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The Amulet began to blaze like a star, sending rays of brilliant white in every direction. Yshania shielded her eyes against the painful glare as she looked upon the scene before her...the light was growing, and almost seemed to breathe, pulsing with a living energy...

Soon it began to coalesce...drawing together between Thalimon and Tashara (Dragon Wench), forming into a nebulous sphere, Yshania watched as a form began to appear at the very center...

Bells...the sound of tinkling bells began to rise as the form solidified, carried to Yshania on the caress of a warm breeze that began to softly blow in the tunnel, playing gently with her hair...

Thalimon looked up as the melodies of a song drifted to his ears on the wind...a song of the spring, and of the dew that sparkled like jewels on the grass of the meadow in the morning.

She was here.

She was dressed in robes of white, softly glowing in the gloom of the tunnel, and her long, golden hair flowed in the gentle winds that surrounded her. Her palms had been facing outwards, and her face lifted upwards, as she manifested before Yshania's very eyes. She watched wordlessly as Shalimare lowered her gaze, and met her eyes with her own, orbs the deepest blue. Shalimare smiled, and Yshania could not believe how much this...woman...and her friend, Dragon Wench, resembled one another. It was uncanny.

The sense of peace in the tunnel was soothing...Thalimon was filled with a longing, a longing to reach out and touch her...

"Tashara..." Shalimare whispered, reaching out and taking Dragon Wench's hand...

Tashara...... the name cascaded over her evoking warmth, profound security...love. How long it had been since she'd heard the name given to her upon her birth. Dragon Wench began to violently shiver as the full implications of what was happening swept over her...... Teeth chattering, she desperately pulled her cloak more tightly across trembling shoulders...yet no matter her attempts to remedy the icy chill springing from within....profound cold gripped her in an iron embrace.

"Try to drink something..." came a gentle voice from afar..... Instinctively....she obeyed, and uncorked the flask containing Eldaths' water.... Slowly...the pounding in her heart began to subside.... and an indefinable warmth softly penetrated her soul.

Still shaking she looked into the eyes, so very like her own, of the woman who extended her hand..... Her gaze was like that of the ocean...shifting.... reflecting the changing patterns of cloud, azure and velvet starlight....

Then, moving as if in a dream, Dragon Wench took the outstretched hand.....A grip, achingly soft, yet fiercely strong pulled her inwards. Her breathing once more became ragged....like wind scuttling through harshly unyielding northen lands......

"Tashara..." came the fluted reply....

Waves of longing traversed through her.....In a sweeping instant golden hair fused with golden hair.... a tangled swirl in a rush of white.

"Mother..." whispered Dragon Wench into enfolding arms....Finally allowing herself to succumb to the tide that was beginning to draw her, Thalimon and Yshania into its wake....

BS had split from her side to talk to an elven ranger, and Aqua-chan growled low in her throat. She didn't even know why: maybe she was just hungry for attention... Maybe she was just hungry? Her appetite had ways of putting her into snippy moods.

Her stomach then growled. Yes, it was time to search for food.

Instinctively smelling the air she put her nose up higher, but couldn't pick up anything other than human sweat and dead flesh. But there was a hint of something else... She didn't know what, however. It didn't necessarily smell like food, but whatever it was, she had never smelled anything like it before. And to be honest, it stunk, and it stunk badly.

The catwoman began to walk around aimlessly, searching for a source of the unusual scent. Twice she thought the odor was emitting from Gwally, but she eventually determined it was not from him or his pack. ( )

She again headed in a different direction.. The same way BS had gone when he was going to talk to Aegis. The smell was not coming from anywhere around them, but AC did take the liberty to sneak BS's flask of ale from the side pocket of his pack again. Both men were silent, and even though BS didn't notice her there, Aegis did see her. When she felt his gaze on her, she raised the flask, pointed to it and winked. Aegis gave a small nod, and the hybrid was back to looking... or smelling.

She took a swig from the vial and kept walking back to the place where she started from. The scent was becomming less and less noticable as she was getting used to it, so she took a whiff from the ale as well in order to refresh her senses. It was little more than a few minutes later when she was hot on the trail again.

Aqua-chan wound up following the path to the place where T'Lainya had seen the enemy, but didn't go as far as T' had gone. She was careful to be quiet as she crept away from the safety of the group and closer to the danger, and that horrible smell got stronger and stronger! AC had to stifle a gag back... Whatever could make such a smell...

And then she realized. She was in a tight area, and the smell was stronger then ever. Open areas, it was barely noticeable. Curious, AC dropped her pack from her shoulders and onto the ground carefully and opened it. As soon as she raised the leather flap, she pulled back from that absolutely horrid stench.

Digging around, she found that some robes and the pack itself were being burned from within... The heat source was undetermined until the woman found it, glowing hot and burning to the touch. The black key was being cradled in the scorched materials of a once-green cloak, and it glowed with a viciousness that was pretty odd for an inanimate object.

Quickly, Aqua-chan wrapped the key back up in the cloth and carefully tucked the bundle under her arm. The others had to be informed about this...

Dragon Wench sobbed in the white embrace of the glowing vision, as the tinkling of chimes carried on the wind…

"Shhhh, Tashara…it is I…"

An eternity passed as she lay in the white robes of Shalimare come once more, her mother of so long ago, whom she never knew.

Gently a glowing hand cupped her chin, and she raised Tashara’s eyes to her own, blue as a deep summer sky. She caught a tear on her cheek and brushed it away, and smiled as she smoothed her hair.

“Tashara my beloved…long have I desired to look upon you once more. At last we meet, though but for a little while, that I may hold my babe in my arms once again...”

Tashara began to sob once more, but Shalimare hushed her tears, and gazed deep into her eyes...

“You are my little one, my morning star, and I left you in the care of Chesharik the warrior, my dearest friend and companion, ever there in my time of need. He would care for you as I could not…”

Her smile faded…”I was pursued by the old ones, and they would not be stayed, for they gave chase wherever I sought refuge in the Realms. How could I, my morning star, place you in such peril?” She grew silent once more as Tashara/Dragon Wench fell into her arms, holding her fiercely, not wanting her to go.

Shalimare laughed softly…”Beloved, I can only stay but for a short while. Chesharik has done well…” She lifted Dragon Wench gently before her, until they stood eye to eye. She smiled as she laid her hands on her shoulders. “He has done very well. I am pleased.”

Tashara had so many questions…her mind churning, she opened her mouth to speak…but was hushed as Shalimare turned towards Thalimon, kneeling on the tunnel floor behind them, blood streaming from his eyes…

“Always, my son, tears have brought you such pain…” She reached out and placed her shining hand on his shoulder, and called to him, as she had so many years ago. “Thalimon…Thalimon…where have you gone? I have searched the stars themselves for you…”

Her hand swept over his face…and as the gentle breeze washed over him, the blood changed to…tears.

“Tashara’s father was my joy…he was with me in the days of sunshine, in the days of my youth, before the storm clouds came and took him away. And so had I wandered alone after he was taken from me, seeking the ways of forgetfulness, until a voice called to me from afar…

“He stood as the darkest night in the bright light of the day…Alth’zaar he was, and he took me in his arms, and whisked me away from the old ones, to the City of Doors, his home beyond the stars…there, he offered me comfort, but never did me dishonor, for your father, Alth’zaar, was a creature of honor.

