sometimes uses tarot to determine random events and such. Also uses them in adventures: Imagine coming to a fortune teller as a character (who had his memory magically wiped, and is unaware that he's being sent there as a "manchurian agent" ), getting asked to draw a major arcana from the deck, and actually drawing Death (in tarot, it stands for 'transformation')

[minderp]

Finding an untouched, obviously magical house in the middle of a plundered city, walking in to chat with the owner, and leaving peacefully.

I told you Willow shares her insatiable curiosity with me... lol. And sometimes (though so scarce it is usually shocking to even us) we can talk through situations without killing everything we see. :P

I have a DM who is a professional fortune teller and sometimes uses tarot to determine random events and such. Also uses them in adventures: Imagine coming to a fortune teller as a character (who had his memory magically wiped, and is unaware that he's being sent there as a "manchurian agent" ), getting asked to draw a major arcana from the deck, and actually drawing Death (in tarot, it stands for 'transformation')

There is entirely too much left open for interpretation for my liking in regard to tarot/harrowing/fortune telling. I need puzzles with exact clues, and clear right or wrong answers. None of this 'take from it what you wish' lol.

[minderp]

Spoiler: Chapter 40 - In Darkness They Come - Part 1

Show

The putrid stench of sulphur thickened the air, as smouldering flame danced along the harsh and jagged rock. Fire that burned in a malevolence so fierce it was almost sentient. A volcanic wasteland, a vast plane of true terror and desolation. Further than the eye could see, the expanse of battered and burnt rock, jutted along the endless horizon. The searing heat was indescribable. So hot, it scorched a frozen chill of bitter torrid fury. Such a pain was unfathomable, yet against her skin; it felt like home.
Willow’s sight drifted slowly to take in the panorama of the barren desolation, seen from the highest point of the distant mountain. She saw the marsh that covered the land, though no plants or life grew. The filth formed by a cascade of countless foul arteries of strange fluids hurling their contents in a seeping wave that drenched the land. She saw the mountain of erupting lava, coursing across the stone and iron landscape, seething in venomous rage intent on consuming all in its path. She saw the three spired tower, blackened metal strips of razor-sharp spikes, striking out into the flaming inferno of the sky. And she saw the city, a dense and vile clustering of spiralling citadels, domiciles of the infernal warlords and the endless legions of Hell. A haze clouded Willow’s mind, her thoughts unable to register, her own voice muted within her head. She simply followed her vision without question, obediently trailing the path that it took her. It plunged deep into the blackened rock, through the crushing force of solid stone, until she surfaced in the abhorrent tide of flowing waters. She rose from the loathsome liquid, eyes alight as she scanned the curious details of her surroundings. A magnificent, yet twisted mockery of a mortal palace. She drifted through the abominable rot of coursing water, following the sewers that wound through the streets. It was no city she had seen before; feral and savage creatures roaming along fire-laden paths, grotesque beings oozing their repugnant secretions as they passed. Atrocities of buildings made from severed limbs of unidentifiable creatures, moulded with streaks of iron, flesh and bone. In the distance, a mountainous citadel formed from uncountable links of chain, wheezing a melody of grinding speech that shrieked in cries of agony. And towering above them all; a wretched iron spire, taller than any mountain upon the material plane. Willow’s vision suddenly leapt towards it, racing through the hideous scenes of carnage that played along the streets. When she arrived at the grand and terrifying spire, she saw the horrendous tower for what it was. A place of pure misery and torture. Each portion of the iron was carved in gruesome scenes of barbaric torment and depraved depictions of horrid slaughter. Surrounding the base of the vile tower were unmoving ranks of soldiers. Though, these were no normal soldiers; these soldiers were some of the fiercest that even Hell had to offer. Impeccable lines of meticulous stance – foul devils layered in scarlet scales, bearing oversize eldritch bone wings and tall twisted horns shattering from their skulls. As her sight drifted towards them, they paid her no mind. They remained in their eery stoic vigils, venomous scarlet eyes alight and waiting. Slowly, Willow’s vision drifted through the legions, leading her far passed the tower of iron and deep into the shadowed forest that surrounded the grounds. Decaying bodies hung from the branches of trees that bled a vile crimson sap. Mutated shrubs that bore poisonous thorns grew in thick scatter, embellished with shreds of torn and withered skin. As she broke out passed the shelter of the weeping jungle, her sight guided her towards a towering wall that encompassed the grand and heinous palace. When she neared the enormous steel gate, the two halves of the doors screeched as they began to open. When the barest crack appeared between them, a vile ooze of scarlet liquid seeped from the opening. Suddenly, a sordid tsunami of vermillion gore crashed through the gates, relentless waves of blood surging forth as they were unleashed from within the palace grounds. As the vile fluid eventually drained; the doors opened wide in horrific welcoming. Slowly, Willow’s vision drifted through the opening. The stone and steel stained with the sickening hue of vivid red, yet the grotesque paint was not what drew her eye. Her vision turned, following the path of the colossal wall, as a thundering sound suddenly erupted from stone. Screams of tortuous agony, cries of unending suffering, shrieks of enduring torment. A chorus of anguish, unshackled by the drowning suffocation of the blood that had filled the palace grounds. From the harsh and desolate earth, the blood began to fill anew, rising once more to silence the screams. It was then, that Willow’s sight was guided closer to the wall. What had appeared as simple bricks and chunks of stone and iron, were not that at all. They were souls. Once living entities, once creatures and people. Now, their bodies were devoured and their souls remained as damned and wretched vessels, purified of weakness and rebellion within the forges of Hell. They formed the building blocks of Hell’s infernal structures, condemned to live out eternity in the relentless company of endless and eternal suffering. As she drew closer, she saw the crushed and contorted shadows of men. Slowly, the heart wrenching cry of bitter despair that wailed from a single soul became her focus. Her vision gradually turned towards it, drifting closer to the wall, as the glimmering ethereal glow came into sight. She saw the inconsolable spirit, she saw his everlasting torment. It did not know she was there, it did not sense her presence. All it knew was agony, terror and suffering. As the foul floods of velvet gore rose again to suffocate and smother the wretched soul, it shrieked in horrifying fear. The red liquid began to consume it, drowning out the sounds of its cries. Before it encompassed it completely, the vision changed. A familiar face; two eyes filled with sheer terror and pure misery. They looked to her, and as they saw her a moment before the blood enveloped them – they wept.
Willow’s eyes flew open abruptly, as she threw herself from the silk sheets, an agonising ache seizing her chest. Her skin stung in venomous pain, as if she had bathed in a brew of acid. Harsh breaths tore through her chest, though they did little to calm her erratic mind.
“What is it?” Pellius called in worry, leaping from the bed to grasp the sword he kept near.
As her eyes filled with bitter tears, she fell to her knees upon the floor. Pellius quickly stormed through the bedchamber, searching for the cause of her alarm, before swiftly returning to her side.
“What is wrong?” he asked worriedly.
“I saw him…” she breathed, choking on her words.
“Who?” Pellius frowned, dropping his sword and lifting Willow’s face in his hands.
With widened eyes, and trembling lips, she looked to him.
“I saw The Wall…” she whispered, “I saw Bor…”

