Crystal

Hey everyone, I decided to try my hand at a fan fic and here it is - the first chapter. It is based around characters of some of the members of the guilds I've been in over the months. I wasn't sure which site I should post it, but I'm trying here for now Comments and crits are most welcome. Now sit back and I hope you enjoy!

Copyright Stuff: All the writing below is original where everything is concerned save for the GuildWars world of Tyria and their related characters. Please don't distribute this story or make any other copies without my express written permission. Feel free to save it to your computer, once you give due credit please. Please read the terms and regulations of Guru on respecting the posts of others. I still retain all the intellectual property for the writing, as the terms of Guru allow.

Crystal

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half-veiled face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shred,
Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.
~ John Keats ‘To Hope’

Khamsin

Light burst through cloud, great arms of luminescence reaching towards the earth. He raised his arm and shielded his eyes from the glare and prepared himself for the onslaught of heat that would soon follow. The air was dry and windswept sand gnawed at his face and bit its way through to his elbows, fingers and toes. He stepped back under the cool haven of his shelter. The palm and fingers of the great hand now above him protected him from the sun – ever it reached skywards – vainly grasping for the home of the gods.

Sighing, he stooped down low and once again examined his small collection of treasures as they rested in orderly piles near the base of the great hand. His gloved hand moved through them swiftly, pieces of gold and silver, odd artefacts and an assortment of large jaws. They were all useless, save for the cash, but he liked to have them with him, they reminded him of battles fought, and the reason why he was here. There was nothing on the horizon, nothing but empty, barren hills of sand and the half-imagined apparitions of men that seemed to trail him.

Moaning he rose and stretched, looking out once more towards the horizon. As usual, nothing met his eyes. This was odd. Cursing, he sat down next to his treasures and took one of the artefacts into his hands. The egg-shaped item rolled in his palm, and the eye looked at him beneath a cover of glass.

“Strange little thing,” he murmured, “An eye in the desert.”

A gentle, arid breeze swept through his little haven, sending irritating amounts of sand flying onto him, forcing him to wrap his cloak about his face. On it laid the Red Phoenix, soaring from the midst of a storm. It was on the reverse side, so that it would not reveal him against the canvas of golden sand. The thought of it brought back memories of green fields and flowing rivers, fruit trees blossoming in fine spring and cool breezes in summer. But that place lay far away, in the distant past of his mind’s eye.

Suddenly his eye whipped to the east, and he beheld her again, as she moved deftly over the sands, heading for the large mesa that lay some ways north. Shorter but longer than Augury Rock, the mesa was the only thing besides the fallen statues of great men and women that broke the scenery of endless, rolling desert. Ruined buildings, riven rock, smoothed by sands and time, and fallen statues littered the area around the mesa. In centuries past this place must have been the centre of some ancient civilization. A small, almost indistinguishable doorway led into the depths of the mesa; leading to places he had no immediate intention of seeing.

“Ah, there you are, stranger. You won’t long escape me,” he breathed dryly.

Deftly he packed his possessions, gathering them in his small backpack. After taking a quick draught of water from his canteen, he was off, darting down the hillock. His feet hardly made impressions of the sand, and it looked as though his prey left none at all. Curse her! She was moving impossibly fast, making him feel as though he were running backwards. The shifting sands and the searing heat did nothing for him.

Gods, I wish I were a couple shades darker. Then I would be able to stand this cursed heat.

In a matter of minutes his prey had neared the mesa, and already she was beginning to enter into the pool of shadow that it cast before it. He was gaining ground, just one more blasted dune and he would be within stone’s throw of her. He rounded it and found himself in an empty land, totally devoid of sand dunes and free of statues. He suddenly realised that he was as exposed as a naked man in Lion’s Arch. Oh shit. He grabbed his cloak. Suddenly she stopped and spun around, as though she heard a noise, her eyes sweeping the entire landscape behind her. After a while she turned and continued towards the mesa, disappearing into the small, ruined doorway.
He sighed and cast his cloak from about him, staring after her as she vanished from sight. “Thank Melandru for this cloak!” He rose and scooted across the clearing towards the small door.

“Why did you have to go into this dark place, woman?” he muttered, looking inside at the semi-darkness. The door revealed a narrow hallway that cut deep into the mesa, running for what he hoped would not be a long distance.

The wind was really beginning to pick up, now. As he turned his face skywards, his body was pelted with fine grains of sand, each a minute crystal. A large, red-orange cloud was billowing in the west – the wind driving it towards the mesa. His clothes whipped about him viciously and the sand dunes disappeared into fierce waves of dense cloud. A storm was coming.

“Well, there’s no way back, now. Onwards then!” he said to himself. Breathing a prayer to Melandru, he turned and headed into the darkness.

~ * ~

“He isn’t here? What do you mean he isn’t here?”

“I’ve looked all over this accursed camp and I haven’t found a sign of him, Karak. No one seems to have seen him either.”

“The fool!” Karak grunted, stretching his legs and taking another long draught of beer. “He had better not be dead, or else I’ll kill him!” he swallowed and sighed, “By the benevolent gods of bad luck, what next, Farrion?”

Farrion studied Karak darkly and then threw himself on a patch of grass beside him. He glanced up at the sky and realised that evening was quickly approaching. Many travellers were bustling about the oasis, most coming with the hope of transforming the old port into a thriving city, some looking for lost treasure and game and a few seeking Ascension. He was there for neither – he came to rescue a friend.

Karak belched and swore next to him. “Our lives are quite a mess, aren’t they?”

“How so?”

“Ascalon’s in shambles and civil unrest in Kryta – both in which we played a part – our guild is fallen, and now Cyn is gone. Vanished without a damn word. By Balthazaar! What next? Eh Mister Neightswift?”

Farrion sighed slowly and fetched a cigar from his pants pocket. Lighting it, he settled to inhaling the richly flavoured smoke; reminding him of the frigid wastes of the Shiverpeaks, despite the warmth. They had come far, he and Karak, through much…much more than he was ready to think about. Why had Cyn run off so suddenly? Where was he headed? And most importantly, how by Lyssa did he manage to traverse four realms spanning the entire continent so damn quickly?

A gentle breeze stirred in the south, bringing with it a scattering of fine stones and sand. Heat was slipping away into the cloudless sky, and as darkness settled deeper around the oasis, the grasping fingers of cold stroked his face. Suddenly Farrion realised that nearly an hour had passed – his cigar lay spent on the grass beside him, torches were burning brightly on posts dotting the oasis and Karak was snoring loudly on his other side. The Mesmer stood and dug his foot into the large warrior.

“What the fuh ––.”

“Come on Karak, lets find somewhere proper to stay for the night. Something’s not right.”

“I’m quite fine where I am, prissy-man,” Karak snorted, massaging his eyes.

“Any other time I would have left you, but…something’s not right. There something like arcane power in the air, but I can’t put my finger on it!”

“Arcane what?” Karak sat up and considered his companion. “They’re lots of arcane people around here – Eles, Mezzes, Monkies, you know, even those ghost-men. Maybe you’re just picking them up.”

“I think not. I would know if it were them,” Farrion gazed skywards once again. Upon the ever darkening tapestry of ink tiny freckles of stars were appearing, and the dying moon in the east glowed a deep yellow. Mingled voices filled his ears, and the air felt cold and arid…yet…something seemed out of place. Being an avid student of deception and domination, Farrion knew when things went out of control. And tonight something is definitely out of control.

Three sharp gusts drove through the oasis, whipping the open flaps of the tents and the clothes of adventurers like flags. Men and ghosts rushed to secure the flimsy shelters, whilst others gathered their clothes about them and hurried into the growing darkness as torches wavered and failed.
Karak rose, his massive bulk towering over the Mesmer, and picked up his battle-axe from the ground beside him. Grabbing Farrion with a large, meaty hand he spoke quickly, “Let’s get the heck inside the main tent. There’s a storm coming.”

“Yes. One hell of a storm.”

Ok let me take the time out to thank all those guys that allowed me to use their characters in my story - Farrion Neightswift, Karak of Egilos, Pvt Habib and Heavens Hurricane. They're more and I will credit them as they appear, but those are the four prominent ones for now (of course there's Cyn Eaver, but that's my char ). Well everyone here it is, Chapter 2. This one is pretty lengthy, but I hope it keeps your interest. I plan to post a new chapter at least once a week from now on, probably bring the entire story to about ten or so chapters.

Lidless Watcher

The main tent hummed with activity as Men bustled to and fro like mindless ants. Light flickered madly as torches were abused by the harsh wind that found its way inside. Amidst the confusion that met his eyes, Karak saw a mostly unoccupied table near to the centre. The four central posts supporting the roof of this massive tent surrounded it on all sides.

He and Farrion started towards the table, with him leading and ploughing through the crowds, parting them like steel through flesh. Most of the faces he passed were blurs save for those of the strikingly beautiful women. They were not many of them this end of the world, but enough to have him grinning to himself when they eventually reached the central table. Farrion took a seat immediately, but Karak remained standing and deeply inspected his environs.

Besides the women, no one else stood out from the crowd. Warriors in intricately crafted armour walked about aimlessly, talking and laughing drunkenly. Elementalists of every type mingled at the tables, sharing thoughts and creating small examples of their element for sport. Small flares jumped and fizzled, ice suddenly formed from thin air and a tiny lodestone formed at the fingertips of a dark-skinned elementalist, drawing nearby forks and spoons towards it. A beady-eyed Necromancer brushed past him, hunched-back and hobbling more than walking to chat with a colleague at a nearby table. The Rangers were few, and none even bore a passing resemblance to Cyn Eaver. Not that Karak would have even had a chance to find him in a place such as this.

“That’s a really cool axe! May I see it?” Came a soft voice to his immediate right.

Karak whirled around – maybe a tad bit too fiercely – for the young elementalist that stood at his side bounded backwards in shock, and would have tripped over his own feet had he not grabbed onto the main post close at hand.

“Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to scare ya’.” Karak said.

“Oh, um, it’s ok, fool,” the elementalist replied as he regained his vertical balance, “I just wanted to take a look at your axe there. Never seen any like it before!”

“You just called me a fool?” Karak’s eyebrow rose as he rested his right hand on the pure gold hilt of his axe.

“Yes…I mean, no! I didn’t mean like that, I just say it. It means nothing!” the young man stared at the axe as though any moment it would go tearing into his bowels.

“Then don’t say it if you don’t mean it, kid.” Karak unclipped his axe and held it out in both hands for the elementalist to see.

“That’s so tight, man! Where did you get it?”

“A very lovely demon-lady gave it to me as gift in the Fissure of Woe. It’s a long story so don’t bother to ask about it.”

The young man’s mouth hung open and he stared wide eyed at the massive warrior, whose arm was easily the size of three of his. Karak smiled and replaced his axe.

“What brings you to the desert boy?” he asked, turning his gaze towards the main entrance. The half open flaps shook violently, as though Balthazzar himself was trying to wrench them from their supports. The wind howled and screamed outside, and only swirling sand met his eyes as they strayed to the open space between the flaps. The storm was getting worse. And here I am, in a bloody tent.

“I’m searching for the Vixen’s Heart,” the young man replied, trying ineffectively to hide his excitement.

“The what?” Karak replied, bringing his gaze back upon the boy. He seemed closer, as did everything in the vicinity. The roof seemed lower – the ground closer. For some reason he felt claustrophobic, as though someone was scrying him.

