GameBanshee Forums

An eternity passed as Thalimon locked blades with the cambion, gazing into the eyes of evil itself...

Eyes that very well could have been his own.

Lyrkuul studied the measure of his foe as he bore down heavily upon the paladin. The Demon Knight had slain many such as this one, puppets of the weak, mewling spirits the mortal cattle called gods...

The cambion returned the tiefling's smile with his own, shark-teeth flashing wickedly in the darkness of his great helm. Lyrkuul deigned to speak to the half-breed fool, his forked tongue flickering out as the words rolled from his taut lips...

The Knight's voice was a harsh whisper, a funeral dirge from the mouth of Hell itself.

"Tiefling...I have come for you. Come willingly, or in pieces...I care not. Your worthless corpse can be reanimated."

Another eternity passed as Thalimon slowly increased the pressure of Avenger his sword against the Doomblade...suddenly their balance shifted, and the Demon Knight began to smoke as the terrible strength in Thalimon's limbs began to tax his own unholy might...

"Damned one," intoned the paladin coldly, "I give to you this counsel, which you may bear with you as I send your vile spirit screaming back to the Abyss...

"Tell your masters that I am coming. I am coming for them."

Without warning Thalimon released his hold upon the cambion, causing the Demon Knight to stumble forward...and into the waiting point of the Thukariin's blade. Sparks accompanied the shrieking of metal upon metal as the short sword pierced the adamant breastplate of Lyrkuul, Lord of a thousand slaves, sinking deeply into his heavily muscled abdomen.

Bringing Avenger to bear in a blazing arc, Thalimon slashed at the vulnerable Knight...striking the Doomblade once again. Lyrkuul was a master, stricken as he was...

...and deadly. The Demon Knight lunged at Thalimon, driving his armored - and spiked - shoulder into the paladin's side, sending him sprawling several feet away. Red eyes blazing with the purest malice, Lyrkuul drove his massive blade into the stone floor. Gripping the pommel of the sword in his gut with his functional hand, he pulled it free....and bellowed as a gout of his steaming blood splattered upon his iron-shod feet. Thalimon observed the breach in his black plate seal, the unholy power of the cambion's armor regenerating not only metal, but also flesh and bone...

The spikes had driven through the paladin's mail. The poison of the demon's armor seeped insiduously into his veins, seeking to steal away the strength in his limbs. Thalimon's own black blood was added to that of the cambion upon the battle ground.

Tossing the Thukariin's blade aside, the Demon Knight turned his attention to the scimitar embedded in the bulging muscles of his right arm...

The poison could not stay the paladin, for he knew what must be done. Ignoring the searing pain in his side that burned like a rapidly spreading wildfire, Thalimon snapped to his feet, rushing towards the Demon Knight in a desperate gamble...

Snarling, Lyrkuul gripped his blade of doom, pulling it free of the rock as Thalimon vaulted to the offensive. Avenger met the Doomblade in a shower of sparks. Lyrkuul and Thalimon once again stood, blades locked.

The cambion roared, sending his spiked knee rushing to meet Thalimon's mailed breast. The tiefling spun towards the demon's right side, avoiding the poisoned barb of Lyrkuul's armor.

Keeping Avenger locked with the Doomblade, thus maintaining the deadly embrace, Thalimon's hand grasped the hilt of Yshania's sword, still impaled in the Demon Knight's arm...

Lyrkuul's eyes widened in horror as he realized the tiefling's ruse...

Thalimon's face contorted with fury as he cruelly twisted the scimitar ever deeper into the cambion's flesh....the Lord of a thousand slaves screamed in agony, the tip of the sword rending flesh from bone, severing arteries, black blood spilling forth in a rushing flood...

Blood like Thalimon's.

Once again Thalimon released his hold upon the Doomblade, spinning in a circle, yanking the druid's scimitar free of the cambion's useless limb...

The blade of the Abyss slammed into the floor, the cambion still seeking to slay the paladin in his relentless assault. His wounds mattered not, for the cambion fed upon the pain, fueling the black hatred which spilled forth from his twisted soul.

"DIE FOOL!" The Doomblade swung from below...

Folding his wings, the Raptu plummeted from the dizzying heights...

...meeting Yshania's scimitar as Thalimon spun directly into the charging Demon Knight. Avenger sung as it sank into the exposed neck of Lyrkuul, steam issuing forth as the gleaming metal tasted demon flesh. A thousand voices raised in chorus as the blade fulfilled it's reason for being, the purpose for it's existence. The cambion's head snapped back, sending his horned helm tumbling behind on the cavern floor, revealing his horrific visage at last...

As Thalimon bore his weight upon the pommel of the Holy Avenger, he looked upon a face much like his own...a countenance much like that of his father, himself a cambion.

The demon opened his mouth to scream, though no voice was to be heard. Dropping to his knees, he stared wildly into his slayer's eyes...wordlessly his mouth worked, his breath denied to him.

With a roar holy fire consumed the Lord of a thousand slaves, flames licking eagerly from the mortal wound, his innards incinerated within his great frame...

He began to wither as Thalimon watched, driving the sword ever deeper. The rumor of his departure was horrific, carrion smells boiling forth in the great cloud of smoke which signified his burning.

At last the suit of black armor collapsed upon the floor, devoid of a master. The great sword of Doom, once held within the taloned hand of the Demon Knight, dropped to the cavern floor with a resounding clang. Lyrkuul was no more, his spirit sent back to the Abyss, there condemned to suffer for centuries under the glare of the Prince of Demons, vile Demogorgon himself.

The light began to recede as the climax of channeling positive energy ended for Nippy. Torm's golden light had erupted from his body and shattered the existence of foul undead and Nippy paused to reflect on the state of the battle and to see what had been accomplished.

His eyes gazed over the battle-field as he drew in deep breaths, attempting to recover lost oxygen from the heat of battle. He snorted as his nose smelt the disgusting traces of burned arachnids, viscera, gore and entrail only made the smell worst.

Nippy breathed out one last time before steam coalesced over his shoulder, rising up into his face, curling, licking tendrils, tantalising his face, almost tickling him. He was almost drunk with the heady scent, it withdrew his senses and dampened the reflexes, only years of hard-spent training rescued him.

With battle-reflexes honed over years his body reacted before his mind, dropping flat to the surface and beginning to roll sideways, dodging a wicked dual blow from two swords.

He felt the swish of one blade sliding over his head, missing by a tiny margin before another blade, launched down with grace and speed, shattered into stone sending shards careening everywhere. One slashed into Nippy's face, drawing a shallow, but long gash across his cheek.

Once again Nippy rolled forward, his agility kept him away from more wicked blows. He stood quickly, his strong limbs supporting an agile body.

His left-hand held the Torm given blade securely. It's sharp point rest on the ground, awaiting use.

Nippy's right hand reached up to his gashed cheek and gingerly touched the wound, he withdrew his finger and looked at blood, his blood. He licked the end of his finger, tasting the coppery tang of his life-force. It seemed to wake him, sharpen his senses against the foe in front of him.

He snapped a quick look at the rest of the battle, spotting another two huge armoured figures, bigger than even him, and then his senses returned to his own battle.

He looked on at the figure in front of him and his breath trapped in his throat at the sight of this Goddess of beauty.

She was tall, but still a head shorter than Nippy, lithely built but strong in a graceful sense. Brown hair curled around her forehead, tied back to keep it out of the way in battle. Piercing green eyes, like emerald seemed to shred every protective barrier around him. He gasped again.

Her sultry voice rang out to him, lilting in undulating tones, husky but seductive on a level never experience by him before. It called to him on every level, caressing his mind, daring him to take her now and leave this place, leave the Dark Flames forever...

"Come now, for one of Torm's chosen, you didn't seem to be that powerful!" She grinned wickedly, flashing pearly-white teeth. Her tongue flicked out and licked her deep red lips, almost like an invitation...

Her voice dropped to a low whisper, almost conspiratorial. "Let us leave this place Nippy, come with me, I will show you the planes, I will show you the entire universe, and I know you want me to show you something else..."

Images flashed through Nippy's mind, writhing, erotic images of carnal nature, pure passion erupting from the deep recesses of his mind, once again calling him, demanding that he just leave, that his life was meant to be with this sultry woman. Nippy licked his lips and drew in a deep breath, his rib-cage shuddering with ragged breaths caused by his temptress. A sheen of sweat developed on his forehead, and it glistened in the low-light of the cavern. His back was drenched with moisture and it began to drip into his eyes. He began to blink rapidly.

She grinned again, once again her voice calling him to her. Deep and hypnotic it pulsed through him, white light flashing in his mind, leaving traces in the blackness of his vision.