As the sky dimmed in the arrival of dusk, Willow, Pellius and Garvana gathered in the sitting chamber of the Monteguard Manor, resting by the flickering flames that simmered in the stone fireplace. Though the taste was no comfort, Willow sipped steaming tea from the small ceramic cup, for the simple routine brought its own solace. Her limbs and joints ached in cruel exertion, her muscles tight and drawn from the strenuous travail of the harsh reprimand Pellius had enforced upon her the night before. She had collapsed in delightful enervation, her first hours of slumber a blissful stupor enveloped in the dragging weight of sinful fatigue. But then, it had all changed. As her mind trailed its way back through the infernal journey of her dreams, she had to clench her eyes shut to avoid its enticing ruination.
“My lady?” Pellius voice said softly, interrupting her spiralling thoughts.
She looked to him with eyes of heavy strain.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, a curious worry to his voice.
“Yes,” she sighed, relaxing her limbs that had clenched tight along with her thoughts.
He stared into her gaze, knowing eyes of understanding piercing through her veil of strength. He knew her too well. He could read the way her brows failed to release its frown, the way her bottom lip found its way between her teeth, the way the dark wells hung lower under her lids. Though the previous night he had looked to her in a far different manner, his eyes of concern looked to her now in troubled affection. It blossomed a small smile upon her lips, a soft hand reaching to rest on his forearm.
“Are you two quite done?” Garvana drawled, rolling her eyes.
Willow laughed despite herself, “Quite.”
“Good,” Garvana huffed, “Now, what are we going to do about this sorcerous?”
“I trust her,” Willow shrugged, “She had no reason to return Hellbrand to us, she had no reason to return at all. But she did. She tracked us across the country to fulfil her task, and when it was completed, she could have gone anywhere in the world. And she chose here, with us.”
“That does not seem suspicious to you?” Garvana scowled.
“No,” Willow said truthfully, “It seems determined and dedicated. If we are to have another aid us, they are traits I would require.”
“But she killed Bor, Willow!” she growled.
“By the will of our Infernal Lord,” Willow insisted, “I feel his loss keenly, but who are we to question the Lord of the Nine?”
“I am not questioning him,” Garvana frowned, “It is just, hard to take in. Pellius, you have been quiet, what do you think?”
Though the frown on his brow did not lessen, he shook his head gently.
“Willow speaks the truth,” he conceded, “It seems as if Traya was entitled to her vengeance, though I do not know if I can simply trust her…”
“Well we must come to a decision,” Willow sighed, “We have two days before we infiltrate the Adarium. We must either include her in our plans, or we must turn her away. I think it would be foolish to cast off the opportunity to utilise her talents. What we are expected to do is nonsensical enough, having a pyromancer on our side will certainly aid our chances of success…”
“I suppose you are right,” Garvana huffed, “But how do we know she is not going to betray us?”
“To whom?” Willow scoffed, “I have heard of the massacre in Wayburn. It was not only Bor she slew with fire. In her quest for revenge she killed more than twenty bystanders, erupting the market place in a blazing fury. She has made no friends of the Mitrans. She could have done the same to this manor, yet she chose to knock…”
“Alright,” Pellius sighed, “Let us see how she fairs in the Adarium, perhaps she may prove useful. It will be a trial of sorts. If she passes; she will be allowed to join us. If she fails, well, she’ll be dead…”
“Agreed,” Garvana nodded.
“Very well,” Willow said, sitting up straighter in the cushioned armchair, “I will let her know. But, before we depart… I have something I must ask the both of you.”
She exhaled a heavy breath, eyes downcast as her brows pulled tightly in a frown.
“Is there…” she began cautiously, “Is there a way to petition hell for the release of a soul?”
“What?” Garvana balked, shrewd eyes looking to her, “Why?”
“Is this about the dream you had?” Pellius asked, arching his brow.
“Yes,” Willow said quietly, “Though I did not tell you about it in full. I did not just see Bor in The Wall… I was guided to it. It was as if someone was showing me exactly where his soul is residing in utter torment…”
“What do you mean?” Garvana questioned, “Who would show you that?”
“I do not know,” Willow said, shaking her head gently, “But seeing that place… Seeing where he is set to spend the rest of eternity…”
“What was it like?” Garvana whispered, eyes wide in morbid curiosity.
Willow slowly looked to her, unable to give words to such horrors.
“Worse,” she breathed, “Worse than anything I could have imagined…”
“It is not impossible to petition such a thing,” Pellius interjected, a cool and calm authority to his voice, “Though unorthodox, a devil of a sufficient rank would be able to arrange it… for a price.”
“I would pay it!” Garvana growled firmly, curtly nodding her head.
“How do we go about it?” Willow frowned, “Do we even know such a devil?”
“Perhaps some of us might…” Pellius said, a curious fire to his tone.
Strange and harsh eyes looked to her, for merely a moment before Pellius leashed his temper. Though it was a swift change between his calm composure; it was not swift enough to evade Willow’s sight.
“Perhaps Dessiter of the Phistophilus,” Garvana offered, “Do you suppose he could arrange such a thing?”
“It is possible,” Pellius answered cordially, looking away from Willow, “Though I am unsure exactly how much power he wields, or whether we should seek such a thing.”
“Who do you speak of?” Willow asked quietly, suspicious poise in her tone.
“No one in particular, my lady,” he replied politely, though his bitter tongue betrayed him.
Willow felt her frown deepen, as his curious reaction sparked uncertainty within her mind. There was only one being she could think of, though she truly had little knowledge of exactly what he was, let alone the actual power he wielded.
“Perhaps it is best we seek the advice of the bone devils within the mirror,” Garvana offered, “We know the cost of asking them.”
“The cost?” Willow frowned.
“They cannot ask more of us,” she replied cryptically, cold eyes looking to Willow, “When they have decided to recall their debts…”
“Debts?” Willow scowled, “What are you referring to, Garvana?”
“Nothing,” she dismissed, turning to Pellius, “If they cannot tell us who, they can point us in the right direction.”
“Perhaps,” Pellius answered, a frown pulled low upon his brow.
“I shall leave you to speak with them,” Willow sighed, standing from the chair upon weary legs, her mind hazed with fatigue, “But forgive me, I must excuse myself.”
“Where are you going?” Garvana frowned in suspicion, “What is wrong.”
“Nothing,” she laughed, before looking to Pellius with an eyebrow arched high, “If it is alright with you two, I simply wish to rest for a moment. It seems I did not find enough hours to sleep…”