“Well, we don’t know what it looks like exactly, but it’s legendary! Do you want to hear the story?”

Not really. Karak thought. “Umm, yeah, why not?” he said disinterestedly. His eyes went to the far corners of the tent. His feeling of claustrophobia was growing!

“Well, one day long ago there was a Forgotten. You know, those snake-things? Well, she fell in love with a human who was seeking in vain for Ascension. She won his heart and together they travelled the desert, looking for a way into Augury Rock. Then one day ––.”

“Shush!” Karak interrupted suddenly. He surprised himself, for his voice sounded muffled and far away, as though the words he just spoke came from another mouth. There was a noise, growing at the back of his mind, just out of the reach of consciousness. He could almost discern it if only…if only…. Suddenly it was gone. He grabbed the hilt of his axe and turned around full circle, casting wary glances on everyone around him.

Farrion was still at the table, trying to flirt with a nearby Mesmer, who blushed but only met his gaze occasionally. Others were around them, but their faces did not matter. Someone had to stand out…someone who was watching him, inspecting him. He unclipped the axe and held it in stance, throwing his gaze on anything that moved. There a sitting monk, whose long robes blew just a tad too irregularly…a Necro suddenly jumping in her seat as though bitten…a silent ranger stroking his Stalker’s fur in the wrong direction…. Karak gripped his axe tighter.

“By the gods! Where are you? What’s happening?” a salty river of sweat passed over his lips, and Karak realised that he was trembling and sweating profusely. Those at the nearby tables were looking at him queerly.

Take it easy, Karak. Calm yourself. No one’s watching me. There’s nothing strange here…only the storm.

Slowly, fighting against his own will, he took his hand off of his axe and turned to the young elementalist, who had paled noticeably. “Sorry, little man. I…I need a drink.” With that Karak took a seat opposite Farrion and drowned his uneasiness with a large mug of someone else’s dwarven ale.

~ * ~

Darkness enveloped the corridor before him, and it trailed behind him, consuming the ground inches from his feet. Cyn held his torch high, but ever the dark of the narrow corridor that he had found himself in from the doorway crept close to him, seemingly growing with every step. The corridor was silent and still, with the crackling of the torch and the throbbing of his heart the only exceptions. There was no roof here, or maybe there was, but he could not see it, or even feel the presence of one. If not for the floor beneath him and the close, sheer walls on either side he would have felt totally exposed; suspended.

He had been walking for hours, but ever the corridor wound on. He could not tell if it descended into the earth, but he assumed that it must have considering that this mesa was not that immense. I must be one hundred feet below the surface now! Lovely Melandru! When will I reach the end? But he did not even know if there was an end. He had simply followed a pretty young woman into a dark corridor.

“Damn fool!” he cursed under his breath. “Look at how I’m going to get myself killed over some woman I haven’t even met! By all the ––.”

In the blink of an eye, the corridor changed. The darkness around him evaporated like water in the desert and Cyn abruptly found himself in a dimly lit room – though what light there was seemed like sunlight compared to the darkness from which he had just emerged. For a moment he stood, perplexed. Before him stretched an immense cavern, larger than even his wild imaginings could have created.

The walls were gradually curving; meeting eventually at the roof so far above that it was lost to his eye, blanketed by mist that hung like clouds. Four huge, curved stalactites punctured the mist, like the brown teeth of a Rotscale. They seemed to form a pattern, but for now Cyn was at a loss. The great floor of the cavern was as smooth and black as obsidian, reflecting the roof like some ocean of glass. Formations like giant veins protruded from the cavern walls, crisscrossing in calculated design.
Several tall obelisks of varying designs rose from the ground, like menacing sentinels. They seemed to form a pattern also, but Cyn’s eyes were drawn to a lithe figure standing almost at the centre of the cavern, where a huge stalagmite broke the ground – the only one on the cavern’s floor. It was the young woman, and with his keen eyes, Cyn realised that she was manipulating the stalagmite in some way. She was too far away to see exactly what by Melandru she was doing.

Shoot her.

Cyn jumped and almost reached for his bow when he caught himself. What did I just think? Who said that?

Nothing replied to his mental question.

Cyn settled himself and tried to think logically, even though he had left that path behind years ago, on the day the sky rained fire and consumed the land, on the day when a man came back from the dead to destroy the world. Think Cyn, think! There is no one talking to me, it’s just my imagination! It always was overactive. Go down the path, keep silent, find out what she’s doing. Be calm, like an eagle.

Like a shadow, Cyn ventured into the cavern…and he froze, realising in shock where the dim light was actually coming from. Each obelisk was crafted from pure diamond and tanzanite, and they glowed faintly with some light of their own. The reflective obsidian floor captured the light and released it into the wide expanse of the cavern in tantalizing shades of silver and blue. So much jewels and precious stones lines the cavern walls themselves, that if Cyn could even get a bag full of them out of the desert, he would be able to purchase most of Lion’s Arch.

Kill her, while her back is to you. Do it!

Cyn kept his hand fixed onto the torch and his right rigid at his side. Those were not his thoughts.

He turned and rested the torch on the corridor floor behind him, in a small nook that would shield its dying light from searching eyes in the cavern. Then he made sure that his rare dagger was well strapped to his left waist. Upon its hallmark silver pommel cap laid the embossed figure of Melandru, lined with white gold. The pommel cap covered the blade, giving the impression of a long tooth, but removed would reveal a rich, glowing steel blade. Cyn gripped the dark hardwood handle and felt strength and vigour rush into his body.

“Into your hands, Goddess.”

Swiftly he descended the meandering footpath onto the cavern floor, his eyes fixed on the young woman some one hundred feet away. She was still focused on that strange stalagmite, oblivious to his presence. Now that he was at the bottom, he could see the jewels all too clearly. There were much more than tanzanite and diamond. Emeralds of a quality he had never seen, ammolite, pearls, topaz, amethyst, virtually every jewel on the face of Tyria had been crafted and blended with expert intricacy upon each obelisk.
Mother of Melandru! He almost reached out to try to pry the jewels from their place. He stopped himself when he realised that his hand was resting on the obelisk in front of him.

First things, first.

Cyn moved away from the jewelled obelisk and started for the central stalagmite. The sheer brilliance of the obelisks he passed almost froze him in wonder and awe. If this place was built by the same folk whose ruins now lay half buried in the sands of the Crystal Desert, they must have been great indeed.

In seconds he found himself behind a particularly exquisite obelisk, some twenty feet behind the woman. Her hair was in long, brown locks, so thin that they shifted and swayed like natural hair. She carried a green Ithas bow on her back and was dressed in similar garb as Cyn, but she was no ranger.
She was taking small articles from a bag at her side and seemingly placing them on the stalagmite. Upon the stalagmite was a small indentation, and there rested already several articles – golden bones and teeth, ectoplasms, swords from various places – but three spots were empty. From his position Cyn could make them out as a handprint, an irregularly shaped spot, for a pendant perhaps, and a small oval hole. This hole was in the centre of them all, and lined with the flowing script of some ancient tongue. Each letter seemed to have been formed with the utmost of care, and together they seemed to form a picture in his mind.

Cyn shook his head vigorously. How did I see that? She’s twenty feet away!
His eyesight was not at all bad, but to be able to pick out the small, individual letters on a cave formation from twenty feet away startled him. He was not an eagle. He could not have seen that.

Leaving speculation to some other time, Cyn went over his approach to the woman. He could not simply walk up to her and say hello. She would most likely have weapons on her and stab him out of shock – he probably would do the same in her position. He could make a noise, draw her attention, and then act like a lost drunk who had wandered into the mesa to shelter from the storm.

Or you could shoot her.

“No goddamit!” Cyn realised his mistake as the last word left his mouth in a frenzied shout.

Impressive. This is the first Fan Fiction I have come across which didn't result in me saying "You suck," of course leaving that comment in my head.

There are a few writing errors (at least to me), that I have come across, and I'm pretty sure the proper spelling is "artifact," rather than "artefact."

Anyhow, I actually read this and whole-heartedly (is that the proper spelling?o.0) enjoyed it, which is rare. A decent fan-fic!!111? ohemefgee!!111one!!1

Also, as for replies, good luck on that, seeing as every story here tends to get many views, and zero or so responses.

But, other than that, this was very entertaining (yet Cyn has a very..corny way of talking), and I look forward to the third chapter.

wow, you have an interesting way of writing. It's not bad............just.......different. I like it.

Alright everyone, thank you very much for the 100 or so views and thanks to Saox and Goats17 and my online crew for their comments! They're very much appreciated For everyone's info, I use the British way of spelling, so you'll be seeing words such as 'colour' and 'artefact' and the like. But I hope that doesn't bother anyone Now onto Chapter 3. It's very short - and I apologize - but tomorrow or so look out for the lengthy Chapter 4. Hope you enjoy it!

The Wind Carries Warnings

Farrion’s eyes had been locked onto him from the time he saw him sitting in a corner of the large tent where much light did not reach. Persons moved hurriedly to and fro in front of him, but none stopped. He was a warrior by the looks of his huge arms and legs, but his armour was covered by a dark cloak that was clasped at his neck, and his head and face were hidden in a pool of shadow.

The howling storm ripped at the tent, pulling hard at its supports. Still, it was amazing how the sand blasted, sun burned tent could last this long in the wild storm. Every now and then, the sound of tearing fabric filled the tent, sending Men and ghosts to repair the damage.

Besides the obvious mystery surrounding him, Farrion had noticed the man, for amidst all the building panic and bustling within the tent, this man seemed at total peace. Almost like a ranger, though without the quiet anticipation. This man looked so unbothered, that the storm raging just inches behind the thin tent at his back could have been nothing more than his imagination.
But something else seemed out of place about this man.

No hexes or ambient magics swirled in the air, but Farrion felt a very real pressure on his sensitive mind. It was not, however, the work of a Mesmer – he was sure – it was something else. In his gut he felt that this man had something to do with it. Even though he could not see his eyes, Farrion also knew that this man was looking at them – him and Karak.

Surely Karak’s minor episode attracted some stares, but those had all disappeared and Karak had fallen asleep. This man continued to look in their direction, so bold that even his chair was turned towards them. He wants us to know that he’s watching us.

“So you’ve been to the Forge?”

Farrion pried his eyes off of the dark corner and returned them on the pretty woman to his right. Flirting with her had paid off so far, though at first she really was not paying him any mind. It was hard to keep his mind off her, as it was equally hard to keep his imagination off of the man in the corner. Was he some sort of assassin? Someone with a grudge? Farrion swallowed his fears and locked eyes once again with the woman.

“Yeah, about a year ago. I passed through on my way to the desert,” he sighed and smiled, “How about you? You don’t look like a Krytan, far less a Dwarf.” He was drawn to her striking sea-blue eyes, even though some of her long, jet-black hair cascaded about her face.

“True,” she giggled, brushing away strands of hair, “I’m from Ascalon – what used to be Ascalon. I lived in Rin, but after its fall, I left with the Prince when he was exiled.”

“Oh really? It’s been a long time between the ruins and the desert.”

“Most certainly,” she sighed and rested her hand on her elaborate mask that laid on the table before her. In “It’s been much too long. I miss Ascalon.” Her voice quietened…and a shrill cry tore through the tent.

All chatter suddenly ceased and every eye swept towards the flapping entrance, behind which the storm raged. For a second it seemed that the utter silence reigned, but the howls and wails of the storm returned with fierce vengeance.