Slowly, a golden light began to swim in the back of his thoughts, at first pulsing slowly, hardly noticeable from the images that still assailed his thoughts. It began to gain strength, driving the edges of the carnal images into the centre, making them blink out slowly like candle-light. The golden light became even stronger, becoming more constant, powerful and unyielding, powered by a divine strength.

Nippy's temptress began to scowl, a frown developing on her perfect face, her eyes began to glow red with anger and her mouth opened into a twisted snarl, her white teeth began to grow points, fangs developing from the recesses of her mouth.

A deep voice, gravelly and chilling tumbled out of her mouth, the aggression and anger obvious.

"I am Menelzathai, and you will not deny me! You will come with me Tormite, or I shall strike you down where you stand! You will be one of my pets, one of my slaves, or you WILL die!"

The mental backlash snapped through the air, it was almost palpable as the golden light finally gathered the strength to drive away the images of carnal promises, his illusion dispelled, Menelzathai snarled in rage and stalked forward, hefting his greatsword to disembowel Torm's young charge.

Nippy shook his head and blinked, once again training took over and he immediately raised his blade, parrying a wicked cleaving strike from the cambion.

Menelzathai dark armour shrieked with the effort of sudden movements. The plates ground against each other as the cambion attempted to force the human down, down on to his knees. Nippy slid his sword from underneath that of the cambion and span around, bringing his blade in a lethal 360 degree arc that ended with the resounding crack of ethereal-borne steel against adamantite armour.

Menelzathai snarled again and attempted to spin around to face the Paladin when a rainfall began, it hissed against his armour and he began to steam as the pure rain washed away the taint of his evil existence.

An unearthly shriek pierced the cavern and Nippy bolted forward, swinging his blade in a thunderous arc that met the cambion's Eander. It shattered underneath the horrendous blow and Nippy grunted as his blade met the thick neck of Menelzathai. He pushed the blow through and was rewarded with the sound of the cambion's neck cracking.

Menelzathai's head rolled on to the floor, the helm clattering to a stand still as it tumbled against the unrelenting stone. The armour collapsed on to the floor, the corpse of the cambion burning from the holy spell.

Nippy picked up the disintegrating head of Menelzathai and flung it into the air. He drew in a huge breath and roared out the calling card of he and his Dark Flame brother...

"THARAN'TIIR! Feel Torm's Divine Storm!"

In the Cavern of the Portal

Elfling...

Quiri Kevon, startled from the trance of the macabre, looked about the chamber. Somewhere amongst the putrifying remains of the Guardian's victims, perhaps underneath a pile of intestines, a voice whispered to him...

Hahahaha...here, elfling. Look in front of you.

The Drow Captain could not accept this. Surely Althanaquiriit spoke to him. It mattered not that the fool's head sat perched atop the liquefying remains of his bloated corpse, gnawed upon and shredded to flabby gibbets...

He admired the way the left eye sagged in the eye socket...a definite improvement over the original, he smirked with a rictus grin. The Drow Captain looked upon his hands...

He had no skin. The muscles and ligaments glistened wetly as blood coursed through his veins...touching his face, his finger parted the exposed muscles of his cheek, coming to rest against his rear molars.

Quiri Kevon screamed. A burning, an awful itch that hungered to be touched buzzed angrily in his loins. He clawed at the tunic beneath his mail armor frantically, babbling incoherently...

Hahahahahahahahaha............

Pulling his dagger from his belt, the Drow ripped through the confines of the linens, removing that which prevented him from assauging the unimaginable agony which wracked every fiber of his being.

Maggots burst from his liberated gut, boiling from the coiled mass of his intestines. They fell in bloody clumps to the chamber floor, smacking wetly against the hewn rock. Quiri dropped to his knees sobbing, plunging his hands deep into his viscera, seeking the source of the ungodly, clawing itch that held him in the vise of torment.

Suddenly, the gnawing ceased.

Pitiful worm...

Quiri Kevon sobbed with relief, a blessed release washing over him. Burying his face in his hands, he wept with joy. A low, guttural laughter rumbled in the chamber...

Drawing his hands into the field of his vision, he laughed as he witnessed the ebony skin covering his palms and fingers...battered, yes, and covered with blood, but there nonetheless. He would inform Althanaquiriit, that miserable, sniveling excuse of a House warrior, of his fortune. As he prepared to rise to his feet, he even fancied plucking the right eye out of his head, just to set affairs in order. Yes, that would be good.

Agony erupted again in his gut, a searing pain that doubled the Drow Captain over on the floor, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. There, lying on the floor before him in a pool of blood, was his dagger.

His mind numbed with horror, Quiri Kevon slowly rose to a sitting position, a realization dawning on the horizon of his awareness...

The madness suddenly left him, and in a moment of terrible lucidity, the Drow looked down...and saw that he had gutted himself, his intestines threatening to spill out upon the cavern floor from the gaping wound he had carved with his own dagger.

The Glabrezu roared with gales of laughter, his wings spreading wide in the chamber, his thick tail whipping to and fro. Quiri, dumbfounded, met the gaze of the Guardian in his mirth. The voice he had been hearing had been the thoughts of the demon within his mind. Every Drow knew of the tanar'ri's mighty psionic powers...

Hahahaha...I shall make your death exceedingly slow, elfling...you shall beg for release. Yes, you shall.

Quiri Kevon screamed.

T’lainya wielded her flail with deadly precision. She struck at the skittering horde again and again, cutting a path through the spiders like a scythe through a wheat field. She fought with a skill honed in countless battles. She had traveled the length of Faerun in the service of the Seldarine. She was a feywarden, a protector of the Tel’Quessar and of the faith, sworn to interpret the will of her deity. She had negotiated treaties, served as a representative of Everska and the temple, and helped settle disputes of individuals and governments. She had healed the faithful and nonbelievers alike and served in the temple of Evereska, performing the blessings, rituals and ceremonies of clerical life. She had wandered the borders of Everska and Cormyr, journeyed to the icy northern lands and even ventured into the underdark. T’lainya had seen the cruelty and deceit of the drow, the twisting of all the tenets of the Seldarine. Her heart ached for those slain to serve the whims of the evil Gods. And so she fought, she felt the power of this place, a natural reservoir of energy. It was a place connected strongly to the Weave. The energy fueled the priestess, enhancing her senses and mind.

T’lainya struck at a carrion crawler, the spiked head of the flail sinking deep into the scavengers side. The crawler shrieked at the impact, the enchanted weapon rending through the beasts flesh. A tentacle lashed across the priestess’ mail clad leg. The bright elvish plate absorbed the blow. The tentacle recoiled from the symbol engraved armor, smoking where it had touched the armor. The beast squealed again and T’lainya looked up to see one of Dragonwench’s summoned pets rip into the beast. She looked up swiftly, searching amidst the smoke and flares of light for the nearest enemy. She shook back her hair and saw the battle with the cambions. She grasped her holy symbol and prepared to cast Holy Smite. As soon as her fingers gripped the symbol T’lainya was struck by a voice echoing through her skull. She froze, listening to a voice she’d never heard, yet knew as well as her own.

Yshania battled the innumerable spiders scurrying to meet her whirling blades; eager it seemed to throw themselves to their death as they pressed their assault. Scayde was observing, hidden in her appointed place, waiting for the appearance of the wielders of magic. Her mission, to dispatch them quickly, to offer them no chance for retrenchment. She was terrified, but becoming adjusted to the battle as it played out around her, yet nothing prepared her for what she saw next.

Tendrils of light twisted and writhed in front of Yshania, coalescing into a great form. He was tall, at least seven feet. Covered with black matt armor, engraved in crimson runes that glowed with light reflected from an unseen source. He was terrible in his countenance, and beautiful in his form. With dark features, and a heavily muscled body, his armor molded to accentuate the outline over every swell of the steely sinew, muscle, and bone that lent their power to his purpose. Scayde leaned into the bolder in front of her, as she marveled at this apparition. Suddenly she saw him raise his great sword. He was going to attack Yshania...Oh God!!! Quickly Scayde raised her rifle to take aim at this bastard knight from hell. She locked him in her sights. The cross hairs were fixed for a perfect medulla shot. Her intent, to drop him where he stood. He would never even have time to flinch. As she began to squeeze the trigger, a voice exploded in her head. “NO!!! Scayde. You mustn’t. It is not time. Not yet.” Startled, Scayde released the trigger. It was Thantor‘s voice. Scayde looked around, but could not see him anywhere. Then, across the chamber, she saw Jennabard standing in the shadows; her gaze fixed on the wild eyed Texan. Reluctantly Scayde lowered her weapon. Her heart racing in her chest, she paused, trying find the courage to look back to her friend. Trepidation filled her soul at the thought of what she might find.