“It was his kindness that won my heart…and so you were born, my little tiefling, the child of our love.”

Shalimare held Thalimon’s hand in hers, and looked softly into his eyes. “He is no more, my son. Alth’zaar perished as he made good our flight, for the old ones had found me even there, in the City of Doors.” Thalimon lowered his head once more and wept soundlessly, the tears washing the black blood on his face away...he had never known his father.

“This boon was granted me, beloved, so that I might once more look upon you, my child of dark, and my child of light. The time permitted me has now come to an end, and I must depart this world once more.”

Shalimare stood between Tashara and Thalimon, and held their hands tightly in hers.

“Fare well, my beloved, for the way is before you…dark and perilous, it shall test you, and shape you.” Slowly she looked towards Tashara, and smiled as she looked in her eyes for the last time…

“Look after Thalimon your brother, my morning star. For his lord has now joined his path with yours, and he shall have need of you in the trials that await.” Shalimare kissed Tashara’s hand ever so softly, and turned towards her son.

“Thalimon, my dark one, guard your sister well, and keep her in your heart always. She shall need your arm under her, to hold her up and to protect her, in the Way that lies before you now.” Slightly bending at the waist, she kissed Thalimon on his tear-streaked face.

Yshania stood stunned as the glowing apparition had spoken, and her words had left the druid in disarray, thoughts swirling in her mind as she grasped for meaning. Her friend and long-time companion, Dragon Wench…and the dark paladin, Thalimon…had both sprung from the same womb, this…woman…

Shalimare looked to Yshania as she stood behind Dragon Wench, her eyes rapt with wonder…and smiled. “Yshania, avenger of the balance.” Startled, Yshania opened her mouth to speak…but found that her words had took flight on the musical breeze that surrounded the apparition, filling the chamber with a sleepy warmth.

“Look after my beloved, Yshania.” Shalimare began to fade. “They shall need you…”

“They shall need you.”

Shalimare was gone. With her departure, the musical breeze had subsided as well, leaving the tunnel dark and silent once more. Thalimon sighed.

Dragon Wench opened her hand, feeling a strange warmth tingling in her palm. Her eyes widened as she no longer saw the Drow Pendant, the bloated spider with the glaring red rune. In it’s place, instead, was a tiny tear mounted on a disc of silver.

Yshania exhaled slowly, finding words at last. It was all that the wind of Shalimare had left for her.

“Wow.”

Utterly speechless, Yshania could only feel. Seek the beauty. And at that moment she was sure she would never experience anything as beautiful as this, never sense anything so profoundly moving in it’s innocence. A manifestation from the outer planes should have offended all she believed natural, but the warmth of her presence, the pain of a woman that had earned her the gift to embrace her children one last time. The sacrificial love of a mother passing on this gift to her own, in order to unite two so lost…struck a chord that denied logic and training. Absently she fingered Mari’s pendant, her own gift to her, and smiled. Her cheeks damp with tears she embraced Dragon Wench “My friend” was all she could muster. She turned to Thalimon as he stood slowly to face her, his face as streaked as her own. After a moment they embraced in silence, before standing away. “The fire purifies” she offered, before smiling and inclining her head as she retreated from the cavern.

For a long time Dragon Wench stared at the place where Shalimare had stood...trying to absorb the enormity of what had occurred. Within the space of an ephemeral moment she had touched her mother, breathed in the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin..... Overwhelmed...she sobbed softly....longing for what could never be.

Her vision began to swim before her...and sensing that her balance was about to falter she dropped to the ground.....Head buried into the crook of her arm, Dragon Wench tried to understand...... "Why do those I love always come back from the dead....only to be snatched away once more?" The question went unanswered, but the quiet sound of boots nearby reminded her she was not alone. She lifted her head, and met the eyes of Thalimon. Visage still tear-streaked he knelt beside her..... Neither spoke...words were unnecessary..... In silence they gazed at one another.... time dissolved...a journey into the infinite....

As her breathing steadied, Dragon Wench felt Thalimon's arm gently encircle her shoulders. With care, he helped her to her feet..... His voice cracking, he spoke, "I never knew I had a sister.... Tashara ...like Shalimare...the sound of bells..." Dragon Wench, face muddied and smeared by the grime of battle....by too many tears... could not help but smile at the sound of her brother's voice murmuring her name......the name...the person...whom she had nearly forgotten.

"It is so very long since I have been called by my birth name," she whispered to Thalimon. He smiled...his eyes glowing with an inner light. "It suits you...," he replied.

She looked down into her palm where the amulet lay. The translucent tear drop seemed to speak to her...compelling her to gaze into the crystal.....silver, opal and cyan pulled her into a fiery, yet gentle, depth...as had the eyes of her mother.... Tracing the finely faceted gem, Dragon Wench reflected on Thalimon's words..."It suits you," he had said...... Tashara, the name given to her by her mother....like the gift of life...of herself...asking for nothing in return.... "So many gifts....'" she whispered to the brother who held her near.

Shalimare…

Shalimare, the spring song and starlit night, had called his name once again. As a child Thalimon would often wander in the glade nearby his mother’s cottage, and tarry overlong, well past the setting of the sun. He would play games with the birds of the trees, and sometimes the moon, as he dashed from tree to tree, scaling their weathered trunks, and leaping from limb to limb. He would often try to race the moon as she followed him in the clouds above, though always found she was in perfect step with him. The forest at night fascinated the young tiefling, for it was alive with color to his keen eyes. He would often watch the owls as they sought their quarry in the undergrowth below their lofty roosts, and it was then that he would hear her call his name…

It was a game to the mother and her son, for Thalimon was unnaturally gifted at concealment and stealth, and could move without sound in the expanse of the wooded glade. Shalimare was not gifted as her son was, and so she would never find him…it was then that she would call to him.

“Thalimon…Thalimon…where have you gone? I have searched the stars themselves for you…”

Shalimare never was disappointed, for she was always rewarded with an armful of her little tiefling, laughing with delight at the game they would play under the vault of the stars…

“So many gifts, Tashara…they cannot be measured by time, nor be kept by one heart alone.” Thalimon smiled as he beheld his sister, holding her at arm's length…so alike they were, mother and daughter. Despite this, Tashara represented an inner depth, a serene reflective strength, that was very much her own. The paladin realized, as he looked upon the tear in her hand, that it would take lifetimes to come to truly know her, so deep she was.

“They are ours to share together, for we share this, our common bond. Deeper than flesh or blood it runs, for time itself could not hold the love of our mother, Shalimare…locked within our hearts, and manifested in her gifts to us.”

Thalimon became still, and extended his hand to Tashara. Cradled in the folds of his palm, a single tear trembled as the paladin wept. “Tashara….I can cry.” As the silvery tears streamed down his dark visage, Thalimon smiled. “Weeping has ever exacted a toll from me, my sister… for as it were, my life’s blood was the cost, and pain it’s keeper. When I was but a child she would comfort me as I wept, for the pain was great, and the rivers of blood from my eyes grim to behold. It was her wish for me, that I would be free to weep, either in sadness, or with joy…” His sudden laugh boomed in the tunnel. “By Torm, I can weep for joy!”

He took Tashara’s hand in his, his smile stark white against the darkness of his skin. “I think I should like to weep for a fortnight, in memory of this day, that a mother’s wishes for her beloved might be honored from the halls of time.” Brother and sister embraced once more, and Thalimon wept his tears of joy.