As the morning sun threatened to reveal itself from beyond the horizon, Willow found herself wandering the quiet halls of the Monteguard Manor. Slow steps trailed the heavy rugs that lined the floors, as her eyes drifted over the stern and refined portraits of those who had come before her. When she had walked the halls as a child, she had been awestruck in admiration for those depicted in the thick oil paint. She had cherished the tales and deeds of each individual. She had been proud to be born of the grand House Monteguard. Yet now, she walked the quiet halls with a vacant heart. She was not one of them. These men and women of the strong and indomitable bloodline were strangers to her. The human couple that had raised her, though they raised her with love and protection, were only her parents by deceit and opportunity. Even with the truth revealed, they did not shun her. They had made it clear that she would always be there daughter, that she would always be a Monteguard in their eyes and their hearts. But when all was said and done - she did not know who she was. Now, the manor that had been home, the only home she had known; seemed empty and vain. The heavily embellished décor felt tacky and overdone, the gold lined paintings felt superficial and fraudulent. The home she had once known was no longer the safe haven that it had always been. Slowly, her feet guided her towards the ballroom, her hands pushing open the large oak doors with little lustre. The solid heels on the bottom of her shoes clicked along the marble tiles, echoing throughout the empty and enormous chamber. As her unhurried steps strolled into the centre of the ballroom, she sighed a weighty breath. Once, this room had been filled with the richest and most prominent members of the noble ranks. Every year before the Royal Gala on the Vernal Equinox, the Monteguard family would be the last to host a vibrant and lively masquerade ball, catering to hundreds as they opened their manor to the elite of Talingarde. Each year, Willow would dress in something more elaborate, a gown that pushed further limits and boundaries than the last. And each year, the music would grow louder, the drinks would fill deeper and the revelry would continue later into the dawn hours.
After escaping Branderscar, Willow had been sure she would follow the path of vengeance, claiming the name and house of Monteguard for herself. She had envisioned completing her righteous mission, handing the lands of Talingarde to the mighty Asmodeus, and picking up her life where she had left it – though she would be wielding it with power that far surpassed her former self. She gazed upward towards the lavish and immense chandelier, lit with more than a hundred long-burning candles. Such a resplendent ornament was wasted upon the eyes of none, the future she had foreseen seemed pitiful and barren. With a meandering stride, she walked to the western corner of the vast chamber, where the grand piano lay silent. She trailed her fingers along the gleaming darkwood, until her hand found the runic carving along the rim of the lid. With rasping words, she smiled nostalgically as she read the incantation. With no pianist trailing the keys, the soft sound of harmonious notes began to play. The melody was slow and gentle, a quiet piece of sorrow and sadness. The enchantment upon the piano had been the envy of the other nobles when it was unveiled to them so many years ago. As if the music knew what lingered in your heart, it always played the songs best suited to the listeners mood. Now, as Willow stood with her fingers tracing the runic words – it lulled a tune of mournful yearning.
“Dawn is almost here,” Pellius’ voice whispered softly behind her.
She spun in surprise, frowning deeply at his sudden presence. Had she been so caught up in the music that she had not heard his approach, had her mind been so distracted in self-pity?
“You will burn if you remain by those windows much longer, my lady,” he commented, a small smile upon his lips.
Slowly, the frown lifted as a soft laugh took its place.
“I shall not be too long,” she smiled, “I was simply…”
She knew not what to reply, for she herself was not sure what she was doing.
“Listening,” she sighed, her lips dropping in disquiet.
“We must retire soon,” Pellius insisted gently, “We must be well-rested and prepared for the Adarium this evening.”
“I know,” Willow replied quietly, “I will be there shortly.”
As Pellius inclined his head cordially and turned to retreat from the large chamber, Willow returned to the piano, her hand stilling as the song changed to a tender and heartfelt air. The sounds of his heavy leather boots echoed in slow withdrawal, as she felt her unbeating heart shudder.
“Pellius,” she said quietly, turning to face him.
He ceased his steps and looked to her, his brow raised in question.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked softly, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth.
“Dance?” he frowned.
Suddenly, the music picked up, fastening its notes to croon a ballad of ludic and playful desire.
“Yes, dance,” Willow laughed, slow steps prowling towards him, “It is the dawn of the day we finally kill the king of Talingarde. And I do not wish to greet the sun with the harsh taste of worry and fret…”
As she reached him along the eastern edge of the grand ballroom, her eyes lit a vibrant scarlet passion.
“I wish to meet it with bold defiance,” she rasped, “With amusement and pleasure.”
“And there isn’t another you would wish to meet it with?” he scoffed harshly, resentment creasing his brow.
“Pellius,” Willow drawled, though her eyes of delight did not dissipate, “Covetous malice with promise of reprimand may be entirely enticing, but a brooding and bitter sack of sadness?”
She stepped close to him, lifting her head to stare into his gaze. Her fingers splayed along his firm chest, slowly trailing upward along his broad shoulders.
“I want you,” she grinned, a playful flitter in her eyes, “And I want you to dance with me. Must I declare my undying love for you each time I wish for your affection or attention?”
Though the intensity still widened his stare, he slowly gripped one of her hands and pulled it outward, sliding his other around her waist. With complete control, he led Willow forward to the chiming beat of the music, guiding her sway along the marble tile. Together, they waltzed along the large ballroom floor, Willow’s easy laugh fluttering from her lips in enjoyment. For a moment, as the music drifted through the vast chamber, her mind was free of the strenuous weight of turmoil. As the music veered and the echoing notes slowed to a close, he released her waist and twirled her around, her raven hair billowing along with her velvet dress. He suddenly wrenched her towards him, clasping his arm around her back as he held her weight and tipped her backward in a deep lunge. As her back arched in his grasp, her dress was pulled taut along her torso, dragging the neck line low enough to reveal the sharp lines of her collar bone. His other hand slithered along the centre of her chest, pulling the lace ties of her gown open, baring her white flesh from beneath.
“You have your wish,” he whispered darkly, an ardent and wicked flare in his gaze, “But I also wish to see in the Shining Sun… as the light of hope lifts for the last day of its kings life, I wish to make an offering to the orchestrator of his downfall…”
An ominous and impassioned grin spread along his face, as his hand grasped Willow’s throat, lifting her lips to his own. The music began a drumming and sensuous beat, the keys of the piano playing a sultry tune of seduction and craving.
“I wish to honour and venerate our Infernal Lord,” he breathed, “In the most fitting way I know how…”

When a sharp knock rapped on the door, Willow’s eyes fluttered open.
“The sun has fallen, mistress,” Atwood called loudly.
“Thank you, Atwood,” Willow yawned.
As she heard his soft footsteps trailing away from her quarters, she turned amongst the sheets, bringing herself around to lay upon Pellius’ chest. Though his brow furrowed, and his tired eyes refused to open, she could tell he was awake.
“It is time,” she said quietly, tracing her finger along his chin.
“Alright,” he sighed, turning his head from her reach, “I shall be up in a moment.”
Willow smiled, eyes trailing over his broad chest and shoulders. She could not stop the small chuckle as she traced her fingers over the harsh claw-like marks along his flesh; the ones that were not there before they had retired for the evening. As she watched his stubborn chin defy the early hours of night, she felt a slow and strange worry seep into her mind. What they were going to do come midnight, was far more dangerous than anything they had attempted before. They were to infiltrate the very home of the royal family, intent on sacrificing the princess in order to kill the king. There were sure to be hundreds of guards and knights, immense constructions of fire and steel – each and every being they were set to encounter would have been willing to die for the chance to save their beloved leaders. And they were only four. Though they had grown vastly in power, strength and skill; they were still only a number of four.
“Will you promise me something?” Willow asked quietly, lifting herself higher onto his chest.
“That depends what it is,” he yawned, hazy eyes turning to see her.
She slid atop him, dropping her legs to either side of his hips, bringing her face closer to his. She looked to him with eyes of deep affection, tinted with a touch of distress. They searched his face, seeking something that would still the uncertainty and discomposure within her chest.
“What is it, Willow?” he frowned, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.
“Tonight…” she said quietly, “Do not… die.”
“I was not planning on it,” he scoffed lightly, arching his brow.
“You know what I mean,” she frowned, “Do not be rash and charge in unaided, do not throw yourself at whatever comes our way. Let me aid you, let us aid you. Do not sacrifice yourself by allowing your wrath and hatred to consume you completely.”
“There is power in hatred,” he commented gently, softly tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, “For it inspires anger and ire. It allows the blood to boil and surge in charged bouts of strength and will.”
“And it also forces you to act like a martyr,” Willow scolded, “You lose your sense and it overwhelms you with brutal force and sheer stupidity.”
Pellius laughed a hearty chuckle, a smirk lifting his lips.
“And you are saying you are not one to succumb to fury?”
“Well I need to remain controlled as well,” she scowled, “Pellius, please. I... I cannot lose you, I am not willing to lose you.”
Though his gaze softened, she could see the workings of his mind flash across his eyes.
“You would not simply replace me when I am gone?” he laughed, though the sound was tainted by bitterness.
She could not help but smile at his words, lowering her head to press a soft kiss to his lips.
“No,” she said softly, arching her brow, “That would not be as much fun. You promised me I could torment you for an eternity… and I will forever hold you to that.”