“What by Balthazaar was that?” Karak asked suddenly, all sleep gone from his face. He looked about almost frantically, hand on the butt of his axe.

Everyone else in the large tent stirred as well, and nervous chatter filled the air. People exchanged terrified glances, and those close to the entrance collectively backed away from it. The sound of steel being drawn from leather scabbards came from several places in the tent. A warm gust of air rushed into the tent, thrusting the flaps aside and revealing the pitch black outside.

But for some reason, Farrion’s blood ran cold. To him, that scream was not merely a scream. Recognition froze him in his chair, and even the loud beats of his heart were muted in his ears. That was Cyn’s voice.

No matter with the british spelling, I'm in Canada. We spell that way too.

sup cyn just wanted to post so you know at least one of us is actually reading this lol

Well everyone, I'm back with the latest chapter. I was going to post this last night, but these past few days have been very hectic, including several project deadlines and the failure of my internet access for one day. *sighs* Anyway, I'm still alive and its soon going to be the weekend. (Can't wait for the Preview Event ) Thanks for all your views and thanks Heavens for reminding me that you guys are reading this So with no further ado, here is Chapter 4. I hope you enjoy it

The Weavings of Sand

For a light skinned guy, Karak did not think that Farrion could grow any paler. But there he sat, sickly white almost like snow, trembling as if seeing a ghost other than those that milled about around him. He looked dishevelled, quite unlike the powerful Mesmer he had grown up with.

“Farrion, talk to me man. Snap out of it.” Karak said, waving his hand before Farrion's face.

Farrion blinked and focused his eyes not on Karak, but past him. Slowly Karak followed his companion’s gaze, and saw nothing but a dark corner of the tent. There were no tables there, no persons standing and talking…there was nothing but the empty corner. Nothing interesting at all. He looked back. Farrion looked like a man stricken with pain, and his breaths came in quick bursts.

“Man, Farrion, what the hell is wrong with you?” Karak snapped his fingers, "Farrion?"

“Are you alright?” the pretty woman next to Farrion asked. Her face looked genuinely concerned, but her eyes were unreadable.

“Farrion!”

“Yes!” the Mesmer suddenly snapped out of his trance and his eyes focused on Karak, “I’m fine; just…shocked from hearing that scream.”

“What could have made it, I wonder?” the woman mused, glancing in Karak’s direction.

He gave her a smile and a wink. “Probably just the wind or one of those ghosts. They’re lots of things out here that can scream like that.” He glanced back at Farrion, who was frowning, “Don’t think so, Mister Neightswift?”

“It’s possible,” the Mesmer turned in his seat, sweeping his gaze towards the door. His right hand lay on the table, but it was trembling.

Poor guy’s scared half out of his wits. It was only a scream! We’ve gone through much, much worse than that.

Karak stretched and rose from his seat. “I’m taking a walk. You two care to join me? It’s better than just sitting here waiting for this tent to get ripped to shreds over our heads.”

“I’ll come, I need to stretch my legs,” the lady Mesmer replied, easing out of her seat. When she stood, her eyes came level to Karak’s. She was easily his height and would have probably made one hell of a warrior if she were a bit thicker. Damn, woman, you have some long legs to stretch. Her fine dress hugged her snugly, but it looked rugged, better suited to travel than most of the other Mesmer clothes he had ever seen.

“Coming Farrion?”

Farrion did not reply at once. His eyes had strayed to another shadowy corner of the tent far away. It was almost pitch black, for the nearest torch was barely burning, hanging on a post some ten feet away. The corner seemed to be devoid of any life or activity, but Men and ghosts did not go near it for some reason. Maybe because it was dark and had no tables or pretty women, or maybe it was something else.

“Farrion!”

The Mesmer snapped out of his trance and turned reluctantly back to Karak. “No, I’m…I’m going to stay here and relax. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Alright man. Are you sure that everything’s okay?”

“No. I’m not.”

Karak sighed and rounded the table, settling into a casual stroll towards the entrance. Outside would most likely be too dark to see anything, but he just wanted to try to see if the other tents had been buried in the sand yet. The woman joined him quickly, staying close and glancing at those that passed her with just a hint of aloofness. He noticed that she had left her mask at the table.

“Are you seeking Ascension? And oh yeah, I’m Dana,” the lady Mesmer said, grinning at Karak, “I should have introduced myself earlier.”

“The name’s Karak, beautiful, and no, I’m not seeking Ascension this time around. I’m looking for someone.”

“Are you now?” something flashed in her eyes, and a sudden feeling of dread washed over Karak. As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Where the hell did that come from? He shook his head dismissively and eyed a necromancer that quickly passed in front of him. Must be that bastard trying some new spell.

Karak followed the darkly-attired necromancer of indeterminate sex until it stopped at a table some ways off. It laid several archaic idols and pendants on the table, all of which were greedily taken up and examined by the surrounding necromancers. Suddenly, as though Karak had thrown a rock at it, the necromancer turned on its heels, eyes locking onto Karak’s.

The warrior had a fleeting thought of looking away, but Karak met the necromancer’s gaze, until the scrawny thing turned away dejectedly. You don’t scare me, whatever the hell you are.

Karak soon stopped some feet away from the entrance, stooping and shaking the sand out of his boots. He gazed at the entrance. The storm was still raging outside in the blackness of the night. No stars or the moon could be seen – as though a giant, black screen covered the sky.

“I’ve never seen such a storm out here before. It’s almost unnatural.” Dana said from next to him. She was gazing outside as well, but for some reason Karak had the feeling that her attention was not on the storm at all.

“Me neither. I’d hate to be out there, and I’d rather be sheltering in someplace sturdy, like a fort.” He replied, replacing his boots and standing.

Dana laughed and stepped closer to him, “Well, tents are all we have here.” Something flashed in her eyes again – a distant look – but piercing. Karak suddenly froze, his attention glued on the captivating sea-blue eyes of the lady Mesmer. He felt his mind gradually going numb; his limbs refusing to respond to his will. He felt his heart slow, each beat resonating throughout his body like the pounding of a drum. Dana eased even closer, pressed her face against his and whispered into his ear.

“Looking for someone are you? So am I. But I’m all alone out here…I could use your company.” She brought her hand to his face and massaged his cheek and the two weeks worth of stubble that covered his chin and neck. As her arm moved, Karak’s eyes were drawn to the small, almost invisible tattoos that crisscrossed her lower neck, like tiny veins. They seemed to run all the way down from her neck, disappearing beneath the V of her high-opened necked dress.

“Wuh…what…are…you doing to…me…?” Karak struggled to speak, his very mouth felt numb, his mind; empty. He wanted to look away, to blink, but his eyes seemed only to widen and bulge.

“Who is he? This Cyn Eaver? Why is he here? Do you know of that which he follows?” Her lips failed to move, but her voice filled every space in Karak’s mind, displacing his very thoughts.

“No…I…don’t…know…him…why…no….” Dana’s eyes tore into his and he felt as helpless as a Charr in deep water. The warmth of her skin was more like a fire, searing the flesh on his face.

Karak willed his hand to go for his axe, but it kept still. Every course of action that he could try to think of vanished before his mind’s eye before he could take hold of them. This lady Mesmer was taking them all…she was reading his mind…she was controlling his mind. All around him travellers walked, giving the two of them nothing more but a mere glance. To them, Karak and Dana were nothing more than young lovers, caught in a passionate embrace.

“I need your aid, Karak…I need you.”

“Stuh…stop it! Let…me…go!”

“No Karak. You will lead me to him. You will lead me to them!” A small stiletto suddenly appeared in Dana’s grasp, its blade radiating a pale yellow glow. She reached up to his neck and rested the blade against the left side. The blade was cold – extremely cold – in stark contrast to Dana’s warmth. “You will help me, Karak.”

In one swift motion she sliced Karak’s neck, severing veins and arteries like hot butter. He recoiled mechanically, but only a soft gasp came from his mouth. As though time itself were mired in clay, Dana brought the blade to her left hand and cut deep into her wrist, blood spouting from it immediately. Quickly she grasped his neck, and, holding open his bleeding wound, covered it with her sliced wrist.

Liquid fire coursed through Karak’s jugular. The minute tendrils of flame reached up his neck and into his head. His vision immediately grew blurry, and his head burned like the lighted butt of a torch. He felt his body descending into fits of violent spasm, as though his very insides wanted to wrench free of his body. He wanted to scream…but all that came forth was a quiet sigh.

“Drink it, Karak! I will make you mine!” Dana whispered. She was pressed against him, pinning him onto the wooden pillar, but for all his massive strength, Karak could not budge her. Rich red blood all but covered her wrist, streaming down her hand towards her elbow. Yet her face was ecstatic, and a burning desire filled her eyes.

By Balthazar! I have to stop whatever this is! Oh my god! I –––

All thought fled from Karak’s mind, for at that instant, several things happened.

From the blindness at the corner of his eye a shape sped, and a bloody rose, cradling an arrow head, blossomed on Dana’s exposed chest. Her expression turned quickly from ecstasy to surprise…and from surprise to stark horror. She fell off of him, crashing to the sand in a crumbled heap.

Karak grabbed his neck and fell to his knees. He could feel blood trickling through his fingers, over his trembling hand, running down his chest. She had cut a major vein – his life-blood was draining from the wound. Dying. His vision swirled and suddenly it felt as though he were weightless, slowly rising out of the tent. He saw his own body, in throes of spasm and Dana lying not too far away. His sight of them vanished as masses of rushing feet kicked dust into the air. Floating upwards he saw the tent itself grow smaller and smaller, soon to be consumed by the raging storm.

With his last ounce of consciousness, Karak knew that he would be dead soon. Still the fire burnt at his innards, tearing at his muscles, ripping away his last hold on reality. So, even as two more blazing arrows sped from the darkness, he collapsed to the ground; vision failing, feelings numbing, hearing muting – his blood staining the bright golden sand of the desert.

Well I'm back after about a week of stress. My apologies for the wait, but I got this chapter to a good length, and I hope that it keeps your interest. Thanks again to everyone for reading my story, and for the 200 or so views so far How was Cantha by the way? My stay there was wonderful

Darker Shifts

Karak talking. Karak rising. Karak walking away.

Everything flashed before Farrion’s eyes in still frames, as his mind reeled from sudden shock and uncanny fear. Cyn screaming…but from where? He slowly looked towards the dark corner again. The red light of the nearest torch glinted off of steel armour, like a staring eye peering from the darkness. Farrion swallowed hard and averted his eyes. There sat the man, who blended so well with shadow. He had moved – from one end of the tent to the other – but how by Lyssa he did it Farrion could not fathom. Maybe he ran there after the scream…but no, I didn’t see anyone moving quickly.

Farrion took a deep breath. Whoever he is, I doubt that he would do anything in this place. He’s just watching us. He can’t be a threat…at least not yet.

Reaching into his small pouch, Farrion took out a rolled sheet of paper and spread it before him on the table. Under the wavering light of the overhead lamps, an aged map of the Crystal Desert dimly came into view. The Mesmer placed a finger on the marked location of the Amnoon Oasis and traced a path towards Augury Rock.

“Seven miles.” He muttered. His voice quivered, but Farrion had to restrain himself from taking another wary glance at the man in the corner.

Cautiously bringing his head closer to the map he studied the intended course through the desert, following in what he hoped was Cyn’s footsteps.