After what seemed like a thousand eternities, but in reality was only seconds, she found it within herself to face what she might see. To her great relief Yshania was safe. She wanted so to rush to her friend and throw her arms around her, thanking her for just being alive. The next instant, her joy was cut short as she realized there were now three of these sons of b!tches.

Thalimon had stepped in between the first one and his intended victim, Yshania. His green eyes glowed, while steam rose from his armor, his chest glowing, his muscles tense and swollen beneath their black armor covering. Her eyes remained fixed and unblinking as she watched him throw himself into the fray. She began to fear that he might not escape this menace. Her heart raced and she felt its rhythm pound in her throat. The likeness of the two was more than apparent; the exception being the assailant was a full head taller than Thalimon. Scayde choked back a scream when the attackers spiked shoulder sank deep into Thalimon’s side. Her fingers clawed into the rock surface as she fought the urge to run to him. When he stood to parry the monsters blows, sobs of relief filled her throat, and she held her breath to stem the tears that swelled in her eyes.

Her attention was drawn to Dragon Wench. Her friend. Oh God...Not her too. Scayde’s heart raced, the pounding in her chest mirrored by the roar in her mind. What could she do? Dragon Wench stood bravely then spun into action. As terrifying as it was, she could not look away. Scayde was awed by the artistry of Dragon Wench’s movements. If Death could be beautiful, this was it. The black knight raised his sword for the blow that would bring the finale to this performance, and Scayde began to close her eyes, not having the strength to be witness to such injustice. With the last flicker of light, she caught glimpse of Dragon Wench as she dropped lithely to her knee and drive her sword up through the demon’s plated codpiece, effectively raising the bastard knight’s voice at least three octaves. Scayde’s eyes popped open with a start, as she jumped into the air, unable to suppress a shout of “You go Girl” before quickly ducking down behind the boulders, hopping her voice had been drowned out in the melee.

While she was crouched behind her stony blind, she peered back again. The third knight stood in front of the young man who had been fighting so bravely with Thalimon and Bloodstalker. Scayde could not understand why he was not fighting now. He stood staring, as if in a trance. He even seemed to be blushing. Scayde wondered if these knights might be the magic users. No, Jennabard and Thantor had stopped her. What was it then? At least he wasn’t being attacked.

The scream of the dark knight filling the cavern brought her attention back with a jolt to Thalimon and Yshania. She saw the two demon-men locked in a savage embrace, each fighting to find purchase in the other’s strength. Each plumbing his opponent for any perceived weakness. When suddenly Thalimon flexed out of the deadlock, and unleashed his lethal counter attack in a passionate storm of violent beauty. The great sword swung true, severing the head from the body of his foe. She saw him stand and look into the face of the would be killer as the headless corpse dropped to its knees, smoldering inside the black remnants of its armor, before dropping empty to the floor. She saw the pain in his eyes as he looked on the lifeless face that so resembled his own and wanted to go to him.

Then the rain came.

Iilya and her female subordinates emerged into the staging area in full battle dress, the stark metal shining grim and lethal in the wavering torchlight. With a quick motion of her hand, she signaled Sae'etha to communicate her commands to Rah’fol and the streeakh commanders, then turned to confer with the remaining females concerning the organization of the main drow attack. Golhyrr stood off to one side with some of the drow warriors that would comprise the second drow wave. He noted with satisfaction the drawn, pale look on Iilya’s face… the tense restlessness of her body. All tell-tale signs of the massive burden his deception had placed upon her. As anticipated, she was still in possession of her faerl kuk . The Chwidencha did not require the candidate to relinquish the indicated item for seven days, which was well for Golhyrr since, as ever, his first concern was with his own survival. He would have never agreed to participate in a plan that compromised his own safety. He saw Rah’fol and the streeakh commanders snap to attention, then turn and head up the tunnels to their waiting troops. Though he could not see it occur, he could envision the relay of hand commands surging down the tunnels, with a single intention: loose the rothe.

************************************************
Amidst the throbbing red fury that unfurled through sinew and metal, Thantor sensed a change in the milieu around him that registered first as a dull thudding on the edge of his consciousness. As the abdominal contents of an eviscerated phase spider pooled around him, he paused, psionically making contact with Simbul to his far left. “Did you…" . The throbbing became a roar as hoards of drow captives and allies exploded out of the northern tunnels. In what seemed to Thantor like another life, all the mages had trained with Simbul and she with him, evolving a number of techniques that relied on a combination of psionic and magical energies. The loss of Vivien was substantial, but they had planned for the possibilities of causalities and how to regroup in the face of changing battlefield conditions. As they had practiced, Thantor reached out mentally to Jennabard, Dragon Wench, and Simbul, acting as a psionic coordination center. “Now,” Simbul hissed. As one, the mages chanted and released their spells, walls of fire connecting to encircle the large common entrance from the northern tunnels into the cavern where the battle was being waged. This was quickly followed by a furious wind that Simbul headed directly into the oncoming hoards, fire and smaller spiders blowing directly into their path. From her perch, Scayde nodded admiringly, thinking what a big hit Simbul would have been at one of her daddy’s barbeques.

Prostrate upon the cavern floor, and unaware that her flesh had suddenly become crawling with spiders, she watched as the cambion raised his sword once again. She closed her eyes as the blade slashed powerfully down in slow motion. Not seeing Thalimon step before her, and masterfully parry the assault, she was trapped in time and awaiting the fatal blow. Desperately, she sought the beauty. But they had taken so much, she had once thought everything... images of raging pyres heaped with those no longer able to serve She fought to banish... to tend the women as she had tended the mares. It was a tragic and savage harvesting If only she had discovered her healing powers before her capture, she could have…images of infants snatched from their screaming mother's breast… She sagged as she recalled their anguished wails...her own mouth opened silently in sympathy, only for the crawling mass to seek a way in...the black mass swarmed across her own silent scream....

Breathing deep, her last breath? The rich red and brown tones of crisp fallen leaves underfoot, the damp earthy smells of the forests following Autumnal rain. She ached in that moment realising but for the grace of Gods denied, she would never again walk the land, never again feel the warmth of the sun on her face or appreciate the watery borrowed light of the moon…Oh! The hunters moon, how beautiful and almost forgotten in these dark realms. The virgin snow, and the desperate, yet determined challenge of the bloom to push through the frozen ground, fragile yet strong. Beautiful. The savage beauty of the Mother’s garden…In the shadow of the greatest and most ancient oak, the colour could thrive, could reach forth, could open its delicate self to all that might destroy to reach that which might offer life. The towering and majestic mountains, with their halos of mist or snow, and their skirts of forest green. The dark and starlit blanket of a night sky, so full of promises, yet so distant and unreachable by other than wishes. And now to be cleaved by this denizen of darkness. To preserve life at all cost, that was what she had been charged with, now the earth felt closer to her own flesh than that of her captors…but she was ready to welcome its final embrace if she had served her time yet. And her life would blink out unchallenged, but for her initial and foolish wrath. …

Her ribcage almost exploding with her breath held, she sighed and opened her eyes to see Thalimon standing before her…his hand reaching out and his calm countenance betraying nothing of his endeavour…

“Priestess…child of Felezaira, there has been a great wrong.”

The voice of Rillifane the Great Oak blossomed in T’lainyas’ mind. The voice was slow and rich like golden sap seeping through an ancient tree. Images burst into the priestess’ view, each a bloodstained leaf, born from the sorrow of the god. The screaming of captives, the slain human fighter, the torment of the half-elf warrior, the defiant elven girl, each image imprinted in T’lainyas’ brain. The slow voice quickened like new growth in the spring and a green haze veiled the cavern from her sight.

“This must end. The enemy awakes and the rot spreads.”

More images, the drow priestess ecstatic in her butchery, the summoned cambion still reeking of abyss, these fueled the anger that stirred the Oaklord. The God spoke again with the bark-rough voice.

“The defiler, the dhaeraow who did this…she is here. The other is here too; the disease spreads from the leaf to the root, and if left unchecked will fell the forest.”

Another voice broke in dark and grim. “The child must be avenged. Those who follow the Spider Queen must not prevail.”

Sheverashs’ hatred seared through the beleaguered priestess. It raged like a fire through her blood and heart, resisting all attempts to quell the flame.

“I will avenge, but I must also protect.”

T’lainya’s plea was silent and swift. She was immobile, surrounded by the chaos and heat of battle. She knew she was a risk, a liability, standing still while the enemy swirled and eddied around her.