The cold wind lashed through the rippling waves of raven locks, as Willow’s steed galloped through the empty streets of Matharyn. The moonless night shadowed the paths in heavy darkness, the barely lit streets glowing by the flickering torchlights that lined the main roads. The four of them rode upon horseback towards the western dockyards of Bayburn, with hurried pace they kicked their mounts faster, passing the staggered remains of townsfolk leaving the inns and taverns upon closing. Those who lingered in the street were quick to scramble out of the way, some saluting and bowing their head in respect and reverence. It was not the hurry in which the Forsaken moved through the streets that had the people bowing; it was the glistening steel that Pellius and Garvana wore. Shimmering silver plates, bold and dignified crests, draped in royal blue livery that identified them as part of the Knights of Alerion. Both of them wore the gleaming sapphire pendants, carved in the shape of the Mitran sunburst. Even the weapons they wore strapped to their backs were embellished with the holy symbol of the Shining Lord. It was a curious sight for Willow. Pellius was of a similar size to her husband, a similar build and broadness, the same tightly clasped locks of gold and fair. As she rode closely behind him, she was struck with the true similarities they shared. With a long and loose Mitran amulet dangling from her neck, rocking against her torso, she had a sudden shudder of revulsion fill her stomach. As if he could sense her distaste, he chanced a glance back towards her, his tall and regal brow raised in question. She could not help but grin as the similarities seemed to vanish. Where her husband was a man of soft features and an almost feminine grace – Pellius bore harsh and strong lines to his face, a chiselled chin and angular cheekbones. Even the slight tilt to his eyes formed the masculine lines that made him such an arresting figure. As he saw her lips lift and eyes alight, he cast her a wink before he returned his face to the road.
As they pulled on the reins and slowed their steeds to a halt, the four of them quickly dismounted. Pellius tossed his leather reins to Willow expectantly, to which she rolled her eyes and fastened his beside hers along the post. She was dressed in the simple garb of a squire; loose fitting white pants worn over her leather armour, with a long robe baring a bright sun on its flank. The circlet she wore morphed her facial features slightly, lending aid her dress and disguise. She was quick to follow Pellius and Garvana’s hurried steps down along the pier, arriving in time to swiftly scale the plank and board the small vessel.
“As fast as you can, madam,” Pellius impressed, “It is a matter of life and death. We must reach the Adarium before midnight!”
“Yes, sir,” the woman leading the cruise nodded, eyes of warm reverence gazing up at Pellius, “We will move as quickly as this old ship is able, sir!”
“Is everything alright?” one of the rowers asked worriedly.
“Yes,” Pellius frowned, though his voice was tempered with concern, “But when we get there, you are best to get to the safety of your homes as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” the man stammered, “Y-yes, sir.”
As the men rowed the oars with new vigour, the immense spectacle that was the Adarium came into view. The large structure of colossal size stretched far along the horizon, a grand three levelled building towering over the surrounding yards of garden and lush greenery. Littered along the expanse were a dozen stone structures of a smaller size, separate barracks and quarters, much like a town of its own. As the barge churned through the water, and the grand pier grew closer, Willow exhaled a quiet and calming breath. Though she was the quickest thinker on her feet, their plan could not work with her at the helm. The Knights of Alerion was a venerable brotherhood of knights dedicated to Mitra’s service. A predominantly male order, though certain exceptions were made in cases of sternly built and strong willed females. Garvana could fit the exception seamlessly, but a woman of Willow’s size and stature in the ranks of the knights was unheard of and truly unbelievable. More commonly, the women served the order in other ways. Chambermaids, healers and personal attendants. They had chosen to impersonate the Knights of Alerion for two very specific reasons. Firstly, the order was led by no less august a personage than the King himself. Markadian V called the Brave, was the highest ranking member of the Knights of the Alerion. His dedication was one of the reasons the order was so highly respected and recognized throughout Talingarde. Very few men or women, noble or commoner, would dare question the word of a Knight of Alerion. Secondly, the order was something Willow was intimately familiar with. She knew exactly how they wore each layer of their armour, she knew how they addressed one another, she knew the chain of command. She advised the Forsaken in as much detail as she could remember, guiding their arcane disguises to perfection. What she could not aid them with, was how to respond to prying questions. For in her station as a lowly attendant, her place was to be seen and not heard.
Their plan had been simple. They needed only a way into the palace, far enough to allow them to find the sanctum and await the kings arrival. As the barge pulled into the pier, a small man dressed in royal livery made his way down the winding path towards them. As Pellius quickly thanked the woman running the vessel, he hurriedly waved down the man who shuffled his pace to greet them.
“Good evening, sir,” the servant began, “How may-
“There is no time for pleasantries,” Pellius interrupted, “It is of vital importance that we enter the Adarium at once. Who is left in charge here?”
“My lord,” the servant stammered, “This is highly unusual-
“We have sighted the great beast Chargammon the Black headed this way!” Pellius growled in impatience, “We have no time to waste! We must see to the safety of the princess!”
At the mention of the fearsome horrors name, the blood drained from the man’s face. With skin a sickly pale green, he trembled upon his response.
“Now man!” Pellius snapped, “There is no time!”
“Y-yes, sir!” he stuttered.
In terrified panic, he turned on his heel and ran back up the winding paths towards the castle. The Forsaken followed in the fastest run they could muster, closely on the heels of the servant. As the neared the entrance, they saw a set of broad marble stairs, flanked on each side by rows of columns supporting a great stone roof. Every inch of stone covered by carvings showing both the glory of Mitra and the great military victories of Markadian I called the Victor. Blocking entry to the grand structure, were two bronze doors that stood more than twelve feet high. On either side of the glistening entrance, were two everburning torches ensconced upon the walls, burning a vivid and radiant royal blue.
“In there,” the servant rushed, “Find the captain of the guard! I-I will go and muster the other guards, they must be warned!”
With no further words, he raced around the side of the entryway, scuttling as fast as his legs would take him along the garden lined path. The Forsaken looked to one another, taking a final breath as they approached the bronze doors. Willow caught Pellius’ eye as his hand reached for the door, with a look of mutual understanding, she nodded. As his firm hand touched the bronze, it swung open gently, so perfectly balanced as to not make a whisper of sound as it opened. With a stride of fierce authority, Pellius stepped over the threshold and entered the Adarium, speaking the words that the Baroness Vanya had instructed.
“Mitra, my heart is thine,” he said quietly.
As the rest of them followed suit, the immense and immaculate front hall opened out before them, appointed in regal marble and beautiful bronze fixtures. In times of joy and revelry, it could have held a great number of guests and entertainers, though now it was silent and empty. To the sides of the chamber were two open doors that led into large cloak rooms clearly meant to be staffed by a pair of servants. In the time of crisis and royal absence, they too were empty and vacant. As the Forsaken stalked through the grand entrance, they saw two elegant spiral staircases flanking an ornate archway that led into the room beyond. From where they stood, they could see the marvel of a myriad of blue lights dancing from a fountain in the centre of the far chamber. Though Willow could not tell its cause until she grew closer, she smiled as she watched submerged glowing stones radiating subtle shades of pale light that rippled through the flowing water, casting rays of illuminated glow that played upon the sapphire marble walls. As they stepped into the ethereal chamber, they saw four knights standing in vigil. Veteran warriors, marred by the scars of battle and experience, silent and stoic in their guard. As Pellius and Garvana walked through, the oldest of the knights struck his hand to his forehead in salute. Willow was pleased to see Pellius salute him in return, following through with the clenched fist across his chest in Alerion greeting.
“I am Sir Pellius,” he inclined his head, “But I have no time for delay, we must speak to the captain of the guard at once. We have most dire news.”
“What is it, knight?” the guard asked, “It is a late hour to awaken the captain.”
“Chargammon the Black is headed this way,” Pellius said urgently, “We sighted him over the western coast, he will be here before long. We must hurry!”
Again, the colour drained from the man’s face, a true terror widening his eyes.
“Of course,” the knight nodded, “But, I need the password before I can escort you through.”
Suddenly, Willow felt a worry drift through her mind. They had but one password, and it was not meant for use to pass anything but the protections barring entry to those not pledged to the Mitran faith. For a moment, Pellius hesitated. It was enough to see the knight rest his hand of the pommel of his large sword, brow slowly raising in suspicion. With nothing to lose, Willow bowed herself low and subtly drew her daggers from their sheathes.
“Mitra, my heart is thine,” she guessed, eyes downcast, preparing to pounce.
It was made instantly apparent that she had guessed wrong, as the knights drew their swords in unison. Having not noticed Willow’s preparation, she launched herself to the side of him, striking out in vicious fury. She carved her blades through the seams of his armour, tearing through flesh as she withdrew them, only to plunge them in once again. As he carved his sword towards her, Willow leaped backward, but was not quick enough to evade his keen blade. It tore though the white fabric of her garb, hacking against the black leather beneath. As its impact knocked the wind from her chest, she growled her irritation and lunged forward to strike back. The craning swing of Pellius’ blow slashed against the armour, his vicious weapon seeking blood from its prey. Garvana charged towards one of the other knights, her mace imbued with dark tendrils of wrath, the savage spikes dripping with malice. Traya backed up through the archway, tracing arcane patterns through the air, before a flaming torrent of fire erupted from her fingertips. It expelled outwards, encompassing the sorcerous and the two knights who were unfortunate enough to be within its reach. The cries of pain echoed through the chamber, as the smell of burnt flesh wafted from the scene. As her words rushed another incantation, she stepped back once again into the archway.
“The witch!” bellowed one of the knights, “She is retreating!”
Suddenly, the veteran knight that was carving his blade towards Willow changed his course. He swiftly turned his back to her, before attempting to charge towards Traya. Willow saw her opportunity, thrusting her blade deeply into his back. As he growled in pain, he wrenched himself forward, taking Willow’s blade embedded within him. Traya had no where to run, shielding her face with her arm as his mighty sword hacked deeply through the skin. Willow pounced forward, feeling a feral grin light her lips as she leaped into the air, striking her buried blade with her boot, propelling it through his ribcage to strike at his heart. As he dropped, she ripped the blade free, diving under the swing of another. While Garvana matched the knight blow for blow, Willow rolled to the side to avoid the carnage. A swift and subtle whistle caught her attention, as she saw Pellius rounding on another. She sprinted towards him, leaping over the fountain as she watched his rapturous and sinister assault. He lunged towards the knight, a single had spread out as it latched onto his challengers face. As Willow swiftly slipped in behind the man, she marveled at the paralysis that overtook his frame. Pellius held him fiercely, lip curled in loathing, dark and minacious arcana seething from his hand. With slick and deft movements, Willow slid her blade around and tore it through the rigid mans throat. As Pellius dropped him from his grasp, his eyes met Willow’s. Alight with cruel and merciless thrill, she grinned towards him before prowling back into the fray.
The last of the guards fell in a blaze of flame, stumbling forward into the glorious fountain, showering the marble floor with hissing waves of churning water. When the sound ceased, and the chamber fell silent, they looked to one another.
“What shall we do with them?” Traya asked, looking to Willow.
“Do we wish to continue with our disguises?” she replied in question.
“They at least allow us to get close,” Garvana offered.
“Then we hide them in the closets of the cloakroom,” Willow shrugged, “But we cannot leave the blood painted along the floor for anyone to find.”
“I shall see to the mess,” Garvana nodded.
Willow grabbed the closest guard by the boot, heaving all her might against his heavy weight, with little progress.
“Give me a hand?” Willow chuckled, looking to Traya.
Between the two of them, they managed to slowly drag one of the knights into the cloak room, shutting the body away from prying eyes. As they turned to return to fountain, Willow frowned at the streaking stains of vivid blood leading to the wooden closet.
“I’ll deal with this,” Traya insisted, “You see to the others.”
Willow smirked as she inclined her head, slow steps taking her back to the chamber. As she stepped into the illuminated room, she saw Garvana on her knees, casting curious spells that wiped the scarlet from the marble.
“If you see yourself above cleaning,” Pellius rasped harshly, lifting the limp body easily over his shoulder, as a fierce command lashed in his tone, “Make yourself useful, scout the other chambers.”
At his snapping order, Willow felt her brow rise of its own accord. For a moment, her stubbornness kept her feet unmoving. As his eyes widened in intensifying hostility, he arched his brow, as if daring her to defy him further. With the corner of her lip lifting in mischief, she walked on silent steps towards the other archways. The first chamber was a side gallery, no doubt intended to entertain guests, though now the furniture was boxed and draped in linen. Though empty and bare, they remained impressive with beautiful illustrations carved in Ansgarian marble depicting the faith, wealth and power of the people of Talingarde.
“Should we bar the front doors?” Traya asked, looking back towards the impressive bronze slabs, “The greeter said he would rally the other soldiers. Is it not best that we prevent them from attacking us from behind?”
“Indeed,” Pellius nodded, “That is a wise precaution.”
Between the strength of Pellius and Garvana, they hefted the lone bronze bar that lay beside the opening, dropping it firmly into the craning hooks upon the doors. With a twisted smile, Traya waited for them to move away, contorting her fingers in union with her sparking incantation. Suddenly, rippling arcs of lightening flew from her fingers, piercing into the solid metal. As the arcs blazed a blinding white, the shatters of arcana ignited the bronze base. Slowly, the browned metal melted, seeping into the cracks and crevices of the ornate doors, secreting in between the seals of the frame. Rasping words formed tendrils of bright white around her fingertips, before shards of ice and winds of cold blew towards the door. In less than a few breaths, the bronze had been burnt, melted and set.
“Impressive,” Willow smirked.
Traya simply smiled, inclining her head in turn.