“Keep her tear close to your heart always, Tashara, for it is her gift to you…that you should come to know her, and through her come to know yourself.” They parted from one another at last, and Thalimon looked upon the jewel in his sister’s hand. “I have never seen such beauty, or depth, in a stone before,” he remarked softly. “It radiates light, and an aura of magic permeates that light. It truly is a wonder, that what was once an object of the darkest evil, could transform into such a thing of beauty. I suspect much lies in store for you to discover in her tear, Tashara.”

Thalimon looked over his shoulder to the tunnel, where Yshania his friend had departed not too long before. “Perhaps it is time, my sister, for us to join your friends once more. As my path has been joined with yours, so, too, has my path been joined with that of your company. The Way, indeed, begins there.”

The bright star of the Wrath of Torm burned ever more brightly in his mind's eye. Thau'luthiin. Walk the Way.

sorry to interrupt , but I felt inspired ...

Vivien ... gone. Mysteria still hadn't fully realized what had happened to the cheerful mage when already they raised their glasses in a toast to their departed friend. Looking around, into new and old faces, she slowly counted them off in her mind, finally realizing that Aegis was missing yet again ... where was he? Turning her head, she spotted him leaning against a wall, cutting himself off from them, refusing to join even when she motioned to him. Quizzically, she looked at Bloodstalker at her side, nodding towards the ranger.

Seemingly a man of action, Bloodstalker grinned and moved off the instant he saw the lone elf. Observing them out of the corner of her eyes, she wondered what they were talking about, becoming even more curious when BS came back chuckling to himself. She questioningly raised an eyebrow at him, but he only grinned stupidly back. Again, she looked towards the elf, who had leaned back against the wall, as if trying to meld into it, still worrying her. Finally, she shook her head and turned her back on him, deciding that everybody had a right for some quiet time by himself, even stubborn, strange elven rangers.

Besides, the tail-bearing dark newcomer suddenly fell to his knees and within an instant, his sword shone as if ablaze. Eyes widening, the mage instinctively felt for her magic, slightly relieved by the fact that this time it didn't seem to be her that was causing this strange outburst. Abruptly, the .. tiefling? ... yes, tiefling tore off into the tunnels, Yshania and Dragon Wench following in an instant. Totally surprised, Mysteria stared after them. "What ...?", she looked from one to the other, looking for an explanantion they couldn't give. "Shouldn't we ...?" Gwally put his large hand on her shoulder, "Don't worry, those two", meaning Yshania and Dragon Wench, "can watch after themselves." The ranger nodded doubtfully, supressing the urge to run after them.

Taking a few steps back, she turned around, then decided upon a spot against a stone pillar, rising towards the ceiling and supporting it, where she could keep an eye on their surroundings. Slowly, she placed both hands on her weapons, fingers closing round hard steel ... drow adamantite in her right hand. Baring an inch of the dark blade, she noted the razor sharp edge and the dull glow of the sword betraying the enchantment it carried. Still, it would only be so much dust once they got out of here ... if they got out. She more felt than heard somebody moving close to her, but she didn't raise her head as Fang didn't react hostile, chosing to let the other take the initiative to talk, or to move on.

Scayde raised her glass in the company of her new friends, a toast of well wishes to one of their number now taken away so abruptly. It was strange, she had only met the woman, but such was her kindness, and gentle nature, that Scayde instinctively felt the loss. She was listening to Thantor and T’lainya, but her attention was diverted. Her eyes swept the room. She noticed two men standing together. One tall, one shorter, both handsome, but one having a scar over his eye....She wondered how it happened. Then there was the effervescent young woman standing a little off to herself, a wolf nearby watching her every move. The way she looked up occasionally at the man with the scar...there was a connection. She was looking for the cat person, no longer in view. She could not help being curious about her. absentmindedly she reached out to pat Hunter’s neck, when a rush of wind caught her hair. Turning into it she saw a bright flash of light and an intensely opulent glow radiating from the tunnel beyond. She moved a little in the direction of the light, not wanting to stray too far from the group, but desiring a better view.

Down the tunnel a way, she saw her new friend, the Shaman Dragon Wench, fall to her knees. In a swirl of energy at the core of the light stood a woman. Resplendent in her beauty, she was reaching out to Dragon wench, helping her to stand, holding her close. The Demon-Man, Thalimon it was? Standing near, reaching out to the vision as if to touch his vision of heaven. She remembered the shock of how warm and friendly his hand was when they had been introduced. Not at all what she had expected. And his eyes, green as the sea, but lit from within, ayes of emerald fire rolling across them as he spoke. His face, reassuring while his voice was soft, almost musical. He said he was a friend. She thought to herself...he would not be the first friend that sported a set of horns. His were just more visible than most. At this she smiled to herself. The other woman was there also. Yshania. The quiet one. she had sensed a brooding nature in her. but it seemed to be born of a heart to big, and shoulders used to caring much. Scayde wanted to know this woman better.

As she stood taking all of this in, the vision disappeared, leaving the tunnel again in darkness. She could only make out the forms of Dragon Wench and Thalimon fold together in a tender embrace. Feeling suddenly very out of place, and not wanting to intrude, she turned her attentions back to Thantor and T’lainya. Noticing just to the other side of them a man with a smile that filled the room with warmth, talking to a young man who obviously burned with a rage that frightened her.

She moved closer to Thantor as she continued to survey her surroundings. Such a diverse group of people. So different yet, the same. She remembered a boy from home and held her glass out for more of the orange flavored nectar.

Still overwhelmed, Dragon Wench studied the amulet in her palm.....The crystalline prism, luminescent, refracted a radiance that, she mused, must surely be drawing from a source unbeknownst to her. For the cavern and tunnels that had seemingly become their prison allowed no such light to enter their poisoned depths. The gem held a magic that pulsed with an energy she had never before encountered.....a purity that drew her into its iridescent splendour.

Compelled, she removed her periapt of wisdom....and replaced it with the amulet. A gentle, yet immensely powerful, force surged through her every fibre...and inadvertently she gasped as jolts of unfamiliar magic suffused her heart, her mind...her soul. It was a magic that, at an instinctive level, she quickly recognised as divine in nature. Almost subconsciously, she reached into her mind seeking the spells that she knew now lay within her reach.

Dragon Wench reeled slightly...tracing the subtle weight of the amulet upon her breast, she looked at Thalimon.....the brother she had so long been denied..... her expression conveyed what words could never express. Then she turned into the tunnel, towards the Dark Flames. As if swathed by a celestial mist Dragon Wench and Thalimon moved to rejoin their companions. Her expression still somewhat bewildered, she gazed at each in turn.....and wondered about the force that lay behind them all...that had somehow guided this coalescing of energy, of hope and of healing. For it was this that had always the been at the tightly knotted core that was the Dark Flames. Deep inside...she knew now, with absolute certainty, that a sacred weave was at work....an intricate pattern....a still elusive knowledge that beckoned...a flckering glimpse of the divine.

The Hill of the Skull...Part 2

Continued from above...

The General had anticipated treachery from the Black sorcerer, and his eyes had immediately noted the ridge on either side of the river bed, carved thousands of years ago when this was once the course of a mighty river. Such a ridge would offer an archer a commanding view of the battlefield below.