“Distract not my priestess at her labors. She is aware of her obligations and she shall fulfill them as she sees fit.”

The Coronal spoke, his presence a gentle rain soothing the anger of the other gods. T’lainya felt their presence recede, although they remained. They formed a quiet wall of strength and reassurance, distant but present like the echo of a long forgotten dream.

Corellon Larethian spoke once more. “The time is near when the path must be chosen. Trust in yourself, in your judgment and your will.”

The God withdrew his presence and the priestess breathed a sigh of regretful relief. Her strength was sorely taxed by the divine energies around her. She shook off her lethargy, wondering why she hadn’t been cut down where she stood. She focused suddenly on the blade barrier that was protecting her. She saw the great solar Lashrael, messenger of the Seldarine standing by her. The solar smiled and saluted her with the great sword before returning to it’s own plane.

The rain began to fall...

Glowing motes of celestial essence came raining down, splattering against Thalimon's armored shoulders in a cleansing shower of Elysium's Tears...

Shalimare's Tears...

The cavernous tunnels were filled with the anguished cries of tormented souls, their spirits wracked by the blessed spring rain...

Wraith Spiders shrieked in unholy chorus as the Tears smote their bloated, twisted forms, rending their undead essence with the power of love...a love that reached from beyond the limits of the earth, and the sea, the snow-capped peaks, and the starlit expanse of the midnight sky...

Their arachnoid vessels shriveling into withered husks, the Wraith forms fled the Prime Material Plane, returning to the void of the Negative Material dimension, the source of their twisted, life-draining power...

Above the din of their death cries, a howling thundered into prominence, raising the wail of the damned to an almost unbearable crescendo of agony and despair. Zaithan, Demon Knight of the Abyss, stood before the daughter of Shalimare, keeper of her Tear...

Smoke issued forth from his armored body in great hissing clouds, soon joined by spurting geysers of his black blood, gushing from his body in a cataclysmic release of his infernal power, helpless under the gentle spring rain. It pooled upon the floor like a sea of swirling darkness as the cambion was torn asunder by Shalimare's gift to her wayward daughter, her beloved Morning Star. The Tears were the doom of the anti-paladin.

Thalimon lifted his face to meet the gentle rain, allowing his mother's tears to flow upon the small horns which sprang from above his brow...Why?

Why does this not destroy me as well?

The whispered screams of Lyrkuul, his foe upon the field of battle, haunted his vision. In his eyes of blazing crimson, the tiefling had touched upon his fear, the terror that consumed him as the holy blade of Nether ended his tortured existence.

Why? His father had been a creature like the Demon Knight, a cambion dark and tall...why had he been unlike them? Once, as a young child, his mother Shalimare weaved an enchantment of illusion for her son, an answer to the burning desire of his questing soul. Thalimon had naturally reached out for his father...and he was not there.

Before the young tiefling's eyes appeared a vision from the past. As a form took shape before his eyes, wide with wonder and anticipation, he detected the scent of wildflowers within the confines of his mother's humble cottage...

A man stood before Thalimon, his head reaching high above to the rafters of the thatched roof. His frame was massive, clad in gleaming mail, his broad hands resting upon the hilt of a tremendous great sword, the blade aglow with the radiance of the stars themselves. About his neck was an amulet, a talisman of the most unusual design...

At last he looked into the eyes of the man that towered above him, a man who could seemingly reach out and touch the moon herself in a greeting if he so desired, so tall he was...

The eyes he met were the most unusual shade of green, eyes that had become his own. The man, like his tiefling son, sported horns upon his dark brow, and from the darkness behind him emerged a great length of serpentine tail, curling to rest at his side.

The eyes of this man met his with a gentle radiance, the love of a father for his son reaching to him from another time, and a different place...a father who had held his infant son in his arms, the child of his love.

"It is as I remember him, Thalimon," Shalimare his mother had spoken. The enchantment had faded then, flickering out of existence before his very eyes. The scent of wildflowers lingered as the flow of his tears, his life's blood, streamed down the lines of his dark face.

Shalimare had embraced her son in his sorrow...tears had always cost the boy unbearable pain, and did not come readily from his eyes. As she rocked him in her arms, she spoke to him of his father.

"He was not born in the Abyss, your father. He was the son of a union between an Incubus and a Sensate woman, and was born in the city of your own birth, Sigil of many doors. There he came to his full stature, free of the nightmare and torment that is the heart of the dark worlds of the Tanar'ri.

"He was my dark knight, my song in the eveningtide. He swept me away to Sigil, rescuing me, for a time, from the old ones who hunted me. He battled their hounds and slew them with his sword, a wondrous blade of power from the heart of the Planes.

"And ever he treated me with honor. Your father was a man of honor, his heart pure despite the darkness which cloaked his mighty form. He loved us, Thalimon my son...he perished making good our flight from Sigil, for our abode was no longer beyond the notice of the spies of my pursuers."

The rain fell down upon his face, washing away fear and doubt, cleansing the paladin of the stains of battle. The Tears of his mother had answered the the cry of his heart, bringing the memory of that night, long ago, before his seeking eyes.

Thalimon knew peace in the rain, amidst the destruction of Zaithan and the undead. For this moment in time, the taint of evil was washed away...

He turned to Yshania, extending his hand to his friend.

"Come, my brave friend. Stand once more...your valiance in the face of the Demon Knight speaks of your mettle." Thalimon smiled at fire-eyes the Avenger. "I thank you for the use of your blade, and I return it to you now, so that it will taste the flesh of our foes." Yshania accepted his hand, rising from the cavern floor.

The burning pain, brought about by the poisoned edge of the Demon's Knight's armor, was gradually subsiding. His body had resisted the ravages of the draught, and the rain, still falling from above, washed away the stains of his blood from the jagged wounds upon his side.

The druid took her sword, turning to retrieve it's twin, fallen some distance away during the battle. Thalimon himself retrieved his master's sword where it lay, discarded by the cambion. As he rose, gripping its pommel of ancient leather in his hand once more, his eyes met those of Scayde, looking upon him from her concealment by the pool. Again he looked into her eyes of emerald, calling to him from another world. In the shower of Shalimare's Tears he answered that call with one of his own, the cry of the Raptu in the eye of the Tharan'tiir.

Zaithan the Demon Knight collapsed in a smouldering heap, the filth of his accursed form washed away, his spirit joining that of his brethren in the Abyss. As Thalimon turned to face the wall of darkness rushing towards the Dark Flames from beyond the holy rain, he knew at last that the spirit of his father, long ago liberated from his dark form, was not found in the Abyss.

He would see him again, one day. Perhaps not now...but one day.

Three suits of black armor lay empty upon the hewn floor of the chamber, tendrils of smoke rising from their plates and spikes of adamant. As the rain faded to a light mist, finally ceasing altogether, two of the suits, with attendant swords and helms, disappeared in a flash of light, leaving behind no trace of their presence in the tunnels.

One suit of black armor lie masterless upon the battlefield where it fell, tendrils of smoke rising from its plates and spikes of enchanted adamant. Not far from the empty hulk was found the horned helm of its former occupant, a hollow mask of death that once housed the blazing orbs of the Demon Knight.

And there, resplendent in its naked glory, was the Doomblade of Lyrkuul. Waves of evil emanted from the black Abyssal metal, seeking purchase in the aftermath of its wielder's destruction. Insiduously the entity of the sword stretched forth ethereal tentacles, touching the minds of the Dark Flames, searching for a suitable host...

It reached towards the tiefling...

Instinctively Thalimon Shestare recoiled, snapping his swords at the ready. He had become aware of something that had brushed against the outer defenses of his mind. His eyes narrowed...turning toward the place where the cambion lord had fallen not very long before, his gaze came to rest upon the greatsword of the Demon Knight. The embodiment of malice was seeking a new master...the tiefling would not yield.

The Doomblade turned it's attention elsewhere amongst the Dark Flames.

The wall of darkness boiled into the chamber, bristling with axes, sweat, and unbridled fury...

The ancient blade of Nether sung in response, the golden radiance burning away the shadow that shrouded their agonized faces, red eyes recoiling in the bright light of the day. They came to kill, and to be killed.

Howling in mindless rage, a duergar berserker barreled into Thalimon Shestare, his warhammer sailing to meet the tiefling's horned brow...

The Thukariin's zakkar met the warhammer in flight, and for a fleeting moment the burly rothe hung suspended in his charge, his legs pumping wildly in the empty air...