As they continued their exploration, Willow moved through the chamber towards another archway. When she peered through the wide opening, she saw an opulent shrine room, dedicated to the Markadian line. A statue of the Victor took center stage, but on the side walls, there were images of each king that had reigned since. Markadian II called the Learned, depicted as a wise man with arms filled with scrolls. Markadian IV called the Zealous, carved in picture of a man deeply bowed in prayer. Markadian V called the Brave, standing tall with his mighty sword by his side. The most curious of it all, was a truly rare and unseen image of the troubled king, Markadian III called the Mad. Though Willow had heard the stories, even living her entire life in the city of Matharyn she had never seen an image depicted of him. It was said that the king had been taken with insanity, by the hands of the dark servants of Asmodeus. They had corrupted him, tainted his mind and his thoughts, until one day he climbed the highest spire of the Adarium and fell to his death. It was his demise that sparked the ire of the Mitran people, guided by the royalty and church, for the Zealous to begin the purges of the Asmodean faith. Willow had always found the story quite perfect – too perfect. Though the faith of the Lord of the Nine had ever been hidden and shrouded in Talingarde, it had coexisted along side an array of other religions before the fall of the mad king. What a perfect excuse his madness was, for the faithful of Mitra to eliminate their enemy and turn the people of the land against Him.
“Daria Aeterna – Donec Omnia Lux,” Willow read aloud, the words carved prominently beneath the Victor’s statue.
“What did you say?” Garvana frowned, stepping beside her.
“On the wall,” Willow pointed, “It is some kind of celestial, though I do not recognise it.”
Garvana rasped her enchanted words, her eyes glowing an eery and ethereal blue.
“Darius Eternal,” she translated, “Until All is Light.”
Willow smiled as she turned from the pious and reverent chamber.
“They have right to revere the light and fear the dark,” she whispered, “For tonight’s lightless sky will bring with it the horror greater than any nightmare they could imagine…”

[minderp]