“I hope to Lyssa that he isn’t out in this storm. Hell, he’s a ranger, most likely he would be in some cave sheltering somewhere.” Then something struck him. It was an unlikely sign, and he did not know why at first it caught his eye. The small design of the cardinal points at the fringed corner of the map seemed to stand out; beckoning to him.

The storm had blown in from the south-southeast, bringing with it the voice of Cyn. Augury lay more to the east. He cannot then be at Augury…but then where? This desert is huge and merciless for both the hunter and the hunted. And that scream was indeed unnerving. I have to get to him quickly! What the hell could he have gotten himself into?

Farrion tapped his finger on every marked location southeast of the Oasis, until the map came to an end. There were only two – Hero’s Audience and the Dunes of Despair. Dunes was the farther away, and surrounded on all sides by twisted Enchanted armours, Elementals, griffons and terrible sand wyrms. If Cyn was on his way there, he would surely have to have one hell of a reason. Or a death wish.

“Hero’s may be more likely I hope.” Farrion mused. A snort brought his attention quickly back to his companions at the table. A small-built ranger had just taken Karak’s seat, and he was staring intently at Farrion. Clad in all shades of brown, the only exposed parts of his body were his eyes.

“Travelling, sir?” he asked coolly.

Farrion did not reply. He could not feel any energies emitting from the ranger, no pressure, no anxiety. This man was only a ranger.

“Yes,” he said eventually, starting to re-roll the map.

“Good luck to you. This weather’s not going to change much for the next couple of days.”

Farrion paused and stared at the ranger. Those dark brown eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts. It seemed that he was speaking simple fact, in the cool, collected manner of his profession.

“I see. Well, I just have to adjust to suit then.”

The ranger let out a soft snort and clasped his hands on the table. “I can guide you through the desert in times like these.”

“They’re hundreds of other travellers here, why would you be interested in me?”

“Because you’re the only one I saw with a map. That says that your quest is urgent, for even in this tense hour you must think of it.”

“You sure as hell assume a lot.”

The ranger’s lips curved into a tight smile, “Are my assumptions wrong, then? Surely you do not need my talents?”

“Why are you so eager?”

“Eager?” In a lower tone he continued, “I need gold, Mesmer. For gold I would be eager to do almost anything. You cannot know the trials through which I have persevered, and from which must now recover.”

“Care to elaborate?”

The ranger snorted again, and slowly took of the glove of his right hand. Farrion tensed immediately and a Migraine incantation came to his lips in seconds. Before he could utter a word, the ranger’s glove was off. Farrion’s breath suddenly caught in his lungs. Fleshless fingers wiggled from the butt of the ranger’s arm, with only small wisps of blackened tendons keeping the bones together. Forming a fist, the ranger brought the hand slowly down onto the table, and smiled at Farrion.

“This is only a small part of my troubles.” He sighed and put the glove back on, “Most of my body is like this, the result of some…mistakes…in my past. With circumstances as they are, I need to get some gold, and work for it.”

Farrion let his hold of the Migraine slip away and managed to pry his eyes off the ranger’s hand. “You have to work for your gold eh? Can’t steal it?”

“No. That was the arrangement.”

“Arrangement with whom?”

The ranger chuckled softly, “It doesn’t matter. Now, seeing that you are in urgent need to travel – even in times such as these – will you hire me as your guide?”

Farrion stared at the ranger intently, trying hard to decipher his thoughts. He was not easily deceived, but the times that he was were unforgiving and near-fatal. This ranger seems honest, even though his arm is nothing but bone and he seems to be recovering from one hell of a past. A guide eh? Well Karak is good enough, even though he hasn’t a good sense of direction…but we can’t afford to get lost tonight. Or any night.

“Well, Mesmer? I am nothing more than what you see. No gimmicks, no deception. So don’t worry. I’m not a bandit either – I plan to work for my gold.”

Deception.

Farrion rested his hand on the hilt of the small, short sword that was strapped on his shirt beneath his jacket. He took a quick, wary glance at the far, dark corner of the tent. Still, the red eye peered out at him, studying his every move. Turning back to the ranger, he took out a small leather bag from his backpack and rested it on the table. The shock jarred the contents, and a soft jingle of gold coins reached his ears.

“Five hundred gold, if you can get my companion and I to Hero’s Ascent safely and within two days.”

The ranger’s smile broadened. “Your companion? Do you mean the big drunk, or the lady? Or both perhaps?”

“The drunk.” Speaking of which, where is he? I hope he didn’t try to head outside.

Farrion turned in his seat, scanning the grounds near the entrance. Not seeing the imposing warrior, he brought his gaze back on the ranger and relaxed. The brown clad man was rising from his seat, collecting his gear from next to him.

“How soon are you planning to leave, Mesmer?” he asked as one of his bags dropped from the table onto the sand.

“As soon as humanly possible. As you correctly said, my quest is urgent.” Farrion replied, returning his sack of gold to his backpack.

“Indeed.” The ranger bent to pick up his bag and as he rose he froze suddenly, his gaze fixed behind Farrion.

In a heartbeat the tent erupted in chaos. Shrill screams and shouts filled Farrion’s ears, temporarily deafening him. Two explosions sounded some ways behind him, throwing pounds of sand into the air. The Mesmer whirled around and bounded off of his seat, the words of a Phantasm on his lips. His hand went swiftly back to his sword as he took in the scene near the entrance.
Dust shrouded virtually everything, but through that sheen he could make out several dark figures moving about in a state of mass confusion. He could start to feel ambient energies about him – several threads accessing numerous powers, from Earth to the healing touch of Dwayna. Something was happening, but he had no clue what. Drawing his blade he backed towards the table, strafing around it, looking for any sign of Karak and or the beautiful lady Mesmer.

An arrow suddenly whizzed past his head. He ducked after the fact and turning, saw a short ranger about to draw his bow and fire another arrow. At him. Farrion just had the time to utter a defensive spell when the arrow tore through dusty air towards his face. The iron tipped shaft froze inches from his face, slowly bent around it and went hurtling into the sand behind him. As quickly as that arrow had come, three more followed. Farrion threw himself to the sand, grabbing up handfuls and throwing them in the direction of the ranger. Sand could not stop arrows, but he could hope to be unseen for a few seconds at least. Rising to a pouncing position he bounded into the sheen of dust and confusion just before him, as two more arrows buried themselves in the spot where he had just been.

Flying sand burnt his eyes and choked him. He could make out several shadowed figures moving around him, but none materialised as Karak. At any moment he felt that another arrow would come tearing into his back. Good goddess! Where the hell is Karak? Why did that blasted ranger shoot at ––

Farrion’s thoughts were shattered as a large figure crashed into him, sending him flailing into the ground. His short sword slipped from his grasp and was lost in the haze of sand. He turned onto his back, gasping for air, and tried to focus on the man that stood behind him. The sound of steel sliding against leather gently touched his ear, and the shadowed figure raised his arms, clutching the hilt of a massive broadsword. Its blade seemed to be glowing, radiating a pale yellow hue.

“Lyssa’en ik’ – Conjuré Phantasm!” Farrion hollered, trying to push himself away from the man.

A glowing figure suddenly appeared around the man, coiling its many ghastly arms around him, draining the very essence of his life. The man screamed and dropped his sword, trying to get his hands on the parasite around him. Farrion rose and bounded away from them both. That spell isn’t going to last much longer. We have to get the hell out of here!

He kept stumbling forwards, not really seeing what was before him, and feeling the strain of several interwoven energies upon his mind. Suddenly he stumbled over something hard and fell flat on his face, taking mouthfuls of sand. He got up slowly, exhausted. His heart was racing and hammering on the inside of his chest, and his breath was coming in short, painful gasps. His back still trembled from the large man’s blow. Gods! That must have been the man from the corner! Shit! Karak, you bastard! Where the hell are you?!

The Mesmer groped about blindly as sand continued to bite into his eyes. Then it occurred to him, slowly, that all this sand could not simply stay airborne for this long. Someone was commanding it.

“Karak!” he screamed, “Karak!”

His hand clutched something sharp. He drew back quickly, but nothing came after him. Cautiously he extended his hand again, and gingerly touched the tool before him. This feels like a sword or something. Good. Something I can defend myself with. Finding the hilt he grabbed up the weapon and brought it closer to his red, watering eyes.

It was not a sword at all, but a fine axe. He was gripping the golden hilt of one of the most priceless weapons he had ever seen. Shock rippled through his body as his eyes went back to the large obstacle he had fallen over. Below the haze of sand it was surprisingly clear – steel armour crafted in the Fissure, covering a large body bred for war. There lay Karak.

“Oh shit!” Farrion crawled over to his companion, and stiffened in shock. Blood saturated the sand beneath his neck, and still more trickled from a deep slice in his throat.

Pulling one of his thick gloves from their place beneath his jacket, he pressed it against Karak’s wound.

“Karak! Talk to me man!” the warrior’s eyes remained closed, and his mouth hung slightly agape. “Oh f**k! Karak!” a large knot gripped Farrion’s throat, and his breathing descending into painful wheezes.

The sound of shaking steel met his ears. Farrion turned and saw the shadowed warrior rushing towards him, broadsword in hand, the blade of which seemed to repel the very sand that hung in the air. Farrion stood rooted to the sand, the words of his incantations frozen in his throat.

The first swipe sent Farrion crashing backwards into the sand. He staggered to his feet, feeling the hilt of Karak’s axe in his hands. The shadowed figure was nowhere to be seen. Still Farrion kept his ground, looking about him quickly, even though his head felt like a balloon about to burst and his eyes felt as though they were entirely covered with coarse sand. He felt a trickle of warm liquid running down his chest. He glanced down briefly, knowing already what it was. His own blood. The warrior’s broadsword sliced the skin of his chest apart. Any deeper and it would have ripped his very chest plate asunder.

The wound burned him, but he had little time to consider it for there was the warrior again, his broadsword leading the way towards Farrion. The Mesmer brought the axe into the one defensive stance that Karak had taught him. In the back of his mind, he knew it virtually no use. He had no experience in melee and his voice was suddenly lost. The ambient energies continued to assault his mind, numbing it into submission.

In an instant the warrior was two feet from Farrion, his eyes blazing through the sheen of sand, his sword slicing through air and sand alike. He seemed to slow just as he reached Farrion, his sword sweeping even slower into his chest, tearing through clothes, flesh and bone alike, ripping Farrion in two.

But that was just an illusion, a figment of the Mesmer’s desperate imaginings.

A blazing arrow darted past his ear, burying itself in the charging warrior’s forehead. A sudden explosion ripped the man’s head apart like a bursting watermelon. Shards of bone and blood erupted from the gash of what remained of his head, and the massive body tumbled to the sand, the tip of his glowing broadsword falling upon the tip of Farrion’s sand covered boot.

I take a bow.

Great writing dude, look forward to the next chapter!!

Remember: your characters are the situation. And when your characters become the situation—become the story—for your reader, you’ve created a bond between them. Then we worry with their fear, love with their passion, and rage in sympathy to their anger.

Particularly in the early chapters, you create vivid pictures that catch the reader’s eye. But in doing so the characters shift into the background. You ride a raged edge between too much exposition and just enough. But you pull it off marvelously.

Time is surely flying isn't it? Just a while ago it was December, and now it's what, April? Well, anyway, my sincerest thanks to your comments and your views! I'm glad that you folk are enjoying the story . Now its been a few days and I'm now able to post another chapter. It's not as lenghty as the previous one, but I hope that it keeps your interest all the same. Enough of the intro already! Onto chapter six!