Leaving Rumnavar in command, the General had dispatched two groups of the deadly Lykanviiri, the rangers of the wastes. One group he would lead personally - the other group would be led by the steadfast Lykanviiri lord Thas. They would position themselves on the other side of each ridge, then advance slowly to the crests, overcoming whatever resistance they might find. Thas was not a man of words, but of action, and resented the commands of the Lords from their shaded pavilions. Yet, he respected the word of this General. He nodded his assent with steely eyes as they parted ways, just as the Tharn-horns of the horde sounded in the Valley of the Skull.

The arrow that had stifled the Rutharg’s command had come from Thalimon’s own Thykiri bow. The second arrow, which had added a finality to the end of the commander’s wretched existence, had been loosed from the bow of Giira, a silent woman of Thas’ own tribe. She was as deadly with her Shiim blades as she was with a bow, and had dispatched two orcish sentries at the outer foot of the ridge with rapid precision, gutting them with her slashing swords.

The Dark Guard’s swords sang from their sheaths as they closed on the orcish archers, who, in a panic, were either fleeing down the rocky inner slope of the ridge, or drawing their own Shiim blades in desperation. Silently the paladin wished his grim comrade on the opposite slope a similar success, and commenced to disembowel a charging orcish archer. Stepping over the corpse, he continued forward as his movements mirrored the Sand Devil of the dune-storms. For Torm…and for the Thukariin.

Within moments, the task was done. His Lykanviiri had disposed of the archers that remained atop the ridge, and had cut down those still within range as they fled below. Looking across the Valley to the other ridge line, he spotted Thas and his band, wiping the greenish blood from their Shiim blades. All had gone well.

Thalimon surveyed the chaos on the river bed, and a sigh escaped his lips. If only I could have reached the summit sooner, he thought ruefully, much suffering and bloodshed could have been spared the People…

Giira’s hand on his shoulder, and her gentle push, directed his gaze towards the summit of the Hill of the Skull. There, surrounded by Flind thralls, stood Ag’thuul the Black. His hand was raised high above his retinue, and was in the midst of uttering words that would bind the magical weave to his will. Dropping his eyes to the base of the Hill, he noticed the Orcish shamans preparing Orog berserkers with the enraging magics of their foul pantheon. The Horse people had met the Gnollish elite in battle, and looked to be faring well…yet the Orog berserkers would press them too greatly. They would be slain as the rampaging Orogs cut their mounts from under them.

The Thykiri were holding on by a slender thread…the magics of the sorcerer, and the raging Orog berserkers, could very well tip the balance in favor of the horde, and all would indeed be lost this day…this, a good day to die.

Looking across the Valley once again, Thalimon noted with satisfaction that Thas stood ready, awaiting his signal. Swiftly he crossed his swords above his head, striking them together twice, and pointed Fiendslayer in the direction of the Shamans and the Orogs. With a similar gesture, he pointed the Thukariin’s short blade towards the summit of the Hill of the Skull.

Thas would require reinforcement. This the General could provide. Looking towards four of his own company, he clasped his fist to his breast, and pointed towards Thas and his band as they navigated the rocky slope of the opposite ridge. Wordlessly, the four leapt onto the inner slope, and moved like the wind to join the Lykanviiri lord.

Raising his arms to meet the glaring disc of the sun, Thalimon began to sing to his lord, Torm the True. Silently his band gathered close about him, forming a ring. They looked upon the Dark Guard as he weaved his song…

His song carried in the wind, and found the ears of Hashareth Nak’ithbiin as he reached the Orog berserker at last. The brute had scattered the group of Seers by slaying two of their number, and was about to give chase when the Thykiri warrior shouted his hoarse challenge. The Orog, turning his helmed head in Hashareth’s direction, roared in response and rushed to meet him headlong, swinging his battle axe in great arcs above his head.

The song of the General reached his ears…and Hashareth the giant smiled. He would meet the Dark Guard again one day, there upon the plains of blessed Thar-illuminiin, where the brave and the true knew rest. Arathor be praised.

It was Rumnavar who saw the dark figure on the ridge first, glancing up after his sword had decapitated a fleeing Gnollish elite. Raising the bloodied blade in a salute to meet Thalimon’s embrace of the sun, he screamed his praise to any god who might be listening, and was answered with a ringing shout from his horsemen.

It was a good day, indeed, to die.

As Thalimon finished his prayer to Torm, the encircling Lykanviir were each struck by a dazzling beam of golden radiance, all emanating from the body of the paladin. Though the beams faded in an instant, each of the rangers softly glowed with a lingering luminescence. They would be better protected against the forces of the Black one now, and each smiled grimly as Thalimon started off to descend the rocky slope into the valley below. They followed him as ghosts in linen shrouds, intent upon one thing, and one thing alone: the Hill of the Skull.

Ag’thuul had completed his binding of the weave, and laughed maniacally as a sphere of fire roared from his outstretched hand, streaking towards the Horse people below. He glanced at the black, glittering eyes of the carrion birds that had landed near the circle of his guards. They watched him eagerly. A smile spread wide upon his scarred face as he murmured softly to the buzzards, “Be patient, ugly ones. Your time shall come. I shall roast your fare for you.”

The sphere had reached it’s destination below, and exploded in a tremendous ball of fire, incinerating Horse people and Gnoll elite alike. The sorcerer chuckled with glee.

Ag’thuul looked back behind his shoulder, where his cloaked companion crouched, the folds of a black robe completely concealing what lie beneath. He smiled again, this time licking his cracked lips as he hissed it’s name: “Ylilothxianliit.”

The robed figure stirred as Ag’thuul returned his attention to the carnage below. “As agreed, you may reap as you may. Be swift.” The sorcerer began to bind another spell, drawing upon the power of his will to shape the weave.

Were it not for the ensorcelled collars about their thick necks, the Flind mamluks would have fled in abject terror long before. Waves of horror issued forth from the robed figure as it rose slowly from the ground, towering above all atop the Hill of the Skull. As it moved towards the edge of the encircling guard, a length of scaled serpentine tail trailed behind, leaving a curious furrow in the sand. Quickly the mamluks gave way before the approaching figure…

The bloody axe of the Orog whistled through the air, hungering to meet the head of Hashareth Nak’ithbiin. Yet it would not this day, for dropping to his knee, the warrior met the berserker’s charge with the slashing edge of his massive sword. The Orog’s intestines gushed from the gaping wound as he charged mindlessly by, grinding to a halt several strides past the giant human. Clutching the bleeding, ropy mass in one hand, the Orog spun drunkenly on his heels, his eyes hollow sockets in his brutish skull. Flecks of blood and frothy saliva sprayed from the berserker’s fanged maw as he coughed forth a challenge, and launched into another frenzied charge.

Try as he might, however, the Orog could not lay a solid enough claim on his freshly liberated viscera, and they slipped free from his blood-slicked hand, trailing behind him as he ran. A look of disgust washed over Hashareth’s boyish features, and he spat as he prepared to meet his foe once again. “Berserkers,” the warrior grumbled with irritation, and spat once more, for good measure. This one shall litter the pits of the hells with his innards, Arathor be praised.