Spoiler: Chapter 40 - In Darkness They Come - Part 2

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As they moved further into the grand palace that was the Adarium, they opened the ornate chamber doors to reveal a long and opulent hallway, lined with doors and archways, each flanked and adorned with countless portraits of members of the House of Darius through the years. They passed paintings of lesser cousins and distant relatives they recognised; Sir Valin Darian of Farholde, Duke Martin of Daveryn and Bronwyn of Balentyne. As they moved through the hall, Willow silently crept ahead and listened intently beyond each door, quietly scouting each room before they passed. They passed a portrait of the beautiful Princess Bellinda, fair of skin and fair of hair, with eyes of fresh eagerness and innocence. Nearing the end of the hallway, there were portraits of the Victor, Markadian II, Markadian IV and the current serving king. Looking over the portraits, Willow was struck with an odd thought. Conspicuously absent from the long line of lineage, was even a single portrait of the late Queen Aria. Willow knew that she had died in childbirth with the Princess Bellinda, yet she would have thought they would revere the queen with at least as little as a portrait upon the wall. They reached the far end, their path blocked by two shimmering steel doors, appointed with a large crest of the Mitran sunburst beneath a golden crown. By the sultry script of Baroness Vanya, they knew beyond lay the kings quarters. To the left of the doors was an archway to a chamber that contained a single elaborate stairwell that led up into the higher levels of the castle. To the right, was another wooden door, much the same as the others that lined the hallway. With quiet steps, Willow approached and listened. From the other side she heard the soft shuffle of fabric, though she could not tell if it was the sway of fabric dress or the ruffle of sheets. Placing a silencing finger to her lips, she indicated to the others, looking to Pellius in question. With a loud and commanding stride, he moved to the wooden door, rapping his knuckle against it firmly.
“Just a minute,” grouched an aged voice from the chamber.
With the sound of rustling sheets followed by quiet hurried steps, the door opened to reveal a man of at least six decades, dressed in a fine night gown wrapped tightly around his waist.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked, shrewd eyes looking them over.
As a spark of recognition surfaced, Willow bowed low formally.
“Grand Sage Thatch,” she greeted respectfully.
The others quickly followed suit.
“What is it?” he sighed, “The hour is late.”
“We must find the captain of the guard, my lord,” Pellius said sternly, “We have dire news that cannot wait.”
“What is so dire that it cannot wait until morning?” he frowned.
“We have brought word that Chargammon the Black is headed this way,” Pellius said ominously.
The aged man’s brow rose, as his piercing gaze met Pellius’. For a moment, he simply stared towards him.
“We must see to the princess’ safety, and yours of course, my lord!” Pellius added, though the words were rushed and stammered.
As the aged man’s brows rose, Willow swiftly intervened.
“We are flustered, my lord,” she pressed, “The black wyrm has turned his gaze upon us, such a day none of us thought we would see! We cannot delay any longer!”
Though he seemed to accept her answer, his hard eyes looked down upon her.
“Does your attendant always speak out of turn?” he asked Pellius harshly.
“She is apparently yet to learn her place,” Pellius scowled.
“What does it matter right now?” Garvana stressed, “We must continue to the captain, urgently!”
“If it is true,” Thatch frowned, “Then why did the knights not escort you directly to the captain?”
As the seconds stretched and Pellius remained silent, Willow felt herself holding her breath.
“They ran!” Garvana rushed, “They ran to muster the other guards!”
Thatch’s eyes narrowed, as suspicion and distrust contorted his brow. With deft movements he stepped from the doorway and slammed his door shut in their faces.
“Damn it!” Traya growled, reaching out to grab hold of Willow and Garvana’s shoulders. As Willow recognized the incantation she rasped, she reached out and grabbed hold of Pellius’ arm. In the blink of an eye they were thrown through the vortex of ethereal grace and stepped out into the bedchamber, directly behind the fleeing wizard. They wasted no time to launch into action, ripping free their weapons and carving out into the tired flesh. As his blood showered the stone, his eyes flew wide in true fear. Upon his last breath, he spluttered an incantation that vanished him from sight, leaving only the painted scarlet where he stood.
While Traya listened for any further disturbance by the door way, the others riffled through the wizards belongings for anything that may have aided them. Amongst other curiosities, Willow found his neatly scripted journal. Though most of the pages were filled with ramblings of a noble courtier, it was the last few entries that she found the most peculiar.
“Why am I here?” Willow read aloud, “The princess needs no instruction with magic! Such power! How could a nineteen year old girl wield such might?”
“Curious,” Garvana frowned, “What do you suppose she is?”
“Apparently more than a simple brat,” Willow scoffed.
“Enough of this!” Pellius snarled suddenly, “Enough of this charade!”
With a curling lip he dispersed his saintly disguise, revealing the ebony armour beneath. His eyes flashed a vicious crimson as he stormed from the chamber towards the steel doors of the kings chamber. With quick steps, Willow followed his leave, sighing a frustrated breath.
“Pellius,” she soothed, reaching out to gently grab hold of his chin, forcing his sight to her own, “You must control your anger. We are barely in the doorway.”
“This facade is foolish!” he growled, “We are running out of time.”
“This facade has allowed us in arms reach of our enemies,” Willow countered, arching her brow, “Keep your temper in check, there is much we must yet do. We must proceed with caution.”
Though her words simmered the raging crimson that blazed through his eyes, his expression contorted with disdain.
“Then you may proceed,” he rasped snidely, mockingly bowing to her.
She simply rolled her eyes as she turned to the steel mass, looking over the intricately designed lock and handle.
“Are they always like this?” Traya chuckled, leaning towards Garvana.
Garvana heaved a deep sigh, “Always.”
When Willow was sure there were no traps or concealed tricks, she pulled free her tools and set about unlocking the impressive fortification. Though it took her longer than she would have admitted, she was finally successful in disabling the lock, carefully unlatching the large door. Stepping into the chamber, they found the entry to the king’s private quarters, flanked by two small guard chambers. By the appearance of the entry, one would have called the king a humble man. Even though now in times of war the guard rooms were empty of men, they appeared simple and plain, unassuming chambers with simple bunks and modest decorations. There was only a single thing that signified the grandness of the chambers beyond; the draping brocade curtain of vivid blue, embellished with the same crest as the door – the emblem of House Darius. On slow and cautious feet, Willow approached the shining blue and pulled the fabric aside. What opened out before them, was truly the opulent quarters of the King of Talingarde. The bedchamber itself was almost larger than the entire top floor of the Monteguard Manor. To the left of the chamber, sheltered behind an ornate and intricate archway, was a bronze bath large enough to fit four people. To the right was a personal library, filled with only a small portion of tomes, far less than it was fit to accommodate. In the centre of the vast chamber was an enormous four poster bed made from the rarest purpleheart wood. Along the walls stood a matching desk and immense wardrobe, and a full length mirror sized for a giant. Though the rooms within the king’s quarters were opulent, they were vastly empty. The shelves lined with no trinkets, the wardrobes emptied of finery, the drawers holding no jewels nor gold. It was clear that most of the king’s possessions were either with him on campaign or in storage.
The chamber was not completely empty of curiosity. On the eastern wall, stood an immense door carved from shimmering blue metal, with a dire warning written in runic words.
“He that violates this shrine,” Willow whispered aloud, “Shall gain nothing but ashes, nothing but death.”
“Ominous,” Traya scoffed.
“There are runes here,” Willow said quietly, eyes trailing along the seams of the door, “Garvana, can you see what they are?”
With a whispered incantation and eyes that glowed, Garvana’s lip trembled as she back away from the door.
“It is a powerful ward,” she breathed, “If it is triggered, it will let lose a beam that will disintegrate your soul. It is foul magic, that will burn and tear your skin apart as shards of flesh until nothing is left but ash…”
Though a fear trickled through her mind, dancing with a trace of self doubt, Willow would not stop it from allowing her entry. Slowly, she grew closer to the door, keen eyes searching the runes for the sketched pattern she was looking for.
“Do not touch it!” Garvana scalded, stepping further out of the arcana’s reach, “Are you mad?”
“This could be the sanctum,” Willow said distractedly, fixated on the runes, “We must search every room…”
Though Pellius stood by her side, Traya and Garvana disappeared behind the stone wall of the bathing chamber. With eager wonder and a subtle certainty guiding her fingers, Willow reached out tenderly to mar the chosen symbol. As her finger wiped the black ink from the stone, she closed her eyes and awaited her fate. When no ray of blazing malice devoured her soul, and no burning seared her flesh, she slowly unclenched her eyes. With a timid hand, she reached out and lay her fingers upon the steel handle. Carefully, she turned the arched handle and pushed open the door. With a deep and heavy sigh of relief, she straightened her back and turned to Pellius with a mischievous grin. Garvana and Traya appeared from their hiding, as Pellius looked to them with his brow arched high.
"Ye, of little faith,” he derided.
With the proud gleam in her eye, Willow entered the small chamber to find a humble shrine room. Gleaming marble coated the walls, but little more than a statue and prayer mat decorated the room. Each step that she took was careful and cautious, approaching the shrine with eyes peeled for any loose stones or pressure plates. The marble statue was an intricate depiction of the three faces of Mitra. The Shining Lord wearing a carved crown, The Beneficent Sun lit by stone rays of light and The Fire Undying encompassed in chiseled flame. It was caution that kept her curious hands by her side. She searched the shrine by sight, narrowing her eyes upon a slender crease in the side of the altar. Just as the door, small detailed runes ran along the side of the seam.
“Garvana,” Willow beckoned quietly, “Can you see this one?”
Again, her eyes flamed in blue shimmer, widening upon revelation.
“It is far more sinister,” Garvana shivered, “It is a ward that will unleash a malicious necromantic enchantment that drains all fluid from the body. It will continue to siphon the life from a person until the skin withers and cracks, before it finally succumbs and crumbles to dust…”
“Nothing but ashes, nothing but death…” Willow recited in a whisper.
“You cannot touch it,” Garvana insisted harshly, “Would you risk something like that?”
“Someone must,” Willow scoffed in reply, “The king has gone to vast means to secure what is inside. No one cares for gold this much. It must be something of invaluable nature.”
“This is foolish!” Garvana growled, “You will get us killed, and you do not even know what for!”
“I am not asking you to risk yourself,” Willow replied bitterly, “If you feel the need, you may await outside.”
With pursed lips, Garvana strode from the chamber. While Traya remained out of sight, Pellius looked to Willow.
“There is no point in both of us risking ourselves,” he said sternly.
“Of course,” Willow replied, though her brow arched of it own accord.
His gaze held a confidence in her skill, though it was in contrast to his slowed steps that took him out of harms way. As he reached the chambers door, he looked back towards her and nodded firmly. With rolling eyes, Willow returned to the side of the shrine, searching the runes once more. It was by far the most complex design she had ever seen. Curved runes that looked intimately similar, lined in perfect rows of staggered symbols, written in a language she could not comprehend. She had only her prior knowledge of arcane script to aid her, to draw familiarities from the ancient and mesmeric font. With less surety than before, she reached a trembling finger towards the symbols. She held her pointless breath in ritual to steady her hand, before wiping the black ink from the altar. After a few moments, she slowly released the breath she had held, exhaling her alleviation. With deft fingers, she unsealed the slick board and pulled free the contents of the shrine’s secrets. What she held in her hands forced a true smile to light upon her face. The Liber Darian; the Mitran holy text that included a complete family history of the House of Darius. As Willow slowly flicked through the parchment sheets, her eyes flew wide in rapid and insatiable curiosity. Meandering steps returned her to the doorway, where she pushed the door open absentmindedly, her sight enraptured by the tome.
“It is done?” Garvana frowned.
“No,” Willow satirized, though she did not look up, “I am a withered husk.”
“Willow,” Garvana sighed.
Willow smirked, flicking to the following page. As her eyes traced the words listed upon the parchment, her mouth fell ajar.
“Princess Bellinda…” Willow stammered, looking up towards the others, “Is the daughter of Antharia Regina.”
At her words, Garvana and Traya mirrored her response. Though Pellius, not born of Talingarde, frowned in only slight recognition.
“I have heard that name,” he mused, “But I am uncertain as to where…”
“The fabled silver elder wyrm of the North,” Willow said warily, turning the tome for him to read himself, “She is Queen Aria. Well, she is the myth of Queen Aria.”
“The princess is a dragon?” Traya stumbled, shaking her head.
“So it seems,” Willow nodded, turning the book back towards herself.
“Perhaps Chargammon’s meal will be more than he bargained for,” Pellius commented darkly.
“Perhaps…” Willow said quietly, before her eyes strained once more, “Oh, I cannot believe I did not see this coming.”
“See what?” he asked cautiously.
“What Thorn’s plan was,” Willow laughed, “We could add someone to the lineage of House Darius and thus create a missing scion who could assume the throne without a crisis of succession. This must be what he is planning.”
“It is clever,” Pellius replied.
“Terribly clever,” she frowned, flicking further through the pages.
“How can we use it to aid us?” Garvana asked, turning to Pellius.
“Currently we have little use for it,” he frowned, “We must play out our part and follow Dessiter’s advice…”
Slowly, Willow turned over the page to find a curious passage written by the Victor himself.
“King Jaraad, last ruler of House Barca,” she read aloud, “Appealed to his finest seers in his last days to know the future. All in one accord, they predicted disaster in the upcoming battle. In desperation, he called out to the darkness and the darkness sent him a mighty gift – the runeblade Hellbrand. Though Hellbrand reaped a great toll in sacred blood it was not enough to spare Jaraad from his destiny. He died and Hellbrand was captured. Though it could not be destroyed, it was broken in three. The blade was stored in Valtaerna, the pommel was given to the great dragon Eiramanthus to hide deep in his vaults, and the hilt was bricked up into the Throne of Talingarde so that it would never be unguarded. May it never again see the light of day…”
“Where is the throne?” Pellius rasped, a fearsome hunger deepening his voice.
Willow felt the grin lifting her lips.
“Here,” she answered softly, a sultry delve to her tone, “Years ago the king moved it from the old palace. It resides here in the great dome.”
“Good,” he growled savagely, “We will seek it once our business is concluded.”
Willow’s brow arched high, “It is not long until midnight. We cannot remain here after Chargammon attacks, there will be nothing left to search. We must retrieve Hellbrand and make haste for the sanctum.”
“We do not even know where it is!” Pellius scoffed, “How can we make haste?”
“I assume it is down there,” Willow chuckled, pointing to the corner of the chamber towards a well concealed panel in the stone work, slipping the great tome within her pack safely.
Slowly, his eyes traced the seams of the opening, a building eagerness erupting within his eyes. Willow stepped beside him, a wicked grin upon her lips.
“Let us go,” she whispered sinfully, “The reforged blade awaits…”