The Storm’s Anxiety

He just had enough to time to swear before a psionic wave ripped through the protective obelisk and sent him reeling backwards, rolling like a wooden doll over the obsidian floor. He staggered to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The wave had knocked more out of him than just his balance. Slowly he turned his gaze back towards the stalagmite, and found that the woman was no longer there. She had vanished like an imagined oasis in the desert.

Fool! You had your chance!

He shook his head again. Those thoughts were coming to him with ever increasing fervour, with an urgency that sent chills jack-knifing down his spine. The thoughts made out this woman to be some sort of monster, some sort of enemy, some thing that had to be destroyed. Yet only one problem remained. Those were not his thoughts.

“Calm Cyn, just remain calm,” the ranger reminded himself, stumbling to his feet and drawing his fine dagger.

He surveyed the utterly silent cavern, from black floor to misty roof, and all of the strange obelisks in between. There was nothing at the entrance cavern, and nothing at all moved about between the ranks of the obelisks. It seemed that everything around him waited tensely for his next move as much as he waited for theirs. I won’t keep you waiting for long.

Gripping his dagger tighter, Cyn made his way, step by step, towards the giant stalagmite at the centre of the cavern. Nothing assailed him, nothing made a sound. However a presence hovered in the air, like some omnipotent eye, piercing everything with its gaze. The lithe woman seemed to have merged with one of the obelisks nearby, studying him. For some reason Cyn did not like the idea of being scrutinized so. It was a foolish notion, thinking that someone could merge with stone…but what if? What if this beautiful woman was not a woman at all, but some demon straight from the halls of the Underworld? What if this was some sort of trap? What if –– I’ve gotta stop thinking. It really isn’t helping my peace of mind right now.

The presence seemed to grow with every step he took towards the stalagmite, so overpowering that he could almost reach out and touch it. But there was something else that seemed to grow. A sense of beckoning, a sense of invitation, pulling Cyn gently towards the stalagmite. He felt it like a tangible pull on his hand, guiding him closer, closer…. He stopped himself abruptly. I don’t like this.

He threw himself onto the floor before the second psionic blast crashed into the stalagmite, inches away from his head. Flipping quickly to his side he saw a figure dash from behind an obelisk not too far off, moving with the speed and grace of a serpent. Do for do, pretty woman. Casting his right hand towards the speeding figure, he drew upon the raw fury of the elements.

“Pheonerzhul, Nix en Balthazar!” A raging phoenix soared from his outstretched fingers, spreading its fiery wings, and made a bee-line towards the woman. She was just about to get behind the shelter of a nearby obelisk when the phoenix caught her and swept her in flames onto a large monument further back. Screaming, she hit with a dull thud and a hiss, and lay motionless.

Cyn sighed and slowly got back to his feet, his gaze fixed on the strange woman. He made his way to her quickly, his footfalls quick and noiseless. That phoenix was not powerful enough to kill her, I hope.

It should have been – will save you a lot of trouble. Rasped a mental reply.

He stopped some ways off from her, studying her motionless body. She had landed in a sprawled fashion, her back to him and her body hugging the obelisk. The acrid smell of singed cloths tickled Cyn’s nostrils. He waited by the stalagmite for a few moments, yet she did not move a muscle. Even the rise and fall of her chest, which would be visible from his position, was not evident.

Congrats. You killed her. Finally.

Cyn fought back the thought and focused on the woman’s body. He continued towards her until he was standing directly over her. Still she did not move. He bent down closer, holding his dagger in a pensive grip. Another thought bounded into his mind’s ear, but it was overshadowed by a shocking sensation of being watched. His imagination conjured up an image of a huge eye, bearing into his back with a crippling gaze.

Holy Melandru! Something’s watching me…. He glanced back swiftly, and all that met his gaze were the silent obelisks and the ominous stalagmite.
He turned back to the woman and rested his hand on her shoulder. His heart leapt into his throat, but the woman did not respond. Gods! She’s probably unconscious…she has to be. Gently he turned her onto her back, and gasped.

Cyn had thought her to be beautiful from afar, but from this close her features were mesmerising, enchanting. Her locks were intricate examples of pure talent, as they gently hugged her face and danced about her neck. Even her body seemed to have been accentuated by the rough gear she was wearing. She was very beautiful no doubt, even though her strange grey eyes would seem out of place with her rich, olive skin. A split-second passed before Cyn realised the oddity of her eyes. Where there should be a pupil lay only a thin slit, like the eyes of a snake. But that was only part of the reason he had gasped. Her eyes were open – staring at him – and she was breathing calmly, as though she had just awoken from a blissful slumber.

The ranger jumped back, and she went after him, drawing a dagger from the proverbial nowhere. With the ease and grace of a lynx on the run, she brushed aside Cyn’s blade and drove her dagger into the palm of his right hand, impaling it on the cold obsidian floor.

“Ahh! Gods!” Cyn screamed, the sudden pain sending a fierce shock through his body.

“Now!” the woman hissed, “Why were you following me for the past seven weeks?!” She was not heavy, but her elbows and knees had quickly found Cyn’s pressure points – effectively pinning him to the ground.

“Ahhh! Shit!” He had taken blows and chops in many places before, but somehow, the pain in his hand was quickly becoming unbearable.

“Answer me, human!” She screamed, as her grey eyes blazed through dangling locks.

“How about…first…you take this damn knife out of my arm!”

She pressed down harder, and pressed her knees and elbows into Cyn’s chest, abdomen and legs, “No! You followed me to kill me! Are you some sort of assassin?”

“No, no. I…was…defending myself.”

“From what?”

“From you – you attacked me not too long…ago!”

“What?!” Bewilderment flashed across her grey eyes, but she did not ease up on Cyn’s hand. “I was running from you, in case you hadn’t noticed! How, by the gods, could I have attacked you?”

“You struck me with some sort of force…twice you aimed for me.”

“Bullshit! Force? I can’t do that sort of thing!”

“Then how do you explain that shattered obelisk over there?” Cyn asked, motioning with his head.

The woman glanced across at it briefly, and returned her gaze on Cyn. “There is no shattered obelisk, man, but the stalagmite looks as though it took a massive blow.” Cyn took a quick glance back at the way he had come. The woman was right. There was no shattered obelisk. She paused, “So, either you have some creditability, or one of us is as mad as a hatter. And I’m sure as hell it isn’t me.”

For a moment, Cyn forgot the pain in his hand. He had journeyed through many lands with many people over the years, and had studied the eyes of most. Not only could he tell what they were thinking, he could also almost always ponder on his answer before they worded their question. Now, however, he was at a loss. Staring into her alien eyes, he could tell clearly that she really did not know what the hell he was talking about – that she honestly was running away from him.

Something else had attacked him.

“You look puzzled, human, are you only now realising that you’re an insane, relentless stalker?! I should kill you right now!”

“Wait, wait, by the Goddess give me a second to explain,” Cyn ground his teeth together as the pain came back in a fury.

“Make it quick, I’m losing my patience!”

“You…have something of mine. Stole it a while…back. Goddess! Ah, umm, you stole it from me at the Temple of Ages. You left before I could get to you, so I have tracking you ever since.”

“What the hell! Do you expect me to believe that foolishness?!”

“Then…wuh…where did you get that Ithas bow strapped to your back, eh?”

The woman blinked in shock, “I took it from some poor fool…in the…Temple…. By the gods! How could you have followed me from there all the way here? And for what? A virtually useless bow? It can’t even kill a scarab! I only brought it with me because I thought I would need it.”

“That bow is important to me. We go far back.”

“You are insane Ranger! Have you nothing else to do? Shouldn’t you be fighting with your guild?”

“I have none, and I need none. Plus, you’re one of the most beautiful – though in a queer way – women I have ever laid eyes upon. Damn!" He swore again, "Nuh…now, if you don’t mind – seeing as to I’m not really here to hurt or kill you – please take this dagger out of my hand.”

The woman hesitated, staring long and searchingly into his eyes. Then suddenly she ripped the dagger from his hand and bounded backwards onto her buttocks.

“Ahhh! F*ck!” Cyn swore, “Did you really have to do that?!”

The woman was staring at him with her mouth hanging open, eyes wide, “What…are…you?”

For a second time, Cyn forgot the pain in his hand.

An indescribable sensation crawled up his spine, tingling his mind like the burning sensation of peppermint. In an instant, all of his senses were razor sharp, like at those rare times when one feels truly alive – he felt every breath, caught every scent on the air, felt every pulse of his veins, and a strange clarity heightened his vision. He felt something else – subtle tugs at his eyes and his insides. Something was changing.

You are going to regret not killing her, Cyn Eaver.

I actually had some free time this week, so I was able to finish not one, but two chapters...sweeet! Even though one of them is quite short. Oh and remember when I mentioned this story ending in about 10 chapters? Well...forget that for now However, I hope everyone enjoys this and once again I thank you readers for you comments and your views! It has truly been an honour writing this! Now, forward through the gates of Chapter 7!

Into the Tempest

Farrion’s heart skipped so many beats that he felt that it had stopped, permanently. Sand still hung in the air and burned his eyes to near blindness, yet he felt no pain. He was too shocked, frightened and unexpectedly glad, to feel anything else. Just seconds ago he was evading death – now he was staring down at the dead, former bringer of his doom.

“Oh Dwayna, thank you, thank you!” he whispered reverently. Immediately he went back to Karak’s side, and covered his still bleeding wound with his remaining glove. Then, slowly, he turned in the direction the arrows had come, looking for the person with the perfect aim.

Out of the sand strode a huge beast of a man, with a dark cloak clasped at his neck. He met Farrion’s gaze with one of steel. For a gut-wrenching moment, Farrion’s legs gave way and he fell prostrate over Karak.

“Lyssa’en ik’… Lyssa’en ik’…” Farrion stuttered, but none of the words of his spells came to his lips. Nothing worthwhile could get past the growing knot in his throat.

“Come, Mesmer,” a sharp voice called, “We have to get out of here, as unlikely as that prospect seems.”

Pure confusion kept Farrion from replying immediately.

“Are you still alive down there? We have to move!”

Farrion snapped out of his stupor and slowly rose to his feet. The dark cloak marked this man as the one from the corner – the one who had studied them from the darkness. So that’s not him dead on the floor then. Oh hell! He looked up at the man, all six feet ten inches of him, and struggled to keep his gaze. He looked up at the man, all six feet ten inches of him, and struggled to keep his gaze. To say that the man’s stare was piercing was an understatement. Farrion felt impaled.

“Thuh…Thank you,” he said finally.

“Maybe some other time, Mesmer. Things are growing ill.” The huge man strapped his bow to his back and, stooping, grabbed the broadsword from the dead man’s grasp. He rose and studied it with a bemused look on his face and then returned his gaze to Farrion, “This is bad, Mesmer.” He held the sword, hilt first at Farrion, “I think you should take this, while I get your friend back on his feet. There’s a monk waiting outside.”

Farrion stared at the man, “Just who are you?” Strange energies were swirling about the huge warrior, energies Farrion could not recognise. He felt no anxiety, just a deep sense of urgency. Gradually his breaths returned to normal, but the knot in his throat was still there.

“Trust me now. Talk to me later,” he held out the sword again.

“I’m going nowhere with you unless you introduce yourself, man!”

“Didn’t you hear me? There’s a monk outside. Your friend has lost a lot of blood, and he’ll continue to lose it unless he gets some attention.”

“How do I know that you didn’t do this to him?”