Thas and the silent Lykanviiri flowed onto the field of battle, their drawn Shiim swords gleaming in the sun. Swiftly they closed upon their struggling Horse brethren. The blast of the sorcerer’s fireball had decimated their ranks, and amongst the fallen was Rumnavar, their fearless lord. Thas had seen both the lord and his mount at the very heart of the incinerating fire, and they stood not amongst the survivors now battling the remnant of the Gnollish elite. Uttering a silent prayer for his soul, the Horse lord joined the gathering of lost comrades in the stolid ranger’s heart. The time shall come for mourning. Now, there is only time for vengeance.

To be continued...

The Hill of the Skull...Part 3

Continued from above...

As Thalimon and his select warriors navigated the rocky terrain that led to the Hill of the Skull, a movement atop the crest caught the paladin’s eye. A figure in black robes - something he had not noticed before – emerged out of the circle of Flind slaves that surrounded the mad sorcerer. His steps slowed as he noticed the figure was a span taller than the burly Flind slaves, and watched as they nearly fell over one another giving the figure a wide berth. The paladin began to experience a tingling at the base of his skull as he observed the towering figure raise black arms high above it’s head…

…and disappear in a bright flash of light. Thalimon slowed his pace to a brisk walk as he frantically searched the slope of the hill for the robed figure. It had vanished from sight, and…

The shrill whistle of Giira pleaded for Thalimon’s haste. Yet the paladin raised his hand as a low hiss escaped his teeth, a sign of warning. He focused his concentration solely on locating the robed figure that had apparently teleported out of his sight. Thalimon had come to a full stop now, standing still…and the rangers wondered what could possibly give the Dark Guard reason to halt at a time such as this.

There. The robed figure stood upon the cracked riverbed at the foot of the Hill of the Skull, several hundred feet from where it once stood atop the summit. It raised it’s arms again, and the tiefling’s heart began to hammer in his chest. Giira gazed at him in concern, for she could see Thalimon’s nostrils flare as his breathing quickened. She followed the gaze of his narrowed eyes out to the expanse of the valley below them…

And there she beheld the figure, arms upraised, cloaked in black. Another sorcerer? A priest?

Before the black robes parted, revealing the figure concealed beneath, Thalimon Shestare knew. The tingling had increased to a persistent throb that cried out in alarm, and the adrenaline began coursing through his veins, causing his muscles to tense in anticipation. It had been a legend, nothing but a myth amongst the People told around the cook fires at night to groups of wide-eyed children, that one such as this dwelled here, at the heart of the Hill of the Skull…Fiendslayer began to throb with awakening power against his side…

The robes fell to the parched earth in a heap, and the four remaining arms of the tanar’ri, a serpentine Marilith, sprang from her sides at the ready. Each was armed with a glittering Shiim sword.

The Mukahliin changed the timbre of their singing to a wavering tremolo, and Hashareth felt renewed vigor flow through his massively muscled limbs. Judging the berserker’s blow wild, he swung the great Thuk-shiim at the charging Orog with calm confidence, his feet planted firmly for added stability. This was auspicious, indeed, for the Renewal Song of the Mukahliin empowered the giant’s swing with additional strength. The blade chopped through the Orog effortlessly, cleaving him neatly in two. The upper torso remained in front of Hashareth, dropping to the earth with a wet slapping noise. The lower torso continued for a handful of paces beyond, finally toppling in a bloody heap. The warrior had not the time to consider his handiwork, however, for his brethren cried out for aid as they struggled against more of the accursed Orogs. As he loped off, he felt reasonably assured that the cur’s innards would bake appropriately in hell’s eternal furnace, Arathor be praised.

A keening arose from the Lykanviiri that stood with the paladin on the slope of the ridge. They beheld the demon with their own eyes as well…the appearance of such a thing was an ill omen, a sign that the favor of the gods had left the People. They tore at their linen tunics, beseeching the gods to forgive their trespasses, and looked desperately to the paladin for guidance.

The Dark Guard’s command was swift, and spoken. The silent tongue of the warriors of the waste knew not the perils of the hour that befell the People now, and the Thukariin’s charge knew what course the Way dictated. “Giira,” Thalimon snapped, “go, and take the Hill of the Skull. Leave none living.” Fiendslayer shone brightly as it was drawn from the sheath, and Giira silently understood that Thalimon would not accompany the Lykanviiri against Ag’thuul and his mamluks.

“Thau’luthiin, Dark Guard.” The veiled woman and her rangers melted into the crags of the slope as Thalimon ran like the wind, his legs a blur as he closed the distance that separated him from the Marilith on the valley floor below.

Thas and his men strung their short bows, facing off against the threat of the approaching Orog berserkers. Behind them, the surviving Horse people dealt a swift death to the remaining Gnollish elite. Though the sorcerer’s fire magic had taken their lord from their midst, the mounted warriors had no time to mourn. Instead, their voices rang with songs of valor as their deadly blades decimated the dog-faced troops of the Black one.

Thas emitted a series of clicking noises from his mouth, and the Lykanviiri trained their arrows as one upon the central Orog in the advancing line of berserkers. Another click signaled the release of their arrows, and the brute crumpled in a cloud of dust at the blink of an eye, the corpse bristling with the shafts of 15 expertly placed arrows. The Lykanviiri swiftly restrung their bows. They were good for another volley before they must ride the Dune Storm. As another berserker sprawled lifelessly on the river bed, riddled with arrows, the eyes of Thas were drawn to the six-armed Tanar’ri fiend as she approached, far off in the distance, her serpentine form wavering in the distorting heat of the afternoon sun.

He blinked twice, to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him. They were not. His eyes then swept over the line of berserkers, his mind calculating the time it would take he and his Lykanviiri to dispatch the Orog berserkers. He estimated that the fiend would arrive at their location long before the last of the berserkers fell.

The lord of the rangers was by no stretch an ignorant or unlearned man. His silence was born of the fierce strength of his people, not of a lack for words. He knew well the legends of the vast stretch of the Anauroch that the Thykiri claimed as their lands…and he instantly recognized the approaching fiend as the Demon of the Skull. The sand tasted bitter in his mouth as he discerned this day to be a day of legends, for today the People should live or die by the hand of the Marilith fiend, Ag’thuul the fool be damned. Thas spat. So be it…

The dark form of the running paladin caught the ranger’s eye, to the east of the demon, beyond the berserkers. As he drew his blades and whistled like the Raptu, the hunting bird of the Waste, Thas smiled grimly. He would join his friend against the foe, and gladly die by his side, as soon as he could clear the present threat. Whistling in response, his men drew their Shiim blades as well, and entered the winds of the Storm with their lord.

Dark clouds blotted out the sun above the Valley of the Skull as Ag’thuul the Black, mighty sorcerer of the wastes, completed the weave of the staff’s powerful spell. Nothing could hinder his plans now, and he could watch with satisfaction as bolts of lightning made scorch marks of the puny Thykiri below. He could afford to focus his attention on the actions of Ylilothxianliit at this time, however, and perhaps assist the fiend in some amusing way as she slaughtered the remaining resistance on this, the day of his triumph. Instantly the summoning spell surfaced in his mind, and he grinned with pleasure as he drew within himself, feeling the magical weave gather at his command once again…

The Marilith became aware of the paladin as he approached across the riverbed. His existence was a loathsome blot on the landscape of her broad, ancient awareness, a burr between her scales that irritated the sensitive skin underneath. She must deal with this one, and as he came closer she could hear the beating of the heart within his chest…it was a familiar sound, this pulse…

To be continued...

The Hill of the Skull...Part 4

Continued from above...