Returning to the richly appointed entry chamber of the Adarium, they found the two spiral staircases that led towards the Great Dome. With hands of the hilts of their weapons, they slowly climbed the ornate marble steps, entering the grand open chamber divided by a ten foot high partition. The great dome rose more than eighty feet, lavishly adorned with stained glass windows that honoured the revered Darius and Mitra. It was more akin to a cathedral than a gathering place for royalty and their courtiers. In brighter days, the opulent hall would have been filled with revelry and laughter, the elite of Talingarde meeting to praise and pay homage to their royal family. But now, in the time of war and worry, there were no courtiers or social functions. Instead, the chamber was vacant and silent. Although, as they rounded the grand marble barrier, they found the hall was not nearly as empty as they had thought.
“I’ve waited for you,” boomed a resonating voice of ire, “My brother said your road of woe and wickedness would lead you here…”
Sitting in wait upon the king’s throne, was a glorious man that blazed in a column of white and righteous fire. The flames burned a divine and magnificent glow of blinding light, encompassing a regal winged man dressed in blessed and holy glistening armour. Though much of his features were morphed by the swaying flame, he wore a look of pure ire that fell heavy on his blazing brow. Beside him, were the familiar figures of Maul and Clarion, the angels that had confronted the Forsaken within Daveryn, primed for revenge of Ara Mathra’s unanswered banishment.
“My name is Ara Zandra. You banished my brother from the world he sacrificed so much for. Your journey ends here upon the throne you would steal. Righteous vengeance is mine.”
With his words rebounding throughout the large chamber, the three magnificent angels launched into battle. Ara Zandra leapt towards the towering ceiling, glorious white wings of sheer fire beating rapidly as they stretched almost fifteen feet wide. Suddenly, he drew in the blazing flame that surrounded him, casting it outward with a blinding flash of white light that erupted in searing flames throughout the entire chamber. Willow cried out in pain as the burning light seared her eyes, clasping her hand across her sight as she continued her charge forward. When the burning simmered, she blinked her watering eyes and focused them upon the trumpet wielding archon. It was he that had undone their work, the last time they had met. Every blow the Forsaken had dealt to his more brash counterpart, he had healed the wounds and renewed the vigour and strength. Would he sacrifice himself to heal them once more? Or would he waste his time, healing himself as she pushed upon him with relentless fury? Calling aloud the command word she had been taught, the arcane boots she wore lifted her feet from the ground. Though she had never truly flown before, she found the drifting sway a simple matter of balance. Fortunately, balance was something she had in abundance. She pushed upward, levitating higher and more confidently, with her blades drawn and an eager grin upon her face. As she moved, she felt the dastardly venom fulminate and fill the chamber with dripping malice. Pellius seethed in profane frenzy, his eyes alight with bile and hunger, his teeth showing in a feral and savage grin. This fight, belonged to him. As Maul charged towards him, a righteous gleam in his eye, Pellius did not try to block or parry the attack. He simply braced his thick and muscled legs, taking the onslaught in his stride. As the flaming sword carved through metal and flesh, a sudden vibration racked the Great Dome. An enchantment, a dire and baneful charm, a destructive force that sought to devour undead flesh. It wrapped its bitter tendrils around Pellius’ waist, bleeding from the cuts and crevices that the blade had travelled. For a moment, Willow’s heart seized in her chest. The pale complexion of Pellius’ face grew whiter, a sickly green tinge overtaking his skin. But the ire that urged him ever forward, was simply too strong to be overwhelmed. With a furious cry of savage wrath that sparked alight the amorous and sinful delight within Willow, he surged his hatred and repelled the vicious enchantment. When he launched his assault, it was one of no grace nor finesse; pure and unadulterated choler. He hacked his blade with a barbaric and merciless onslaught, slashing with sheer ferocity, devastating blows that sheared bone from limb. As his final swing cleaved towards the angel, he cried out an inhuman gust of wrath. The shower of crimson gore sprayed the white marble in a splash of fatal decoration. The angel wailed his anguish through a blood filled mouth, before he fell to his knees at Pellius’ feet, looking up with scornful and fear-laden eyes. Slowly, as Willow raced towards Clarion, the image of his counterpart drifted from sight. With a terrifying promise, Pellius looked towards Ara Zandra.
“In the name of the undying and eternal Lord of the Nine,” he seethed viciously, “I smite thee! I shall take thine head from thy shoulders! I shall claim it for Asmodeus!”
While his sinister and malign words hung in wicked oath, the blazing angel snarled his untempered anger. With slow and deliberate movements, Pellius withdrew a potion from his belt and swiftly downed its contents. Slowly, his feet lifted from the ground, as his immense and intimidating presence rose into the air.
Willow soared towards Clarion, his angelic trumpet sounding loudly as she approached. With grace and elegance, she moved through the air with lithe agility, carving her blades in fierce attack. She knew she could not complete with Pellius’ prowess, but she needed only to take down the one being that could heal the others. As Ara Zandra turned his eye upon her, Clarion morphed his saintly trumpet into a mighty blade of flame.
“I have this,” Clarion called aloud, his deep bellowing voice stern and sure, “You deal with the fiend.”
Though her blades were swift and precise, his armour was too thick to penetrate. Without the distraction of another, she could not move quick enough to pierce the delicate points of his weakness. His mighty blade cleaved towards her, searing the flesh as it tore shreds from her skin. Though the burning pain throbbed in agony, she gritted her teeth and launched towards him again. It was arduous and taxing, a dire dance through the vast space among stain glass windows of the Great Dome. Under the watching gazes of glass depictions of Mitra and Darius, she endured the angels blazing attacks, leaping forward as she struck out towards him. With a swift glance to the other end of the chamber, Willow saw Garvana huddled by the wall, hands clamped over her eyes in suffering. Traya stood protectively by her side, launching wisping arcana towards the fray, rasping feral words of incantation. As her sight caught Pellius, she felt his enraptured attention inspire her onward. He moved through the air, venomous hatred contorting his face. Suddenly, an explosion of white light erupted from the angel, the same as before, but with far more potency. Willow was shielded from it by the swing of Clarion’s blade, but Pellius had no such protection. It seared his eyes, the round wells weeping with white secretion, his sight taken from him in blazing torture. Though blinded and burnt, he was not deterred. It was as if sheer abhorrence urged him forward, guiding his vicious blade. For a moment, even Clarion looked on in uncertainty. It was a single mistake, that he would swiftly come to regret. Willow pounced on his moment of distraction, darting forward with her blade, plunging its ruby tip through the archons exposed neck. As she tore it free, she watched the colour seep from his face, gushing from the puncture in his throat. Slowly, the life faded from his eyes, as his image drifted from sight.
Pellius snarled a cruel and savage cry, brandishing his weapon with utter and consuming malice. While Ara Zandra launched an arc of flame that tore a long line between Pellius, Garvana and Traya, Pellius simply allowed the scalding flame to hit him, his ears keen to follow the sound of the celestial chanting. While the angel’s back was turned, Willow saw her chance. She pushed through the air at frightening speed, her eyes locked on the joint of the wing that arched from his back. Before he had a chance to move, she thrust her blade deeply into the solid flesh, ripping it free in desperate hope to sever the rasping wing. As he grunted in pain and clenched his teeth, he turned his wrathful gaze upon her. When he raised his longsword that blazed with righteous and billowing flames; there was no where for her to hide. Though she plunged herself downward, the blade lanced through her leather armour, tearing deeply through the flesh beneath. When the second hit came, she felt the bloodless wounds rip open under the sheer strength of his swing. He attacked with enough might to throw her backward through the air, grasping desperately to the last threads of undeath. The tortuous cry that expelled from her mouth was overshadowed by the strenuous grunt of exertion that Ara Zandra bellowed. It was loud enough to rattle the glass windows, and loud enough to allow Pellius precise realization of his location. A frightening sound echoed throughout the chamber. A call filled with seething rage and bitter wretched glee. It was Pellius, as his sword thrust towards its kill. With more power than she had seen him muster, he cleaved his blade in untold wrath. Three times he slashed his sword, relinquishing his control completely to the feral depths of frenzied rage. Three times, he carved his ire through the sacred flesh of the blessed angelic being. Ara Zandra could not withstand the might of such an onslaught. As a mournful cry fell from his lips, his body erupted in an inferno of brilliant white. Once more, the forces of good had attempted to stop the Forsaken. Once more, the beings had been cast back to whence they came.
Though her fragile frame trembled in enervation, her mind and heart were alight in thundering pride. She was in awe as she looked to Pellius. As his vicious rage simmered to a gentle flame that shone from his eyes, she slowly guided herself through the air towards him. His vision returned unhurried, as he slowly regained his composure and leashed his furious temper. Cruel and callous eyes looked Willow over, as hers glowed with lustful avidity. When she spoke, her voice strained against the crushing weight of agony that convulsed her limbs.
“You were brilliant,” she rasped at a whisper, guiding herself closer towards him, looking up into his gaze merely inches from hers, “I have never seen such might…”
He stared deeply into her eyes, the seething rage dancing across his sight, as he battled to keep it contained. She was entranced, captivated by the wild chaos that warred within him. A gentle hand lifted to slip around his neck, forcing Willow to wince as the movement ripped tender skin along the torn flesh of her torso. His brow rose in dark amusement, as the corner of his lip lifted in a smirk.
“You were brilliant,” he replied in satire, “I have never seen you take such a beating…”
Though the feathered chuckle strained the cuts along her chest, she grinned a sinful smile. With a soft touch, Pellius reached both of his hands out, surging a curious arcana as he pressed firmly against her chest. It was a dark and morbid feeling that drifted through her still veins. A menacing sway of bitter and vile magic, that somehow healed the dead and white flesh upon her bones. When the wounds had closed, and the skin smoothed once more, she looked to him under a hooded gaze. She traced her fingers along his chin, but before the lustful words left her lips, Garvana’s voice pierced her enraptured trance.
“Is this really the time or the place?” she scoffed.
Willow laughed, turning her face towards the woman.
“Not at all,” she grinned.
With slow guided movements, the pair returned to the marble floor of the bloodstained chamber. The four of them approached the grand dais that housed the immense throne. Ara Zandra had been correct in one thing. This, was the throne that they would take from the hands of the Mitran faithful. This was the throne they would hand to their Infernal Lord. Before they had a chance to speak, Traya began a rasping incantation. She transformed herself into a creature of earth, burrowing herself beneath the stone chair. With a look of perplexed confusion, Willow awaited her return. Suddenly, the rippling eruption of dirt resurfaced. In its formed hands, was a cruel shaped hilt of the darkest ebony. It was the final piece of Hellbrand. In offering, the elemental held out the hilt to Pellius, its curious form bowing towards him. His greedy hands snatched the piece, eagerly striking it against the base of the blade. With a gust of tainted fury, pulsing in seething infernal grace, the weapon reforged itself. A grin slithered across Pellius’ chin, the fearsome blade clasped tightly within his hands. Lightening suddenly rippled in flash through the night sky, a bellowing clap of thunder trembling the fortified walls of the Adarium. Under the violent shaking of the stone, the glass murals above cracked in rippling fractures. As the skies thundered in applause, Pellius lifted the weapon high overhead. He laughed, a nocuous and malevolent glee; the sound of a twisted and heinous fiend. That night, the moonless sky offered no light to the fair people of Talingarde. For the true servants of darkness were here, and they were primed to change the fate of the land forever…