“Look just behind you. You shall see the culprit, with weapon in hand.”

Farrion glared at the man, but then cautiously glanced behind him. Shock gripped him again as his eyes rested upon the lady mesmer who just moments ago had been sitting next to him, listening to his sweet talk. Her captivating eyes were open, but they saw nothing. Upon her sand drizzled face was a look of shock and fear, as though she had died quickly and unexpectedly. Rich blood streamed from her chest and her wrist, and in her right hand she clutched a bloody stiletto.

“Oh Lyssa!”

“All that glitters isn’t gold, eh? Now come. We must go.” The warrior rested the sword on the sand. He lifted the large mass of Karak with ease, placing him over his back like a sack of sugar. Without a look back, he was off.

Farrion grabbled up the broadsword, fumbled with it and the large axe in his grip, and then followed quickly. All about him the sounds of confusion and panic still kept strong, but he could not see anyone. Above all the racket came the cries of the storm, like the last, desperate cries of a man condemned to endless torture. Like Cyn’s cry. Farrion broke into a jog until he was side by side with the man.

“Damn! I’ve got to go back for my gear!” he cursed.

“Forget them. They have been taken care of already. Now hurry Mesmer! We haven’t much time.” With that, the man eased into a sprint, and moved like a breeze towards the sand draped entrance of the tent.

Farrion kept up the pace for a few strides, but eventually slowed. Endurance was not his area of expertise. Glancing over his shoulder he took in the inside of the tent for the last time. Wind pulled violently at every square inch, shredding the tent at its supports and ripping gaping holes in the roof. Screams and curses erupted from the masses all about, and Farrion knew that they must be trying hard to keep the tent standing, even though they were completely hidden by the airborne sand.

He wiped the sand and sweat from his face with his forearm, and turned back to the entrance…and to the storm that raged outside. “We’re coming Cyn. Somehow.” Then he ventured forward, through the door, and into the tempest.

Well folks I've been having a little free time lately and I have been reflecting on the advice directed my way so far. I've reached a turning point and chapter nine is already finished, so I think that I'm on track to finish this soon. Well lemme thank those guys who i based these characters on once again - you've been a great inspiration. Thanks again for you folks at this forum for reading this story and I hope you enjoy this latest instalment - Chapter 8!

Living Wraiths

Wind-powered sand raked into Farrion’s face as soon as he stepped into the cold night. He squinted and looked for the man, but he saw no one. The night sky was obliterated by soaring sand, and the tent whipped about frantically behind him. He started forward slowly, trying to pick out the man in the gloom, even though he was dressed in black. He stumbled forward in the strong gale, and then backwards, and then he lost all sense of direction. Oh my god! Where is this ––.

Suddenly a large arm grabbed him and unduly pulled him into the shelter of a small, wooden building. The door was closed behind him. Before he could think of hexes to cast, he realised the hand belonged to the man in the dark cloak, as he materialised under the dim light of a lone lamp hanging from the roof. Karak lay on a bedroll on the floor, and a small woman, wearing a similar dark cloak, bent over him. There was another person in the room, but he wore no cloak. Farrion immediately recognised him as the ranger who had offered him his services.

“Glad you could make it, Mister Neightswift.” He began, “I brought your gear – seems like you’re going to be needing it,” he motioned to a gathering of bags on the floor at his feet, “Now. You must be wondering what the hell just happened?”

“Yes. Yes I am,” Farrion swallowed hard when he realised suddenly that both the ranger and the woman by Karak carried wicked blades at their waists. He, on the other hand, was virtually defenceless – even with two weapons in his grasp. He sought for a spell, but still that damn knot prevented any from coming forth.

“Let’s start things off with a quick introduction, shall we? We are called the Wraiths,” he stretched the fingers of his right hand, fingers that, beneath the leather glove, were fleshless and scorched, “The girl is Tsuki, the warrior is Habib, and I’m…well, I don’t really have a name. Just call me…Bones,” he smiled beneath his mask. “We have a fourth member of our little group, but he’s…busy, at the moment.”

Again, Farrion tried to read the energies that saturated the air in the small room, emanating from all three persons, intertwining, forming intricate patterns of power all about. There was nothing familiar, but they’re sure as hell powerful. He moved his gaze upon the young girl, as she moved about deftly over Karak, uttering quiet incantations. From here, Farrion could not tell if his wound was still bleeding. However the large warrior looked deathly pale in the face, and he did not seem to be breathing.

He started for him, “Kara ––!”

The warrior’s gauntleted hand stopped him, “Easy, Mesmer. Let the monk do her work. Your friend will be fine.”

“He’s just not my friend, man, he’s my brother!”

“Relax for now. He’ll be fine soon.” The warrior replied, his dark eyes staring hard at Farrion. They showed no emotion, no feeling, almost no life at all.

“Now, Mister Neightswift.” Bones began again, “As fanciful as this may sound, we know the exact whereabouts of the one who you seek. Your guess of Hero’s Ascent is far off. He’s deeper in the desert than even I would imagine.”

Farrion slowly returned his gaze on the ranger, “How do you know? Where is he?”

“He passed through Amnoon four days ago. We only noticed him because we realised that he was doing the same thing as we were – following a strange young woman. One of our number went after them, and we stayed here to gather our thoughts and formulate plans. For you see, this woman – and I use the term rather loosely – is heading to do something that will shatter Tyria. We realised this just a few hours ago, the results of deep discussion.”

“By Lyssa, do you mean that she’s another Lich?”

“No. You see, she’s something a lot subtler than that.” Bones sighed and took a seat on the sandy floor, “Have a seat, Mister Neightswift.” As Farrion and the warrior joined the ranger on the floor, Bones continued, “For years our organization has been researching the legend of the Vixen’s Heart, have you heard of it?”

“No. I can’t say that I do.”

“Well, the name is very misleading, for this artefact is not a heart, neither does it belong to a Vixen. No one knows exactly what it is, but engravings in the oldest and most remote locales of the desert depict it as being an eye, about the size of a human eye, covered in glass or some similar material.”

“What does it do?”

“Apparently, nothing by itself. However, when grouped with certain other elements…it creates something that this world can do without.” Bones turned to a backpack near him and took out a thin book. Tossing it to Farrion, he continued in an easy tone, “Habib penned this from drawings at a desert ruin only yesterday. It was only when we delved into it that we realised our true predicament. They’re drawings, done by ancient desert-dwellers, in that book. Copied exactly. The last one is the thing, and a short description in an ancient tongue of what it is and where it came from. Habib translated that also.”

“The thing?” Farrion opened the book and leafed through the pages. Several drawings of a strange-looking eye, snakes, and other unnamed things with elaborate descriptions met his eyes, until he reached the final page. He gasped and slammed the book shut.

“Ah, my sentiments exactly. Too evil even for description. A demon, bred by the gods, raised by the Forgotten, ready for an entrance into our world.”

“The gods made that? And the Forgotten played a part? What? Why?” Farrion asked quickly. The image of the beast seemed to have been etched into the back of his eyelids, always appearing whenever he blinked.

“Yes, to create balance in the world, or maybe just to destroy the world for them. Then again, no one knows how they think. What I do know, is that we must prevent that girl from arranging the elements and activating that
Heart.”

“Do you know where it is? This eye…heart thing?” Farrion asked, suddenly, as a cold fear gripped his throat.

“Not exactly. But we believe that this woman is in possession of it. When she passed through Amnoon, with your ranger friend hot on her heels, a powerful energy rent the atmosphere. An energy that could only have come from the Heart.” He paused thoughtfully, and then leaned forward, “Our agent in the desert could get to her before she uses it, but it may be too late, especially with this unnatural storm. There is only one person now who is there to stop her ––.”

“Cyn!”

“–– But he has no clue as to what’s going on.”

“Oh my god! He’s the only one who could prevent this…thing…and he’s entirely clueless!” A deep shiver shook Farrion. The fate of the world rested in the hands of a lone ranger, whose sanity was questionable, and who had no idea that the fate of the world rested in his hands. “We need to rescue him!”

“Yes, that’s the idea. I’m very glad to stumble upon you two, as coincidence would have it. We would have left already had this storm not arisen, and missed you. For what we may face, we will need the aid of one of the greatest Mesmers of this age, and the most fearless warrior.”

“Maybe the Gods do not yet wish to destroy the world. They gave us a chance,” a sharp voice said from Farrion’s right. He turned quickly and met the steel stare of the warrior. It was the first time he had said anything in a while, but it felt as though he had not spoken in ages. A deep feeling of wisdom and self-confidence radiated from him, even as he sat coolly on the floor.

A tense silence followed. It shattered when a small figure bounded into the room, wrapped in a sand laden cloak. The character quickly cast off the cloak and sighed loudly.

“Ah, Heavens. Are we good to go?” Bones asked.

Farrion realised that the small character was in fact a young man, without even so much as stubble growing on his boyish face. His eyes looked frantic, but he moved with an evident weariness.

“I’m not going to do that again. No. Not anytime soon!” he said after searching for a spot to sit. He took a glance at Farrion and Karak and sighed again.

“Mister Neightswift, let me introduce Heavens, our little elementalist. He specialises in air, as was evidenced in the tent.”

“So you’re the idiot responsible for all of that damn sand!” Farrion growled, rubbing his eyes.

Heavens scowled at him as he sat down by the far wall of the room. “Don’t go crying now.”

Farrion automatically sought for a hex, but again that knot shut him off from the powers of Lyssa. I can’t understand this! A selective knot? One that allows me to talk but not cast spells!?

The monk rose from Karak’s side and took a seat beside Bones. She wrapped the dark cloak about her snugly and eyed Farrion suspiciously, “He’ll pull through. Lost a lot of blood…but not as much as should have been. It’s almost like, some of it…was replaced somehow…ahh, the point is, he’ll be alright. Back on his feet very soon, if not sooner.”

“Thank you,” Farrion’s words came straight from his heart. He and Karak had gone through too much for him just to be killed by some unknown – albeit very pretty – Mesmer. And they had gone through too much with Cyn to just be destroyed by some demon from the gods. As the storm raged around the small room, Farrion had the nagging feeling that everything was just about to get much, much worse.

“It’s up to you Cyn, someway or the other. Dwayna help him put a stop to it before it starts.” He muttered under his breath, “Or at least help us get there while there’s still a Cyn to save.”

Nice work Cyn.

Quote:

Well here is the second chapter that I managed to finish three days ago. I now got to polishing it, and its finally ready to be revealed. I'm going to be up to my neck in work for the rest of this week, but since chapter 10 is soon done I think I could ease that into a post sometime at the weekend. I left my guild recently and am looking to join another(the one where most of the folks whose characters I'm using are in), but so far no invite. *Sits back and sighs loudly*, at least I'm able to use the keyboard for typing instead of trying kill four KD warriors . Chapter 9 awaits! I hope you enjoy it!

Of Men and Snakes

Cyn deftly smeared some herbs and hastily prepared oils on the gaping tear in his hand. He then firmly bandaged it with a rag from his small backpack, cursing as pain spiked through his arm. I’m such a fool! How could I just approach her and not think that she would attack me? Completely focused on his task he moved quicker and more efficiently than normal, but he did not notice it. Amidst his vulnerable actions, the grey-eyed woman never moved. She simply sat there, gazing at him as though he were some sort of beast from another world.

Cyn took a long draught of his troll ungent and then turned his gaze on the woman. “Again I ask, was that really necessary?”

“You haven’t answered my question either.”