Whereupon he was slammed cruelly into the unyielding stone floor below, the wind rushing out of his lungs in a blast that reeked of sour ale. Dropping to his knee, Thalimon liberated his short sword from the embrace of grey dwarf's warhammer in a downward slash, slicing through the rothe's distorted visage, rupturing an eye as it came to rest in the enormous swell of the berserker's mountainous belly.

The Thykiri zakkar snapped free of the duergar's gut, receeding as the holy blade of Cothindar tore through adamant chain mail, plunging into the breast of the berserker...

The gray dwarf screamed as his heart was smote by white fire, the blood rage silenced as his soul was ripped from his torn body, cast upon cold Astral winds...winds that carried him upon a long, tortuous descent into the gaping maw of the Hells. The furnace awaits.

Thunder roared in report, and within the reverberating boom a vision opened before the eyes of the tiefling...

Blood rained from a molten sky, showering the tangled expanse of fetid jungle in crimson gore. Hungrily the fronds of impossibly twisted trees lifted to meet their sustenance, their gnarled, convoluted limbs cracking as they swayed to and fro in the rain...

The vision fled as the Thukariin's blade met the midsection of the berserker's comrade, sinking to the quillons as he charged to meet the kneeling paladin. Spinning on his knee, Thalimon freed both of his blades from the flesh of his enemies in a single movement, an uninterrupted flow of motion that sent Avenger on a searing arc of destruction...as the tiefling turned full circle, the long blade slammed into the ribcage of the surprised duergar rothe, the intricate links of his masterfully crafted mail shattering under an edge of white-hot meteoric iron.

Once again thunder erupted in the chamber, and once again a duergar screamed as holy fire seared through his dark, twisted soul. This one ignited in flames, his cries accentuating the frantic thrashing of his body as he fell. Thalimon rose...

As the rain slowly petered out, Nippy's body and soul felt invigorated and fresh. His skin tingled, almost like it had a life of it's own, and his eyes gleamed as the battle-lust continued.

His mind was awash with thoughts, after the entrance of that... temptress, and her seduction, Nippy felt incredibly guilty that he even had thoughts of leaving the Dark Flame in the midst of battle. His only saving grace was that he managed to recover enough to repel the mental coercion.

Nippy almost blushed, his face flushing red as he remembered what images he had seen, though they might well have been fun, surely some must have been against his Torm's ethos. He grinned slightly at the thought, and then his mind returned from its wandering as more enemies joined the fray...

An orcish creature waddled towards him, it's huge axe dragging on the ground as it's massive muscles tightened under forced commands.

With a sudden burst of surprising speed it broke forward and clutched its great axe in massive hands.

It growled as it chopped downward with massive strength, grunting as Nippy skipped lightly out of the way. A huge thunk reverberated in Nippy's ear drums as it crashed against the hard stone.

The orc hefted it's great axe again, the blade wavering slightly as its mind tried to focus on how to beat the opponent in front of him.

Nippy didn't wait for it to finish.

He burst forward, his hands wrapped around his blades handle, knuckles white in the tight grip. He sliced the blade diagonally downwards, attempting to eviscerate the huge orc. It raised the axe handle to parry the blow but the massive weight of the strike split the rotten wood, splinters shattering everywhere.

Nippy grunted as his sword met the orcs body, and as it tore through the collar bone the orc gurgled, blood frothing at its mouth, and all the orc could manage was a keening moan.

Nippy pulled his blade free, putting his boot against the chest of the orc and heaved to release it from the dead body. He felt a small amount of pity for the poor creature, it was merely a slave in bad circumstances, but his training took over and his eyes scanned the battlefield, searching for another opponent.

He saw his brethren battle against dwarven foes, and he rushed to aid him, to re-unite the Tharan'tiir, and to show the Drow, and those who stand in the way, the power of the Divine Fury of Torm...

Scayde’s tears mixed with the rain running down her face. She stood motionless, watching as the steam hissed and curled off the black armor lying at Thalimon’s feet. Brief seconds stretched into an eternity as their gazes locked. She felt as if she had been pulled into the eye of a hurricane. He looked away, helping Yshania to her feet and the timeless spell was broken. Once again, the battle raged all around her.

Flames raced in an arc around the parameter of the cavern chamber, encircling the companions. The gigantic orange and white tongues of the inferno dancing menacingly in the rain, the opalescent pools shimmering in runic patterns on the carved stone of the floor. Silver splashed off the barren rock, reflecting the ruby light of the fire as fierce winds whipped the flames into the darkened tunnels surrounding the battle. Screams filled the air as the malignancy there succumbed to the sacred rains. Thunder pealed through the vault reverberating off the granite walls.

Scayde stood in awe of the talents of these, her new companions. She was humbled by what she had seen. The well-orchestrated spells cast by the mages could not help but leave the young Texan in awe and wonder. Through the intensity of it all, she could not stay an approving smile, which escaped her lips upon seeing Thantor look up at her.

Suddenly dark figures rushed into the arena, screeching their tremulous battle cries as they fought to shield their red eyes from the glaring light that emanated from Thalimon’s sword. The light filled the chamber ,repelling them back into the tunnels, while the crush of those behind, pressed them ahead into battle with the Dark Flames.

Fire licked their scarred skin, mixing the sickening sweet smell of flesh burned alive, with the putrid smell of the already befouled air in the cavern space.

With out hesitation, Thalimon and Nippy responded to the assault, slicing through the attackers with well-honed skill. The rest of the Dark Flames responding with long practiced tactics and lethal intent. The courageous companions fiercely rising to the challenge brought by the superior numbers of their foe....

Galdervan Rockhome, svirfneblin slave of the Drow, was far from the halls of his people.

The path that lead the deep gnome to this day was, at times, nearly too much for the quiet gem-cutter to bear. His tears in the face of the dark elf atrocities had always precipitated his own unspeakable mistreatment by their hand…for Galdervan bore the scars upon his body, a testament to the sadistic games of the Drow slavemasters.

Unlike the other rothe that swarmed into the cavern this day, Galdervan had managed to preserve a place of his own in his mind, a refuge for his tortured soul to rest. This had remained inviolate, much to the consternation of his captors, who, by means of spell and psionic power, sought to break him utterly. Thus he was able to exercise a very limited control over his own body and actions, and this he utilized cautiously and sparingly, so as to not attract undue attention to himself. This control had manifested in various ways during his long imprisonment…most often in the form of acts of kindness towards the other rothe. One captive, in particular, stood out in the deep gnome’s mind, and her delicate face haunted him as he rushed, unwillingly, towards the group of surface adventurers…

She was a surface elf, this one, and Galdervan had been commanded to tend to her needs, for the Drow refused even to look upon her. Of her cruel fate he had learned at the outset of her captivity, for the gem-cutter, like all of his people, understood well the dark speech of his captors. He had overheard their conversations…much of which he had sought to cast from his mind, for the Drow are, to the deep gnomes, a foul race. Yet he could not help but retain the knowledge that this young elf, so beautiful in her own dewy eyed way, was to be sacrificed to the vile goddess of the demonic Drow. Galdervan was moved with compassion as he listened to her sob quietly in her cell, and above all else the gnome desired the strength to cast off the yoke of his oppressors that he might aid her in escape…

Each day, as commanded, he brought the disgusting swill of the slave kitchens to the elf maiden’s tiny cell. And each day he would find that she had left the bowl sitting where he had placed it. For this he had been flayed cruelly by the priestess who oversaw her care…she was to be kept in good health, spat the priestess as her snake-headed whip tore through Galdervan’s flesh, or Lolth would not accept her. He was commanded to use the Common speech of the surfacers with the elf maid…this the deep gnome knew as well, though haltingly from little use. From time to time the svirfneblin had dealings with the surface world, and as such all the young gnomes of his people were taught the basic tenets of the language. It had served them well. It would serve the Drow as well, and the gem-cutter cursed their cold, calculating intelligence. The priestess knew that a glimmer of familiarity in the cold of the Underdark might stir some glimmer of hope in the elven lass…

For the fifth time, Galdervan brought the elf her daily rations, standing at the door of her cell with the bowl of gruel. He noted how her delicate features, so lush and full of life when he had first looked upon them, now appeared drawn and pale. She gazed listlessly at the stone wall in the rear of her cell, her eyes misty and distant. Setting the bowl inside of the cell through an opening in the door, Galdervan spoke to the cell’s occupant…

“Young one…eat…you must.”