[Braininthejar2]

Eyes locked with the maul-bearing golden being, she stepped off the edge and dropped gracefully to the ground below. In a slender waft of dirt, she slowly lifted from her crouch,

[minderp]

Eyes locked with the maul-bearing golden being, she stepped off the edge and dropped gracefully to the ground below. In a slender waft of dirt, she slowly lifted from her crouch,

Haha! Perfect!

[Braininthejar2]

Yes, not preparing for flying opponents does seem to be a theme. Some sort of flight would have helped you a lot in the lagoon too.

Also, we're back to Willow being crazy.

I'm dissapointed by the red consort not appearing in the story - she was initially sold as the strongest physical fighter of the three, and then she died and we didn't even get to see how she really looked like, beyond the murals depicting her.

I assume the assassin in the jail was a new player that never really caught up?

Also, did Pellius use three different weapons (hammer, axe, sword) through the adventure, or did I misread something?

What happened to the sealed lich skull? You don't mention taking it, and I don't think you'd let your minions haul it with the rest of the treasure.

[minderp]

Yes, not preparing for flying opponents does seem to be a theme. Some sort of flight would have helped you a lot in the lagoon too.

Also, we're back to Willow being crazy.

I'm dissapointed by the red consort not appearing in the story - she was initially sold as the strongest physical fighter of the three, and then she died and we didn't even get to see how she really looked like, beyond the murals depicting her.

I assume the assassin in the jail was a new player that never really caught up?

Also, did Pellius use three different weapons (hammer, axe, sword) through the adventure, or did I misread something?

What happened to the sealed lich skull? You don't mention taking it, and I don't think you'd let your minions haul it with the rest of the treasure.

Red Consort was killed in a single round before she had a chance to do anything. Was hard to write a scene that lasted all of 6 seconds.

Assassin is a cohort that is given in the campain. He's one of many that we've had to side line. I had actually forgotten about him. We're about to fight the king... and he's off looting elsewhere lol.

Pellius has five thousand weapons. He changes what he uses in each battle. It is hard to keep up with.

Lich is now locked away safely, i thought i wrote that we took it with us. There's often too much to remember to mention lol.

[FocusWolf413]

This is far too enjoyable to read.

I need Jesus Pelor.