“I told you before; I’m just here for my bow!”

“Not that question.”

Cyn took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. What am I? What the hell does she think I am? “I am a ranger, born and bred in Ascalon, before its fall. I dabble in the Elements as well. That’s all there is to me.”

“Liar!” she hissed fiercely. For a moment Cyn thought that she would pounce on him again, but she kept herself seated tensely, as though she were fighting against some unseen will.

“Then what the hell would you have me say?!”

“The truth. You’re not telling me the truth!”

“Then tell me this – why by the gods are you even doing here? It’s remote, no one lives here, and I’m sure as hell you weren’t following someone who stole your bow!”

The woman sat back as if struck, her eyes fading into a distant look. Then she brought her gaze back fully upon Cyn, piercing and cold, “I am here to save the world.”

Cyn chuckled. Isn’t that what they always say? “And why would the world need saving?”

The woman rose and looked down at him, “I think you should just leave.”

“And go where? Outside? Into that storm?”

She flinched and her eyes whipped to the stalagmite. “I have a job to do…and it’s not yours. You should not be here.”

Right. Now I’m very confused. “Look, missus. I just came for my bow. So if you don’t mind, I’ll take it and leave.” He approached her warily, extending his left hand. “And good luck with saving the world.”

But she did not move a muscle. She simply stared at him, with conflicting expressions in her eyes. Gods, just let me leave!

“You really don’t remember, don’t you?” she asked, in a surprisingly meek tone.

“Remember wha––? Look, just give me back my bow and I’ll be on my way. Never mind the killer storm out there, I’ll be real fine.” Cyn replied, not bothering to disguise his blatant sarcasm.

“It’s very convenient isn’t it? Not remembering this now?” Still she did not reach for his bow; content to just stare at him. For a moment it seemed that a flicker of a smile passed across her lips.

Cyn’s heart lurched, but he masked his sudden feeling of disorientation with a shrug and a sigh. “I’m not ready to play any games here. I already apologized about attacking you.”

“You’re so oblivious, aren’t you?” she asked, as she turned away entirely from him and started for the stalagmite.

Just turn and walk away. Forget her and forget the bow. Just…get…out!

Cyn’s vision swirled for a moment as the strange thought came rushing through his head. This one sounded the most urgent, the most pressing. There’s no way I’m turning away from this. Something’s going on here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t find out what. Beautiful women don’t trek across half the continent for nothing.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he started behind her, fingering the hilt of his dagger with his left hand. As they reached the stalagmite, there again was that feeling of scrutiny, as though something large and wary was watching their every move. Maybe that’s what attacked me? Goddess I really hope I don’t regret this.

The woman went back to the stalagmite, moving with an almost serpentine grace and agility, smoothly manoeuvring her hands over the apparatus. She was acting as though the last twenty minutes had never happened.

“Umm, yeah though. Just let me have what’s mine, and I’ll be out of your hair forever, okay?” Cyn posed, rolling his eyes.

The woman turned around, her strange eyes locking onto his; grey against dark brown. “What’s yours? Look around you, it’s already here.”

“I tire of this, missus.”

“Then answer my question – what are you?”

What the heck do I look like? Cyn sighed. “Tell me, then, what I look like to you. Tell me what you think I am.”

She crossed her arms, and a queer expression washed over her face. “Let me ask you another question first. Do people really know you? Do you even know yourself?”

“Just what are you getting at here?”

“What of your childhood? Do remember playing as a child?”

A quick reply died on Cyn’s lips. In all honesty, he did not quite remember large stretches of his childhood. All of the images that now flashed past his mind’s eye were just that – images. Stills. Checkpoints between the vast darkness of his past. Others were a blur, shifting images coming to him while he slept…. It was almost as though life had started for him, wandering in Regent’s Valley at sixteen. Indeed the first day had been queer – as though waking from a dream, but not lost, just trying to remember a clear purpose. His youth had been confusing, but Cyn had long accepted it and moved on. Time and the Searing drove much from his mind.

“Who were your parents?”

“Merchants. They were killed by bandits outside of Ascalon City. I was adopted by a woodland family.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes.”

The woman smiled again, “How did you get here, ranger?”

“Think of the path you took. I used the same one, due to the fact that I followed you!”

“You’re still the same after all these years, even though your face has changed. I didn’t recognise you at first, but now I do. You’ve changed so much, yet, so little. However, it’s pretty obvious that you don’t recognise me.”

“Have we met before or something?” Cyn asked. It was possible. He had met several women before, but then again, he could not have forgotten such a beauty with such odd eyes.

“Ah, the one question I’ve been waiting for! Yes, I know you.” She smiled, and again a distant look filled her eyes. She was no longer focusing on him, but on images from the past, “Well, I knew you, back before there was a Searing, before there was even Ascalon. Before even Tyria….” Her eyes fell from his as she finished, and her face took on a pained look, as though she remembered hurtful experiences. She turned back to the stalagmite and continued her strange work of arranging the foreign items on the rock. “This is my task. Yours is yet to come. You should leave.”

This was almost too much. He had never known his parents, and never even remembered just what the hell had happened to him as a child. Here was someone who had a clue, who seemed to know him! Cyn had many friends, but none from childhood. Were this woman and he acquaintances at one time? Could the gods actually have allowed her to steal his bow in order to eventually meet and fill in the blanks in his memory?

Cyn went to her side and gently rested his hand on her shoulder. She looked around at him, unsurprised as though she fully expected his action. She gazed at him with an unreadable expression.

“I know nothing of my past. Everyone I know I met in my teens or recently. Who are you? Did you know my parents?”

The woman’s expression softened, as though finally seeing the truth she had been seeking. Here stood a rugged ranger, sent through the furnace of the Searing, the undead invasion, Ascension and the Titans, and had come out as pure gold. Yes she had known him, and known him well. Where was he all these years? None of it should have happened…he had changed oh too much. She continued to gaze into his dark eyes – those familiar pools of shadow that she was so accustomed to, yet had forgotten. Here stood the man she had never expected to see, ever again.

“I’m Karissa.” She paused, seemingly expecting the name to ring a bell in Cyn’s memory. It didn’t, but she continued in an awkward tone, “All of Tyria knew your parents at sometime…. Look, you should just leave. I really don’t have much time.” She turned back to the stalagmite, but her actions were hesitant, as though she were forcing herself to do it.

Cyn let his eyes stray to the items. All of them were in their places, but one was missing. The central hole was empty, and it seemed that this Karissa character did not have the item that belonged there. Still she searched her empty bag, as though in disbelief.

“My name is Cyn.”

She stopped suddenly and whipped her head back to him. A semblance of a smile was upon her full lips. “Cyn is it? With just one ‘n’?”

“Yes. I was told that it was the male version that only has one ‘n’.”

She seemed amused at that and rested her hands akimbo. “Cyn, you should have left. But you always were persistent. Even though you have no idea what you’re doing. Didn’t ever occur to you that I could have stabbed you again?”

Hell yeah. “No. The thought never crossed my mind. You only attacked me out of defence. But look, Karissa, all I need is a little information, and then I’ll be out of your way. I’ll leave you to your…task.”

“I think that you’ve been staying out of my way for long enough, Cyn,” she smiled gently, soft lips parting to reveal white enamel. “I’ve had this for a long time. You gave it to me back before you were…years ago.” With that, she opened her jacket some ways down, took out a small pendant that was held around her neck by a sturdy chain and held it for Cyn to see.

The pendant was finely crafted and small. The material looked like glass, but it was the actual figure that made Cyn’s breath catch in his lungs. A snake wound its way around the entire length of the character’s body, and he immediately remembered the Forgotten race of the desert. The character itself was humanoid, and was dressed in long flowing robes, accentuated by elaborate jewels. In its hand was a small, but incredibly clear eye. Cyn could even make out the pupil. In fact he could make out every fine detail, from individual hairs on the character’s face to the threads of the clothes’ fabric. As Cyn’s eyes focused on the character’s face, his heart seemed to freeze from disbelief. Aside from a few peculiarities, the character in Karissa’s hand was a spitting image…of himself.

Your time is running out, Cyn.

Excellent work Cyn. This story is really good

Im so very glad that my character is the cool one

Thanks for the comment Shnarf - of course your character would be cool, was there any doubt? Well again I wish to thank you readers for the many views! Don't forget to leave a comment so I can know what areas I could improve in my writing. Now, onto to business. 10 seems to be a pretty important number today - the 10th chapter, 10 more days to the release of Factions, 10 more minutes and I'll be jumping headfirst into bed. Hehe, well, for all you lovers of 10 out there, here is Chapter 10. Let me apologize for its length...it's the longest chapter so far...but I hope it's enjoyable and keeps your interest!

Mingled Blood

Karak remembered it like it was a few moments ago.

Strolling along the sun-kissed shore of the Ascalon River, just outside the mighty walls of the impenetrable Ascalon City, bordered by the Great Wall. She was there with him then. Smiling, laughing, caressing his face; always speaking the praises of Dwayna. Her goddess, his goddess. Nothing could have separated them; their whole future had been set, just waiting for them to grab hold of it.

But some things change.

He awoke to the howls of the storm and a light smoke tickled his nostrils. Above him was dark, but sprinkled with light from far off. He realised that he was lying on his back upon a soft but sturdy bed roll. All he wore were his boxers. Where am I? Then suddenly, a cold shock gripped him as memory flooded back. By Balthazar! Dana! My neck! Farrion! He flew out of the bed, grasping his neck and looking for his axe.

To his shock, he found that his neck was not bleeding. Not even a scar remained from the wound. He swallowed his sudden panic and tried to remember exactly what happened.

“She cut my throat…and then…cut her own wrists!” he sighed and buried his head in his hands. “God, I’m no use to myself here, I gotta find out where I am.”

He rose, slowly, trying to fight back the queasiness that arose in his stomach, and the dizziness that caused his head to swirl. Looking around cautiously, he realised that he was in a small cave, with uncharacteristic flat walls, as though the room itself had been built into the rock. A doorway opened onto a narrow hallway a few yards away from where he stood. The smoke was coming from that direction.

He turned back to the area close at hand. His armour was nowhere to be seen, and the only furniture besides the bedroll was a small end table upon which sat a single candle. It was lit and gave out a respectable level of light. Apparently he was alone, yet Karak had a nagging feeling of another presence in the room. He whipped back to the doorway, but no one was there.

“Looking for someone, ‘hon?”

He turned back to the bedroll and stiffened. Karak was sure that he had lain alone on the small bedroll, but now there was a rising beneath the sheet – something now lay there, completely covered.

Karak looked for a weapon, but the only thing that came to his mind was the end table. But that lay within arms reach of the bedroll. Letting out pent up breath, he slowly approached the bedroll – he was not afraid of anything that he did not know.

“Who’s there?” he asked, easing his large left hand towards the table. If he could get that in his grasp, anything that lay in wait for him beneath that bedroll would get one swift blow with a blunt weapon.

Nothing replied. All that filled his ears was a dead silence. Under the wavering light and beneath the thick sheet nothing moved. Karak grasped the end of the sheet with one hand, and gripped the foot of the end table with another. If I see anything under here, I’m going to smash open its skull!

Quickly he cast aside the sheet and was about to send the table crashing into the bedroll when he suddenly realised that the bed was empty. There was nothing lying beneath the sheets.

“By Balthazar! Am I going crazy? I was sure that something spoke to me, and that something was underneath here!” Karak shook his head and turned back towards the doorway. As his eyes swept past the far corner of the room he thought he saw a figure standing in the shadows.