Half-breed…

The thought slid like oil across Thalimon’s mind. The Marilith had stayed her advance, and was now facing him squarely. Thalimon came to a halt as well, regarding the greatly feared warrior demon of the Abyss though the haze of the heat. The fear was justified, indeed, for the Marilith was, in effect, several warriors. She wielded each of her swords as a master.

The demoness laughed as the tentacles of her dark mind encompassed that of the paladin. How easily they succumb…

Aaahhh…my little half-breed, have you come to play, hmmmm? Come, then, join with me in an embrace, for I have been ever so lonely, with no playmate for many centuries in this barren wasteland. Come, the sorcerer bores me, he is a fool...

The blazing fire of the paladin’s fury, so fervent that it had propelled him as a wild steed of the Horse people towards his tanar’ri foe, suddenly began to flutter as a breeze began to blow through his vulnerable mind…

Ylilothxianliit smiled, her red eyes deepening in hue. Yes…do you know who I am…Thalimon? The demoness seemed to be shifting in form before his eyes, and Thalimon could not be sure if she had six arms, or two legs, or silky skin of a creamy hue…he could not focus. Giira? Was this Giira? Was he seeking to slay the daughter of Thas?

Her sultry laughter skittered across the tiefling’s conscious, teasing him into locking his gaze with hers once again. I am…whoever you want me to be. Are you fond of the desert whore? Perhaps you seek release, half-breed…mmmmm, I can give this to you, night after night, century upon century, unlike any frail mortal can. Come…

The breeze grew into a steady wind, and the wind began to gust like the gale at sea as the Marilith worked upon shattering his will, leaving his mind putty in her ancient hands…

Darkness closed in upon Thalimon. All that existed was the flame…and the soft, silky voice of the demoness. He struggled to focus on the flame, an urgency growing in his heart…the flame must not be extinguished. As the gale of the Marilith’s storm raged in his mind, Thalimon clung to the flame, sheltering it in his hands, desperately shielding it from the tanar’ri’s withering power.

Her laughter was not so sultry this time as her thoughts again invaded the tiefling’s mind. Hmmmm…you persist, foolish half breed, to avoid endless nights of pleasure in my lair. I wonder…perhaps you desire something else? Again, laughter. Back away from that silly little flame of yours, Thalimon, so that we may commence with our play. I bore of the chase.

The force of the gale again threatened to rip asunder the fragile fabric of the paladin’s mind…but still he endured. As he endured, so did the flame. It began to grow in intensity once more, and things began to stir within the depths of his being. Though the winds raged and the ground shook, Thalimon could not be moved…until the heat of the flame began to burn his flesh. Backing away, light again flooded the chamber of his mind…to reveal a carpet of serpents surrounding him and the flame. He drew his swords with a shout, and began to hack at the writhing reptilian mass…

The Marilith shrieked with rage, withdrawing her mind from the assault. Her voice rasped and hissed venomously in the Dark Guard’s ears…”Fool! You cannot resist me! I, Ylilothxianliit, shall rend you limb from limb, and shall devour the flesh off your bones, and shall drag your mewling soul to the depths of the Abyss! I shall then devour you again and again at my leisure, for your maggot infested soul shall be but a lemure, blind and helpless, forever condemned to rot amongst the writhing mass of my cattle!”

Her swords waved menacingly in the air as she began to trace the patterns of a spell…but her gaze was diverted by the white hot brand in the paladin’s hand. It had been veiled to her before now. Why did she not notice it? What manner of magics did this puny paladin wield? Her concentration broken, the tanar’ri hissed, “What is this, half breed? Why do you bring this before me?” Her delicate nostrils flared as she sniffed of the air…then her eyes blazed a searing crimson as she snarled, arching back in revulsion.

“WHAT IS THIS? YOU DARE TO BRING THIS VILE THING IN MY PRESENCE? I…I…SHALL OFFER YOU TO THE PRINCE HIMSELF, MORTAL! DIE! DIE!!!

“Your blade shall not harm me! Witness the power of Ylilothxianliit, fool!” Her swords once again traced a pattern in the air…

Thalimon, snapped back into action by the screeching tirade of the Marilith, closed his eyes in prayer to his lord, Torm. His every blow need strike true in order to vanquish the warrior demoness, and he would have need of strength to match that of the tanar’ri, who towered a span above him. Opening his arms to receive the blessing of the True, Thalimon was infused by a dazzling beam of light from above. The strength poured into his body as light shone through every crack and crevice in his mail armor…his muscles swelled as power surged through him, the gift of the Holy Might of Torm the True.

He opened his eyes once more and brought his swords to bear against his foe. He would dance in the heart of the Storm…

T’lainya watched Dragon Wench and Thalimon walking down the corridor towards the group. She was struck by the radiance on DW’s face and the almost tangible connection between her friend and the paladin. The glow of celestial grace was upon the pair, as clear to the priestess as the sun. She felt the beauty and grace of the outer planes as a ray of summer sunlight through the leaves of a great oak, warm and uplifting. She had a mental image of Arvandor, green glades filled with a riot of colors and scents; grass as soft as velvet on bare feet. She could hear the sweet singing of the thrush and meadowlark and was struck by a longing to leave this plane. She shook back the thought; she knew the peril of heeding that siren call. Elves were very hard to call back to the prime plane for a reason. She enjoyed the moment of her friends’ happiness. Too soon that joy would be in danger.

The thought brought back her surroundings along with the vile assault on her senses. T’lainya passed a weary hand across her forehead, attempting to will away the throbbing pain in her skull. The stench of rotting meat from the abomination still filled her nostrils and permeated her awareness with a dark haze. Another flash of pain as a voice echoed in her brain, deep and sonorous, slicing through her thoughts.

“There must be an end to this, the weave is jeopardized. Your way is my will and your faith is my strength. As your power springs from me, thy love and faith are my nourishment. Look to the symbol you hold, for your choice will be irrevocable.” So spoke The Protector and the priestess was awestruck.

She had felt the presence of her God before but never so near, so focused. She steadied herself against the fear and doubt that assailed her. “Was she strong enough? Could she stop the abomination with the help of the Dark Flames?” She knew that her allies and friends were strong and she would not exchange her companions for any in the realms. Not only for their strength and skill in battle, but for the love and friendship between them all. Their bonds were stronger than any terror forged chains the Shadowmaster or Lolth might create. T’lainya straightened herself and touched the silver moon symbol at her throat. She felt the azure star suspended there start to spin on an invisible axis and she smiled. She would fulfill her mission and uphold the tenets of her faith in this life and in the beyond. The priestess stood still for a moment that could have been eternity then turned to the others.

“It is time.” Her voice was low and resonant and oddly emotionless.

As Scayde stood in the company of the Dark Flames, listening to their shared remembrances of their missing friend, she was caught up in the distant stare of the Priestess, T’lainya. In her steel blue eyes raged such emotion, It was if she were staring into time itself, and beyond. Their depth captivated Scayde. She could not help but wonder what thoughts played on behind these windows to the soul.

She felt reassured by the warm smile of Thantor. This was a person who emitted goodness and she felt safe in his presence. She stole a glance again at the big man standing with the young knight? His broad smile warmed her heart. She mused to herself, if she must be lost in another dimension, at least she had been blessed with good company.