The effect was immediate. Swiftly the elf turned to face the deep gnome, surprise illuminating her fair features. Her voice was lilting, almost musical, and Galdervan found himself delighting in the breath of fresh air such a sweet melody afforded, here in the gloom of the slave cells. Her golden hair fell in shimmering waves, something that even the oppressive evil of the Drow could not touch…

“You….you speak common? By my father’s hand, I had not thought it possible to ever hear a tongue of the sunlit world….no, never again did I dare hope…”

There was silence as the captives each regarded the other, marveling at the lingering sound of a friendly voice. At last the ice was broken as a wan smile crossed the elf maid’s heart-shaped face. Suddenly, she did not appear so pale and drawn to the deep gnome…

“You look out of place here, my keeper,” she chimed, barely suppressing a girlish giggle. Winking, she looked at him with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. She appraised him as he stood outside the bars of her cell door, arching the slim line of her brow as she measured his stature in her liquid eyes of blue. “I have seen many of the rock folk in my day, O keeper…and I should say you are of their ilk, though you are by far darker than they.” Shifting on the filthy mat that was her bedding, the elf maid faced Galdervan squarely. “You are a gnome, yes?”

Galdervan had struggled to keep pace with the rapid-fire speech of the elf…though there was much he did not understand, he understood the direction of her questioning.

The deep gnome bowed deeply in the manner of his people, speaking slowly and succinctly. “I am svirfneblin, dear lady…Galdervan Rockhome am I, gem-cutter of the Hall…”

The young elf laughed with delight at the gallant display, clapping her hands together in appreciation of her keeper’s courtesy. The gnome’s voice was deep and rich, rolling the r’s as he navigated the landscape of the common speech, so unfamiliar to him. “Well met, Galdervan Rockhome, gem-cutter of the Hall.” With that the elf rose to her feet, and curtsied gracefully in reply. “I am Sylanna Daervan, daughter of the House of the Moon, servant of Rillifane the Leaflord, the Great Oak of my people.” She looked down upon the bowl of gruel on the floor before her with thinly veiled disgust, and sighed deeply. “I suppose I should, at the very least, attempt to partake of some kind of nourishment. I must rebuild my strength…”

She regarded Galdervan with a level gaze then, the smile leaving her countenance. “I must warn you, Galdervan Rockhome, that I shall seek to escape this dreadful place at the first available opportunity. It is my fervent desire that I do not find myself at cross purposes with you…”

The deep gnome was struck by a stab of panic then, for he clearly understood the word escape. So did his Drow captors… The worried expression on the deep gnome’s face took the elf maid by surprise, disarming the lingering suspicion she had held in reserve. “Dear lady,” the gnome stammered as best as he could, waving his hands in the air before him, “never…must you speak…this word. The dark ones….they have ears, yes?…their whips…” Pleadingly he searched the blue depths of her eyes, trying as best as he knew how to transmit the peril of their imprisonment, and the sadistic cruelty of the vile Drow. “They have…no… pity, Syl-anna…”

Sylanna looked upon Galdervan then, her own heart stirred at the pitiful sight of her keeper, his body so scarred by the devices of his tormentors. She sensed he risked much speaking with her as he had…suddenly she rushed to the door of her cell, and extended her slender hand to the rothe between the cold bars. Galdervan stumbled backward out of her reach, for he perceived he might have angered the surfacer…

“My dear gnome,” Sylanna spoke passionately, “you have broken the doom of my captivity by your act of kindness, and have parted the storm clouds that have weighed so heavily upon my heart. For within the confines of this cell, the sound of a friendly voice is worth more than gold and silver; yes, even more than gemstones. This have I longed for, that a ray of the blessed sun might reach me here, in the hands of the enemy of my people…

“And you, my brave little gnome, have risked peril for my expense, that I should hear a kind word again.” Galdervan shifted nervously on his feet, unsure of how to react to the impassioned tone he heard in the maiden’s melodic speech. He looked away down the row of slave cells, cursing the Drow in their vile malignancy. He so longed to set the elf girl free, yet he knew not how…

And so it was during the days of her captivity, that Galdervan did what he could to comfort Sylanna in her cell. Ever he sought a means to offer her hope as his keen mind pondered the cunning prison of the Drow. They preferred the power of magic over the mundane, and so their locks were ensorcelled, resistant to physical tampering. Galdervan was himself a spellweaver of no small stature, yet during the time of his enslavement the Drow had wisely deprived him of his spell book, denying him access to the arcane. He was not mighty enough in frame to test his strength against the bars of the cell door…yet he knew this would avail little, for he had seen with his own eyes a half-orc of the largest size try the bars of enchanted metal, and fail at the task.

The day came at last, and the time of the Drow ritual was at hand. Like clockwork Galdervan had brought the elf maiden her daily provision. He had detected the slightest glimmer of hope in his quest to aid Sylanna in an escape, and as had become their custom, they clasped hands as the gnome passed her bowl within the cell. Sylanna, noticing a change in the gnome’s normally formal demeanor, inquired at the unusual brightness that was spreading across his countenance.

“It is…dear lady…a hope I have seen. I, Galdervan Rockhome, have seen a way…very small, yes, but a way…for you… to walk from the cell. Free.”

Continued from above...

Sylanna gripped the gnome’s wrinkled hand tightly, tears welling in her eyes at the mention of the word…free. She had brushed the gnome’s hand lightly to her lips then, speaking in a whisper to her friend.

“Can it be, my dear gnome? Is there a way that I might pass this door? Oh, tell me it is so, Galdervan, for I so desire to walk the sunlit glades of my home once again…” Choking back sobs, she kissed the deep gnome’s hand once more.

Galdervan swallowed the growing lump in his throat. It was not fitting that a gem-cutter of the svirfneblin should be affected by a surfacer in this fashion.

The gnome noted how the irridescent jewels of her tears left a sparkling trail on her flushed cheeks, collecting in a silvery pool on the dust-choked floor below…though far removed from the svirfneblin ideal, her beauty nonetheless touched him in the way that the facets of a flawless diamond stone would. The diamond was the stone of Galdervan’s own heart, the one which he had focused his will upon in the Hall of his people…

They spoke in hushed tones then, and Galdervan shared with the elven maid the results of his deep, voluminous ponderings. When at last he arrived to the conclusion of his plan, Sylanna was taken aback by the implications, and gasped in dismay at what the plan entailed.

“You…you are willing to risk your own life that I, a creature so far removed from your own world, could walk past the doors of her cell? It is likely that I would be recaptured immediately, indeed….for the filthy Drow are ever vigilant in the machinations of their dark designs. And you…

“My dear gnome, they would take your life in the most unspeakably horrid fashion, I wager.”

The svirfneblin rothe rumbled in reply, regaining his composure in the face of Sylanna’s overt display of emotion. Such was not the way of the deep gnomes, and despite the humiliation that he had suffered at his captor’s hand over the long years of his own captivity, he still retained the dignity that was at the heart of his people.

“My lady…this way…is the only way. My people…have long been hunted….by these, the enemies…of your own people. Your foe is mine.” A hardness entered Galdervan’s dark eyes then. “You speak, dear lady….of a life that was…long ago lost. I shall never see….the Hall again. This I know. Galdervan Rockhome knows this, yes.

“This I shall….do for you, young one. I, Galdervan Rock-“

“Rothe!” The command of the priestess had paralyzed the gnome in mid-sentence, the magic of his slave collar crushing what remained of his will in a cold, terrible grip…he could not move. He could only stand motionless, awaiting the next command. Helplessly he watched Sylanna shrink back in her cell…

“I should have you gutted where you stand, worthless stunted dog.” She laughed cruelly as she arrived at the cell, flanked by two hooded Drow warriors. Galdervan knew what the presence of the hooded ones implied…slowly the horror grew inside of his mind, for he was powerless to lift even a finger in the defense of his elven friend.

Fingering the shaft of her whip, she stood at the door of the Sylanna’s cell, casting an imperious gaze upon the frightened elf maiden. “Ah, but you have done as I intended you to do, rivvil. Look at her, slave…well fed and fit for the slaughter. Hahahaha! The Goddess shall be pleased this day!” The door to the cell opened silently, and as the hooded warriors entered to the sobbing cries of Sylanna, the priestess had turned to face the hapless gnome.

“You usefulness has now expired, rothe. Pfah!” The Drow spat in disgust, a cruel sneer distorting her dark visage. “You are not even fit for coupling, withered dog. Remain here, until I return to collect your hideous carcass.”

“Do not harm her!” the priestess wailed, as the hooded guards finished their task within the cell. Sylanna had been bound and gagged, and she had struggled vainly against the grip of her captors as they bore her out into the hall, and past the still form of Galdervan.

As the retinue receeded down the hall, glittering gems, much like diamond stones, welled up and descended from the eyes of the svirfneblin thrall...

They left trails of irridescent silver down the wizened skin of his ancient face, collecting in a shimmering pool upon the floor of the Drow prison below.