Her attention turned again to T’lainya. The far off gaze perked her curiosity and she traced the line of sight to where she saw the three companions returning from the far end of the tunnel. She remembered without remark the spectacular scene she had witnessed unfold. Such a strange world she found herself now in. Did this sort of thing often occur? She wondered.

She noticed the face of Dragon Wench. The sadness which had been so remarkable before, now seemed to be gone, replaced by complete serenity, and childlike joy. Her eyes absolutely sparkled with elation. And the demon-man with her was wearing a similar expression. His smile shinning like a beacon against his sun darkened face. His eyes glowing a brilliant green, the light flashing in them with such intensity. Scayde felt she was gazing into the eye of a hurricane. This man disturbed her, but it was not really fear. She remembered the strength in his hand, and somehow sensed that he meant her no harm.

She saw Yshania walking alongside the two. She seemed to be in a bit of a daze. Maybe this was not so common a thing after all. She felt for the woman who seemed to bear so much in her manner, yet carried it so quietly.

Just then she was startled by T’lainya’s words, “It is time.”

Scayde turned her attention back to the group.

“Time for what”? ...

Upon reaching her comrades Dragon Wench searched for her pack and with a renewed vigour went to sling it over her shoulders…… Much to her profound shock, it did not move; indeed the sudden tenderness in her arm and shoulder indicated that she had hurt herself in attempting to lift so heavy a load. Puzzled, she flexed her arm…..and then suddenly it dawned on her; Shalimare’s amulet, in addition to granting powerful new magics, had reduced her strength. She grinned somewhat ruefully, remembering that powerful enchanted items, especially those touched by the gods, often reminded those wielding them of their innate weakness and mortality.

Sighing, Dragon Wench knelt beside her pack in order to see if anything within its interior could be jettisoned. Her elven chainmail, she realised, had in her earlier bid for death, become damaged beyond repair. The memory of that dark moment caused her shudder, and it was with relief that she placed it on the ground nearby. Another damaged set of armour made its way to the surface of her pack… and the metallic clink of mail hitting mail indicated her disposal of yet more equipment. “Ouch!” She exclaimed, as her hand grazed against something sharp. With a yank, she pulled out a nondescript magical axe. Although Dragon Wench had hoped to sell it, she cast it aside, knowing fully that she could not hope to continue dragging around nonessential gear if she was to immerse herself more fully within her growing magical powers.

Another foray into her pack revealed a finely-wrought shield. An intricate design of swirling crimson dragons adorned its face, while a silvery background depicted a landscape of seemingly infinite peaks rising to meet a setting sun. A wistful smile came to Dragon Wench’s face as she recalled the moment Chesharik had so proudly presented it to her upon the completion of her fighter training. During her early years, owing to a naturally high dexterity and agile build, she had shown considerable aptitude for petty thievery. Chesharik, however, being a warrior of the Lawful path, had done his best to guide his unruly young charge into the discipline of the sword. Though she had protested, claiming insufficient strength, Chesharik had persisted, knowing that a nimble body could best even the strongest of fighters. In time, the frequent practice and accompanying exercise had increased both her strength and stamina; eventually she acquired a love for combat…and came to enjoy the deadly dance of the sword. The shield, though offering significant protection, was an item Dragon Wench rarely used. She preferred instead to either employ her bow, or to remain relatively unencumbered. Yet…..she knew she could never leave it behind….Quickly brushing away a tear…. she placed the shield into her pack and wondered if the old warrior still lived….

Gingerly, the mage attempted to lift the worn leather pack, and smiled as it moved easily over her shoulder. From across the cavern, she spied Aqua Chan gesticulating frantically, and furiously waving something around. Curious, she walked over to the druid and asked to examine the oddly-shaped bundle. The key, once it emerged, still burned hot, and Dragon Wench found she had to drop it from palm to palm in order to avoid it singing her flesh. Though her many years of mage training had provided Dragon Wench a high lore, the qualities of the strange item eluded her….. Faintly irritated, she cast the one identification spell she kept handy for such occasions….. Sharply, Dragon Wench drew in her breath as the knowledge of what lay in her hands became clear.

Unsteadily she spoke to Aqua Chan….”Where did you find this?” The hybrid’s reply confirmed her suspicions and with haste she approached Thantor and T’Lainya.

The Hill of the Skull...Part 5

Thunderheads loomed above the Valley of the Skull. Hashareth Nak’ithbiin looked up as a raindrop splattered on his mailed shoulder. The southern end of the Valley was shrouded in gloom...and the storm clouds above churned in wrath, lit from within by their fury.

The son of Nakhur cared little for omens. The battlefield was filled with his foes, and there was much work to be done. The orc's black blade slashed at his arm, drawing a slim line of red as it traveled across his bicep, slicing across his elbow...

In a rage, Hashareth's stricken arm left it's hold on his massive sword, and engulfed the orc's neck with the hand attached at the far end. Snarling, the warrior lifted his struggling enemy from the ground...the cords in his neck bulged as the orc's legs began to wildly flail...

With a sickening crack, the life left the eyes of his orcish foe. He hurled the corpse headlong into a tight group of Orogs to his left. Before the missile struck the Orog commander, his hand gripped the Thuk'shiim once more.

Dogs.

Upon the parched bed of the ancient river Tal-Fienel, another sphere of fire belched forth searing heat. This time, mayhap, it had missed the mark, for it had exploded beyond the din of battle near the foot of the Hill of the Skull. As the ball of fire spent it's heat on the plain, however, it became clear that it had not expended itself in vain. Standing in the soothing warmth of the day was another serpentine horror, shrouded by a cloak of licking flames. It held a massive spear of iron in taloned hands...

Ag'thuul howled in triumph as the Fire Salamander, the creature of his summoning, roared into existence below. He lifted his staff high, preparing to blast the dark warrior below with a bolt of anti-existence...he would deny the Marilith this one. Yes, he would. This day was the day of Ag'thuul Shar-Zalithash, mightiest of the Black Robes, the long-forgotten brotherhood of ancient Thuul. It's long history was bathed in blood, glutted with the hearts of the weak and pathetic who screamed upon the altar of the ruined temple, soiling themselves as Ag'thuul raised the Kris blade high...

The Flinds began to howl in agony. Ag'thuul turned to the whizzing sounds of many arrows, sinking deep into the coppery flesh of his thralls. Ghosts began to materialize on the crest of hill, surrounding the sorcerer and his mamluks with their veiled faces. They drew their Shiim blades, and silently advanced.

"Attack!" The slender man screamed at his mindless mamluks. He could not believe this...they dare to strike? To strike at ME? His innards churned at the outrage, and quickly his mind brought forth the spell that would protect him from the insolent menace that had torn him from his amusement.

A shimmering blue aura enveloped the Marilith as she completed the casting of her spell. Her hissing laughter reached Thalimon as he approached for melee.

"Pathetic weakling! I shall carve your carcass as you impotently flail upon me with your blades...your spells shall avail you nothing against my magic!"

The eye of the storm opened up before the Dark Guard. There, at the center, stood the Thukariin, the master of his youth. His dark eyes silently regarded him as the Sand Devil approached. They beckoned him - nay, challenged him - to come and dance with him in the stinging sand. One last time, one last test...then the pupil would no longer be bound, but would himself be the master.

The Thukariin drew his blades...and in response, Thalimon drew his own. So it began.