She watched as Shalimar’s tears fell….. bathing them all in opalescent light…. The cambion crumpled to his knees… a helpless final groan the only testament to a battle courageously fought.
Reeling for a moment, Tashara tried to catch her breath; exhilaration, adrenalin and a vague uncertainty flooded her veins….

Yet, this was no time for introspective musing… From the corner of her vision something flickered in the shadows. Narrowing her eyes she looked towards the place she had seen the briefest glimmer of movement….
Silently she caught the attention of Thalimon and Yshania, and motioned with her arm… pointing into the darkness…..

Galdervan Rockhome, heart pounding, crept against the rocky passageway. Although the collar that tightly encircled his neck urged him onward…his terror and anguish held him back. It had been this way since his captors had thrust him out into a battle he did not understand. Lacking the time to properly torture him, the hand maidens had devised an equally merciless means of punishing the deep gnome for his “treachery." Visions of the elf maiden’s tears….her terrified screams.... echoed through his mind…. The cruel laughter, like a dagger, penetrated into his skull…. “You do not even deserve sacrifice…cowardly fool… You will be slain by the surfacers for whom you demonstrate such fondness."

Clad in ill-fitting, rusty mail, and a nearly useless dagger in his belt, Galdervan inched his way forward. Then he saw them… a trio of warriors. All were capable fighters. After a moment’s hesitation he made his decision. The large paladin held an obviously deadly weapon…. The deep gnome…now robbed of everything he had held dear…. stepped out of the shadows…hoping fervently for the swift release the lethal blade seemed to promise.

The attack when it came was sudden… nearly unexpected. A small figure rushed at Thalimon…dagger raised in half-hearted menace. Tashara, instinctively reacting, moved to draw her sword. Her blade in mid air…she stopped…. The creature before her was clearly no warrior….. one stroke of her sword would end his life… Compassion gripped her…. Swiftly, Tashara cast “Hold Person.” Confused liquid eyes gazed at her….
Tashara knelt down; gently, she pried the dagger from rigid fingers. “I mean you no harm," she said quietly.

Troubled, she looked at her friends…. “I don’t know what to do now… but I have no wish to kill this gnome…. I sense he should not even be here…”

...the paladin met the berserkers as they closed upon him, spittle glistening in gray beards as they roared their battle cries, caught in the ecstatic rapture of the blood rage...

The duergar farthest to Thalimon's right wielded a massive two-handed warhammer. Just as he entered within the arc of Avenger's swing, he was met by the great sword of Nippy, splitting him open from chin to groin in one fell blow...

The paladin had joined the Dark Guard in facing the tight unit of duergar as they rushed from the main body of the oncoming rothe. Their slave collars were not necessary upon the field of battle, for the berserker slaves hungered to bathe in the blood of the intruding surfacers on their own dark accord, howling with unbridled rage at the sight of the horned paladin and his flaming sword...

Thalimon leapt into the midst of the vanguard, his thakkar piercing the skull of the berserker to his left. Dropping low, he swung Avenger in a sweeping arc, severing the leg of the berserker to his immediate right at the knee. Pulling his short sword free of the duergar's eye socket, he spun on his heels, sinking the blade into the breast of the one legged berserker as he toppled...

The tiefling had sensed, rather than saw, the orc which rushed at him from behind, swinging his flail in circles of spiked death. Using the collapsing one-legged berserker for leverage, Thalimon dropped low again, lashing out behind with both of his booted feet. The connection was both solid and true, and propelled the tusked slave in the opposite direction, slamming him squarely into the rear echelon of the unit amidst a chorus of hoarse yells and surprised howls of pain.

Quickly snapping his knees back in position underneath, Thalimon pulled the Thukariin's blade free of the duergar's chest cavity. Vaulting to an upright position, he lifted Avenger upwards in a slashing arc, severing the arm of another orcish rothe. Thunder roared as the slave screamed in agony, white fire spreading to consume him from the gushing ruin of his shoulder.

The Tharan'tiir descended upon the horde of rothe with a passionate abandon, rending flesh and bone with the slashing fury of the sword-wind...

At Thalimon's side, the paladin Nippy liberated a flanking duegar of his head. Stepping forward into the resulting fountain of blood, he carried through with a savage blow that split the helm of another rothe in two. Spinning to his right, the paladin leapt forward in a blur of motion...

...his foot connecting with the iron jaw of a hulking half-orc slave. The force of the kick sent the rothe reeling backward, spitting teeth and blood in a spray of gore...

The Sand Devil whirled amongst the remaining warrior slaves of the berserker force, limbs flying as the dance neared it's deadly conclusion. Thunder rolled yet again upon the killing field as another soul was sent screaming to the Hells, the holy fire of Avenger consuming the evil of the rothe's soul.

Spinning in a circle, Thalimon slashed into a pair of goblin axemen. Avenger shattered the haft of an upraised axe while the Thukariin's blade blinded the beady red eyes of the axeman's fellow slave. Both fell to the long blade as it cleaved through armor, flesh, and bone.

The dance over, Thalimon and Nippy found themselves standing side by side once more. Together they surveyed the fallen rothe for survivors...

As Thalimon turned to position himself closer to fire-eyes his friend, a motion in the periphery of his vision caught his eye. Looking to the source, he beheld Tashara his sister, signalling wordlessly towards the shadows nearby. Turning to view the object of her concern, Thalimon spotted the stealthy figure creeping towards him...

Arrayed in ill-fitting armor, the assailant charged into the light, brandishing a rusted dagger in his hand. What was most odd about the rothe were his eyes. These Thalimon beheld as pools of light in the darkness of the tunnel, glowing purple instead of red. They spoke of a tale to the tiefling...a tale of sorrow, and of loss, and of a desire for release...

Tashara's spell flashed from behind, striking the attacker with a globe of brilliant light. Glowing bands of the magical weave spread like a net about the rothe, rendering him immobile and sending him crashing forward in a pitiful heap upon the cavern floor.

As Tashara wondered aloud concerning the rothe's fate, Thalimon's attention was riveted upon the gnome's slave collar. In the light of Avenger the dark metal of the encircling band glowed with an aura of enchantment...sheathing the Thukariin's blade at his side, the tiefling knelt before the held gnome as he lie rigidly upon the cavern floor.

Reaching out slowly, Thalimon grasped the cold metal collar between the fingers of his left hand. It was hard and cold...constructed of adamant it was, and infused with the magic of the Drow. Thalimon's eyes narrowed as he sought a weakness in the smooth surface of the flawless band.

Finding none, he turned to move...and once again met the eyes of the Drow slave. Suddenly he perceived that which lie behind the orbs of violet hue...wells of inestimable pain seeking a solace that shall never be found, a life forever lost...the gnome was silently pleading with Thalimon to end his existence here, and now.

There are fates worse than death. This the tiefling knew too well, and looking into the gnome's eyes opened vistas of pain and torment to his mind's eye, burdens that the rothe had borne alone for an inestimable span of years, reaching back into the gloom of the past. The only stain upon this creature's soul was the mark of guilt, guilt that he felt was his duty to bear...

Thalimon lifted the shining sword of Nether in his hand, aligning the flaming blade directly above the rothe's neck. Looking intently into the gnome's terrified eyes, the paladin spoke softly.

"You shall be free, my friend. No longer shall you be bound. But a moment longer, and release shall be yours..."

Closing his eyes, the paladin lowered the brilliant blade towards the gnome's neck...and as the edge of star-metal approached the aura of the Drow enchantment, static power arced in a dazzling display, traveling from the collar to the sword, then from the sword back to the band of enslavement. White fire roared to life along the gleaming length of sword as an audible click sounded in the chaos of the chamber.

Thalimon sighed, opening his eyes once more.

Suddenly, Galdervan Rockhome found he could breathe. Rolling to his left, the gnome scrambled out of the reach of the flaming sword, eyes blinking in surprise at the horned warrior sitting calmly upon the rock-hewn floor. Backing away slowly, the deep gnome instinctively reached for his neck, rubbing where the hot blade had touched his skin...he had thought he desired death, but as the sword of the warrior closed the distance, the gnome realized that he did indeed desire to live, after all...

The svirfneblin was about to flee when the realization of what had just transpired struck him like a bolt of lightning from above. The enchantment of the hold spell had been broken...the deep gnome continued rubbing his neck with both hands as, hoping against hope, he looked to where he had lain just moments before.

There, lying on the floor directly in front of the horned warrior, was the unbroken circlet of his thralldom.

Galdervan Rockhome was free.