The Marilith launched into a flurry of whirring blades, seeking to overwhelm her obviously lesser opponent with attacks from every angle, and great strength. Thalimon responded by settling in to the pattern of the winds surrounding him, and met each sword with his own. His arms moved in a blur as he parried her every blow, the ringing of the blades reverberating in the silence of his mind as he steadily gazed upon the flame. He would not observe the Thukariin himself as he danced with his blades, but rather would connect with the flame, and in this way he would meet the warrior upon the dunes.

Through the brilliance of the flame of his soul, Thalimon began to seek the Way to the Marilith's seething hatred. She was ancient, the victor of many a battle. He could sense this keenly as her Shiim blades sought the paths of least resistance. It was all he could do to meet her attacks, at the moment...it would be enough.

Ylilothxianliit did not anticipate the speed of the half breed. It maddened her to no end, for in his parries she sensed he was measuring her, and holding his own attacks in reserve. Venomous spittle trickled from her sensuous lips as she hissed with rage. This wretched little insect obviously did not comprehend her power...his indifference unleashed the Marilith's horrible, black hatred, and she suddenly struck out with a fist, seeking to lure him into avoiding the blow...

The Thukariin sought to lead Thalimon against the winds of the storm as his blade glinted in the sun, casting a shadow upon his face. The peril from above, however, could not match that from below. The young paladin saw through his ruse...

As the Marilith's fist streaked towards his face, Thalimon saw the opposing blade arc towards his midsection. Accepting the blow on his jaw as the lesser of the two evils, he arched his midsection back, denying the Shiim of the demoness purchase. The fist then slammed into him like the club of a Rock Giant, tossing him backwards from the sheer power of the blow. The Marilith shrieked in frustration as Thalimon tumbled on the river bed, out of her reach. As the roll terminated he sprung to his feet, his blades at the ready. He could only see the flame.

Thas waded through the roiling sea of blood and steel. The berserkers were fierce foes, and shrugged off the lacerating keeness of the Lykanviiri Shiim blades with a mindless rage. The ranger lord sank his blades to the quillons into a fallen Orog, preventing him from rising again. As he pulled his blades free, he spied the summoned monstrosity of the sorcerer making it's way towards Thalimon and the Marilith.

His friend was hard pressed, and Thas would stay his hand no longer. Leaping free of the hulking brute at his feet, he raised his hand into the air...

The barren land of the Waste responded to his cry. In the sky above the Dark Guard and the Demon, winds brought forth dark clouds...rain-bearing clouds. With a shout, Thas ran to meet the Fire Salamander.

His men shouted in unison as they beheld their lord rushing to join the General in battle. "Thau'luthiin!"

While Gwalchmai discussed sneaky tactics with Nippy, he noticed that everyone else was suddenly talking in hushed tones. They seemed sad and unsure. Several of his friends broke out some booze and began a toast of some sort. He felt confused, and felt left out in a way. Finally, Gwalchmai’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked no one in particular, “What’s going on?” Someone explained that Vivien had gone.

Gwalchmai stood frozen amid his friends, activity and conversations taking place all around him as if in fast-motion. His jaw worked without forming words. Somewhere, somehow, it felt as though a sledge hammer had smashed his heart, yet it wasn’t his heart, rather someone else’s heart that lay a soggy mess on a white marble floor. A crack in the floor widened, or he seemed to shrink, and he fell into that yawning chasm. It smelt of dust. Falling wasn’t so bad once he got used to it, and he was grateful to be too small to be noticed. But the enormity of it all loomed large in the pit of his stomach, and his heartbeat sounded like the snapping of a bowstring. Dull orange and dark brown were the colors of the day, yet ugly yellow botches filled his vision with every slow snap.

Breathing seemed to be an unusually complex affair. He had to command every muscle individually to contract or expand so that air would enter and leave his lungs in a semblance of life. A disembodied hand reached out, ethereal traces of energy some how connecting the hand to his own body. A voice spoke from far away “Don’t worry, they can take care of themselves.” He knew the voice referred to several of his friends who were now apart from the group. Colored lights flickered where they were; lights that Vivien would have declared ‘pretty’. However, those people were as disconnected from him as their actions were from anything else. Overwhelming loneliness swept over him, like a child lost in a store not knowing where his parents had gone and everything seeming too big.

Then the hand connected with Mysteria’s small shoulder, and a final snap made his arm solid again. That familiar, sensual center flooded his being like an electric shock shivering from Mysteria’s wild feminine core to his own. The brief contact with a living being focused his mind back on reality, to the task at hand. “She’ll be back,” he said to himself with a conviction born of delusion.

The passage of minutes were never to be regained, a feeling of disconnect leaving a hole in his soul. Events had spun without his involvement, and he could do nothing to relive them. Important things had no further meaning than the abstract concepts invoked by mere words. Meaning must be found elsewhere. “She’s just on the other side,” he said to himself, finding the answer, “waiting for us.”

“Time for what?” Scayde said, her red hair bespeaking long forgotten traditions amid standing stones.

“Time to kill the enemies,” Gwalchmai answered, the need for action paramount in his mind. “Yonder lies a cavern, with an Abomination on the far side that requires killing. Yet Thantor claims there is a trap between us and it. We must get through both the trap and it before we can get to the other side. We cannot reach the Abomination without going through the trap. We cannot enter a trap blindly. We need more information, though I am willing to proceed without that information if we do not get it soon.”

Gwlachmai labored to breath after having spoken so much without pausing. A moment passed, again it was lost to time. Then he looked up and to the left, as if something caught his eye. “I feel like some really good cheese.”

Thalimon's reverie was broken as he heard Gwalchmai speaking to Scayde, his voice fierce in the chamber of the pool. He looked upon the woman once again...and was drawn to the memory of their meeting. Her touch had been electric as she had accepted his outstretched hand in hers, and the moment was forever preserved in the halls of his mind. It was much like being at the very center of a storm. Though the winds howled all around you, you were adrfit in calm...nothing could harm you there. Her other-worldliness seemed to intensify the experience...

He looked to Tashara, his sister, and bade her farewell for the moment. The druid's proclamation spurred his thoughts forward, and he fervently wished to begin the journey that would lead them to the source of the evil in these accursed tunnels. He suspected that much more than the Abyssal portal was involved in the machinations that moved the dark elves.

As Thalimon approached the group, Nippy immediately caught his eye. His aura was plainly visible to him...this one bore the mark of the True. Could it be?

Never had the tiefling encountered a kindred soul on the path of duty. He had known many brave souls, indeed, along the Way which Torm had guided him upon...but never had he met another on the same path.

It is a good day, the paladin thought as he stood before the druid and Scayde.

"I am Thalimon Shestare, servant of Torm, my friend." Thalimon extended his hand to the druid. "I hear your words. They ring true in the gloom of these tunnels, for the time is indeed at hand to strike."

Thalimon looked at Scayde, and smiled. "I am at your service, friends, however I may be of aid to you."

Gwalchmai took the Plane-Touched hand automatically, wondering why this man was being so formal. Perhaps Thalimon was trying to somehow assert himself into some position of superiority by showing off his assets and endowments? The Teifling’s hands were indeed very large and powerful and Gwalchmai was taken aback. However, he also noted that the Teifling’s skin was very rough and calloused. This potential usurper may be able to give excellent massages, but Gwalchmai knew that he would never be able to administer to nude subjects. “That’s what comes of playing with your sword too much, I guess!” he mused to himself.