Profoundly moved by her brother’s actions, Tashara observed the gnome… the way he stumbled to his feet…the abject dread in his eyes…the shivers that racked his small body. His huge eyes bespoke nightmarish horrors, and bare, trembling arms showed a tracery of scars. The skin about his neck was welted and raw…testimony to recent tortures at the hands of the sadistic elves who had been his captors.

The mage had always struggled in coming to terms with the unspeakable evil that was seemingly inherent to the Drow. She had long searched in her soul the reasons behind their cruel malice and harsh, manipulative ways. Tashara had usually rejected the notion that something could be innately evil, instead believing all creatures to be complex individuals…..each possessing varying shades of dark and light. But as she looked upon the gnome it was difficult to find anything but utter evil in the servants of Lloth.

Again the gnome shivered. Noticing, Tashara reached into her pack and pulled out a spare woolen tunic and a small, red, tear-shaped capsule. She helped the gnome adjust the garment so that it fitted as a makeshift, over-sized cloak and gave him the capsule. “This will help to heal your wounds,” she said softly. As she spoke, Tashara reflected on her words; the blood charm would certainly restore the gnome’s physical health….. but she doubted that anything would ever heal the lacerations that had cut so deeply into his gentle spirit.

Bewildered by so unexpected an encounter after years spent in harshly unremitting servitude, the gnome could only gaze about him…. Overwhelmed by the kindness he had been shown he spoke haltingly in the common tongue. “I thank you…..,” he trailed nervously. Tashara smiled… at him and introduced herself and the companions who stood nearby.

“Well met,” he murmured, still unsure…. “I am Galdervan Rockhome, Svirfneblin I am….”

Glancing about the cavern, she wondered what to do next. As she spied Thantor, the memory of him questioning Aqua Chan about Drow strategies rose in her mind, and she also recalled her friend’s psionic powers. Tashara inclined her head towards Galdervan….. “Come,” she motioned. “There is somebody whom I would like you to meet.”

Tashara led Galdervan to the place where Thantor stood; and made introductions, while also explaining how the gnome had come to be in their midst. Thantor listened gravely……

Slowly, the flow of spiders ebbed off and then it began to rain ... inside a cave? Startled, Mysteria looked up, frantically feeling for the magic of the weave, wondering what she had done now when she saw Dragon Wench ... or rather Tashara, her new old name still felt strange to the ranger, holding up a sort of pendant, obviously the source of the rain. As the drops fell, the remaining spiders dissolved into so much goo, the holy fire of the rain burning them to the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mysteria looked around the cavern, her eyes widening as she saw the fuming carcasses of three huge knights lying on the floor ... well the last one actually looked rather female, but not one bit less impressive. Quite quickly, there was nothing left of them but one dark set of armour with an equally foreboding dark blade. Rapidly, she looked away, for just an instant, they had felt to her like a dark rent in the fabric of the universe, speaking of evil beyond her imagination.

Looking down at her sword covered in spider goo, she suddenly felt quite useless, she acutely aware that evem with her years of forced travel she still lacked the experience and mastery her companions so readily showed. Suddenly, she smiled at the thought that she had come to warn these warriors from undead but a few days ago, wondering if it wouldn't have been fairer to warn the undead instead ... she grinned even more, the thought of undead filth being send back to the grave lifting her heart. Somehow, she was in the middle of a fight she hadn't had any knowledge of, a fight she hadn'd looked for and a fight that seemed to her to be way above her level, but she had found friends now ... she would not let them down. Actually ... it seemed like the fight, or rather this part of the huge fight against the Abomination, had she really not known the existence of this horror but a few days ago?, and the Shadow Master, was already over as the last spiders lay writhing on the floor.

She had barely lowered the tip of her sword when the cave errupted in flames, a raging inferno that made her protectively raise her hands against the heat. With the heat came the acrid smell of burning flesh, for an instant she worried about her companions, then chided herself for thinking them as erratic as herself. True enough, the flames had taken their toll not of her companions, but of a dark mass of ... berserkers, duergars, orcs ...! She jerked her sword upwards, these would die slower then spiders... or so she thought before she witnessed Thalimon and Nippy rushing into battle, cleaving the rothe in nice little chunks. She shook her head, looking around watchfully, but not really thinking that much danger would be headed her way, then got interested by the scene playing between Thalimon, Tashara and a strange sort of gnome. Just too far away to hear their words over the din of battle, she merely watched, enawed by how quietly they acted with ennemies but a few feet away.

The Tharan'tiir's deadly dance was complete, and the carnage around the Paladin's was evident. Gore, vicesera, limbs, heads and corpses littered the battlefield. An almost unnatural amount of blood and violence was let loose upon the world. Nippy was standing silently whilst Thalimon moved away from the battlefield, someplace distant.

Nippy surveyed the battlefield, his eyes ran over the battlefield, not watching. To watch would be wrong, nay, this was... wrong.

On a most profound level, Nippy felt his heart rent asunder. His eyes closed tightly. Trying to shut out the vileness that he had caused. He clawed at his eyelids, trying to scratch out the horrific sight that he, a Paladin of Torm had sworn to never do, to take innocent life.

His mind reeled with a thousand thoughts shattering his very nerves. They charged recklessly through, drunken beserkers on a wicked and wanton rampage. Pillaging, destroying and raping his mind. He felt violated. His mind was awash with guilt. He had never felt this way before. Never in his short life had he seen such evil caused by one that had meant to do good.

A droplet of moisture collected in his right eye. A single tear streaked down from his clenched eyes. Running down its winding path on his cheek. The dirt and blood that had dried on his face was washed away from this single drop of moisture. The tear of an innocent.

He had never meant to do this. His mind again careened on a wanton path. It had no logic, it rushed from place to place. Trying to fight its way to solidarity, but his sould could not let him. He felt the guilt like a weight on his soul. A burden that fell upon him, and him alone. His guilt weighed him down and supressed him. His entire life, his atonement, was it all a sham?

Torm, was Torm really his answer? His life as a Paladin, was it real? Did it mean anything. This battle, it showed to him true guilt. His young heart rushed blood around his body. His mind desperately calling for oxygen. Had he been holding his breath?

He gasped and dropped his sword. It clattered sharply across the dark cavern. The magical steel rang loudly in the echoes of the cavern. His eyes were still clenched tightly. Patterns of light danced across the darkness of his eyes.

He licked his lips and tasted blood. He had bitten down hard and drew his own blood. Was this his price for taking so much life? Did he have to sacrifice his own body to appease the gods? Was retribution served by one man's sacrifice?

His past life. His life gone by. He had taken life then, but he was a thrall. Was it his fault that so much life had been taken by his hand? He could have taken control. He could've been stronger. He should have. So much life taken by his hand. So much blood spilt through his blade. So much guilt upon his young shoulders.

A crushing pain tore through his silent observations. A massive weight crashed down upon his left shoulder, and he felt and heard a massive crack as his shoulder tore from it's socket.

His mouth widened in surprise, and he drew in gulps of air, trying to recover from the shock of the blow.

He turned quickly, his useless arm flopped by his side. A hulking ogre began to swing it's club, but he was quickly silenced by a lethal strike from Nippy's right hand.

Have I done it again? Thought Nippy. Have I taken more life from this world?

His soul felt tortured as he saw the ogre fall and collapse, it's life force gone...

He felt his guilt fill his soul...

Back from obscurity...

...Der-draigen sat shivering under the rocky overhang in the cliff's jagged face. Snow poured from the sky and she huddled against the arctic blasts that drove past the quasi-cave's mouth. Nearly frozen, Der-draigen struggled just to keep breathing; and all the while the same thoughts turned over in her mind: "Where am I? And what am I even doing here?..."

Something had happened to her memory. She vaguely recalled being in a dark underground passage, something akin to a dungeon, and confronting some vastly annoying shadow-creature over some kind of gem or jewel or some such. And then suddenly she found herself here, gods only knew where or how or why; and her mind was a goopy mess. She could barely remember her name and that was about it. Did she have any family? Acquaintances? Relations of any kind?? Was anyone looking for a lost daughter or sister or wife or whatever? Was she missed?

A wolf had run past the cave at one point, stopped and looked at her, then took off again. Nothing in its right mind would be out and about now, in all this, Der-draigen thought. Nothing except me...but who's to say I'm in my right mind either...

It hurt sometimes to try to access the memory part of her brain. One of those times was coming up now. So she huddled further (if it was possible) under the natural shelter and wondered if she should even bother hoping to stay alive.

{ Hello all. I don't mean to interrupt the story or mess anything up, I just wanted to say hi. Feel free to have a mod kick me out if I'm wrecking storylines }