He stopped suddenly and stared wide eyed at the figure. It was so shrouded in darkness that he could not make out the features of the person, but for some reason, a deep sense of dread grasped his mind.

“Who are you? Reveal yourself!” He demanded, about to throw the table. He remembered that the only light in the room came from the candle that rested on the table and he quickly thought against using the table as a weapon. With unwavering gaze, he took the candle off the table and held it out in front of him.

“Are you afraid?” the voice rasped. The dark figure had spoken!

Karak slowly lifted the table off of the ground with his free hand, “Who…are…you…? Why am I doing here? Did you help me in some way?” Karak struggled to keep down his natural hostility, despite the several alarms that went off in his mind’s ear. Maybe this person helped Farrion and me somehow….

A small laugh came from the figure, “Yes, I helped you. You owe me everything. You could have died.”

More alarms went off in his mind. “Then I must thank you – I…I’m not really sure what happened back in the tent. Speaking of which, just where am I? Do you know where the guy I was travelling with is?”

The person approached, but remained just out of the reach of the candle. “You are in a cave, a few miles from the Oasis, ‘hon. As for your friend, I imagine that he’s in the outer cave, waiting for you…waiting for us.”

Waiting for us?

“Well, thanks. Will you give me the honour of seeing the face of the one that saved my life?” Sounds like a woman, maybe she looks good too.

The figure approached and entered the light.

Karak gasped and blinked in shock. There was no one there. Nothing but empty air met his eyes…but someone had just been there! He was having a conversation with someone! Dropping the candle he grabbed his face and massaged his aching head. I was talking to someone, I was talking to someone! I’m not crazy…I’m not Cyn!

“Ah, you’re finally conscious.” Came a sharp voice from the direction of the doorway.

Not waiting to see another darkness-shrouded figure, Karak turned swiftly, chucking the end table at whatever stood at the door. In mid flight he realised that the person at the door was carrying a torch, and a dark cloak covered his body. In an instant the table was upon him, but a loud splintering echoed through the room as the table fell to the ground as shards of wood.

“Nightmares, son?” the person asked as he withdrew an outstretched fist.
Karak sought for words other than curses. That guy just split a table in mid air with one fist? Balthazar! That wood had to have been rotted.

The person stepped into the small room and looked about warily. The light revealed the chiselled features of a large man, whose silver armour peeked out through the folds of his black cloak. A wicked rapier hung at his waist. A warrior by the looks of him. And one hell of a warrior too. Damn it, I bet I could take him, even without my armour and axe!

“Well, there aren’t any ghosts about,” he extended a gloved hand, “I’m Habib, Private Habib. It’s good to see that you’re finally awake, Karak of Egilos. Your brother is anxious as hell. He was in here up until a few moments ago, but he was wrenched away from your bedside to meet with my leader.”

Easy, cool. The man that called himself Habib spoke with a quiet authority and purpose, as though the table that had flown towards him had done nothing but bruise his knuckles. Karak shook his hand reluctantly, and only out of politeness.

“Farrion, where is he? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. A tad frantic, but fine nevertheless.”

Karak paused, glad to hear that his brother was alright, but also trying to fight back the one question that pulled at his mind. Resisting it no longer he looked Habib right in the eye and spoke, “Was there something else in here? Someone else?”

The large man frowned, and, shaking his head, looked about the room yet again. “Not that I know of. Everyone else is out front.” He brought his steely stare back upon Karak, “Did you see something?”

Karak’s heart thumped in his chest. He wanted to tell him that he had indeed seen something strange, but somehow, he could not bring himself to do it. His own words froze in his throat, and another set came from his lips.

“No. I didn’t see anything. I think I was dreaming or something.”

“Good, then. I’d hate to think that other things reside in these caves besides us.”

Karak found himself smiling. He shook his head and set his mouth in a stone frown. “I’d hate to think that I have to walk around in nothing but my boxers.”

“There’s some fresh clothes right over there,” Habib replied, with just a tad bit of impatience in his voice, “In that chest. Your armour’s out front. I’ll be outside.” With that Habib turned and left, the light following him outside.

“Balthazar give me strength,” Karak sighed. He went to the previously unseen chest in the corner and retrieved some well made and rugged articles of clothing. He slipped into the baggy cloth pants and threw on a leather vest. Taking one last quick glance at the darkling room, he went outside and joined Habib in the hallway.

Like the room, the walls of the hallway were square-cut, so expertly done that he was sure that this cave was not a mere natural formation. Master stone-wrights had been through this place at one time. Habib acknowledged his presence with a nod and led the way down the hall, in the direction of the thin smoke. There was a brighter and bigger fire up ahead.

If this guy turns on me, I will paralyze his ass with one swift kick to his jaw. He better not have Farrion out there in captivity – I will go so bloody mad ––

“You look like a warrior, son. What is your weapon of choice?” Habib asked, catching Karak a little off-guard.

“Umm, the axe. A very valuable, golden axe.” Karak replied.

Karak thought the man actually chuckled, “You should teach your brother to use it. I have a feeling that you’re not going to be using that axe again in a long time.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Habib only smiled in reply. A cold smile.

The hallway opened up into a large room, about one third, if not half of the size of the tent back at the Oasis. A large bonfire raged within the confines of a circle of stone, throwing bright light on the thin pillars and fallen statues of men that surrounded it. Four figures sat not very far from the fire, sitting in a circle and not facing the flames. One of them jumped to his feet when Karak appeared in the room.

“Karak! Oh bless Lyssa! You’re awake! How are you feeling?” Farrion cried, making his way towards the warrior.

Karak grasped his forearm in a manner of greeting and smiled broadly, “But of course I’m awake, and I’m as cool as a cucumber. Glad to see that you’re alright! Now, I have some questions of my own. Where are we? Who are these people?”

“These folks are part of a guild called The Wraiths. They’re looking for some artefact known as the Vixen’s Heart, and they know where Cyn is.” Farrion explained.

“The Vixen’s Heart eh? Sounds familiar.” Karak massaged his head and looked about the large room. “What of Cyn? Where is that crazy bastard?”

The others in the room were now looking in his direction. As his eyes adjusted to the new light, he could make out the others backing the fire. There were two men and one woman; ranger, elementalist and monk respectively, by the looks of their dress. The elementalist he recognised. Ah so that’s where I got that Vixen thing from.

“They tell me he’s in the Arid Sea, but they’re not sure exactly.”

“The Arid Sea? Balthazar, how far away are we from there?”

“We’re about seven miles from Amnoon, just north north-west of Audience. We’re making a straight line towards the Sea if possible. We have a serious situation on our hands.”

Karak took another look at the other folk in the cave, at the worry that creased their foreheads, and the weariness in their eyes. “I can tell that something’s going on. What’s up?”

“Join us in the circle, bro, Bones will explain.”

“Who the hell is Bones?”

“The ranger,” Farrion laughed, leading the way back to the small circle.

As they and Habib took their seats, the monk’s eyes locked onto Karak, and she smiled faintly. She was pretty, and Karak felt immediately attracted to her, even though she appeared somewhat older than the warrior.

“Nice to see that you made a great recovery, Karak,” she said.

“Thank you for everything. I could have died, right?” Karak replied, smiling broadly.

“Yes, you could have.” Karak thought that a semblance of confusion swept over the monk’s face, but it was gone so fast that he was not entirely sure if he saw it, or why she should be confused at all.

Bones made quick business of introducing the Wraiths and explaining the matters surrounding the strange woman, the Vixen’s Heart, the demon from the Gods and the predicament that they and Cyn now found themselves in.

“Sweet Dwayna!” Karak muttered, fingering the blade of his axe, “There’s no way we’re going to reach him in time.”

“Finally, someone with sense.” The elementalist said, crossing his arms, “I’ve been trying to tell them that for the longest while – but why should I even try? No one ever listens to me anyway.”

“We can reach him, but we have to hurry. It’s not that far now.” The ranger who called himself Bones said, not even glancing towards the young elementalist. Habib and Tsuki nodded in silent agreement.

“How, Bones? None of us here can move that fast through a storm. Unless you propose to use some sort of teleporter?” Karak laughed, “Of which, according to this map you showed me, they aren’t for miles around, and none that will transport us directly to the Arid Sea.”

Bones snorted, and probably smiled, but Karak could not tell as the ranger’s mouth was covered with his mask. “We are in an Elonian ruin, one of several in the desert. They’re all linked, my friend, by ancient teleporters. All they need are a source of power, and off we go.”

Karak sat back and massaged his arms. Even now he felt the presence of something near to him. Of course there’s something near to me – I’m surrounded by five people. But he had the nagging feeling that this presence belonged to something else.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” Heavens complained, “And just how do you propose we charge these things, if ever we actually find one?”

“And how do you know that they will link to the one where Cyn’s at?” Farrion added.

Bones snorted again. “Only one way to find that out eh? Private? Lead the way to the teleporter you found – it’s the same one that the woman and your ranger friend used on their way through here, I imagine.”

The huge warrior stood and turned to one of the many square-cut doors that lined the walls. “This way, gentlemen and lady.”

The party rose and gathered their belongings and started behind Habib, but as Karak got to his feet, trying to slip into his breastplate, he saw someone sitting on the far end of the fire, staring into the darkness behind. Who is that? Bones didn’t introduce anyone else did he? Slipping away from the group, Karak headed for the figure.

“Where are you going?” Farrion asked, grasping his arm.

“Gotta check something out, I’ll be right along,” Karak replied, shrugging out of his brother’s grasp and continuing on his way.

Karak rounded the flames and came abruptly upon the back of the figure. The bright light of the fire showed that a jet black cloak covered the person, and equally dark, long hair cascaded about her back. The soft sound of humming reached his ears, a mesmerising melody, from an obviously practiced throat.

Alarms suddenly went off in Karak’s mind, and he froze just as his lips were about to part in speech. Dread pulsed from the figure just inches away from him…but that feeling vied strongly with the sense of peace and happiness that also seemed to come from the person.

“Excuse me…are you one of these guys? Are you a Wraith?” Karak forced himself to speak.

“You could say that.” Came the reply. Karak shook his head. He could not be sure if the beautiful voice came from the figure before him, or from his own mind.

“Well, some leader you have. He forgot about you! Come on, we’re leaving.”

The person turned, and Karak’s heart halted, his mind descending into a sudden spasm of shock.

Bright, sea-blue eyes burned into him with uncanny fire, and a wide smile lifted the thin lips of the woman. Beneath the dark cloak was revealed a rugged dress, with a V-neck that dipped to just above her breasts. But her familiar exposed chest, crisscrossed by small veins, was unscathed. Karak felt his own mind numbing once again, this time overwhelmed by shock and confusion. Blood tingled and boiled in his veins. Dana…alive…here… All thought fled from his mind.

The lady Mesmer’s smile widened, “Thank you for your help, love.”

Greetings again from the heat of the Caribbean! That's right, it's cooking out here, and coupled with some serious cramming and project-work, I've had no time to work on a new chapter, and I'm behind in posting this one. Fortunately I did this one before the work caught up to me so here it is for your reading pleasure! And if, when you're reading, you get the urge to comment - there's a nifty Post Reply button on the left hand corner of the page Chapter 11!

Wicked Design

Cyn took two steps backwards and drew his dagger, eyes fixed on Karissa and the pendant that she clutched.

“What by Melandru is this? Some joke or hoax?”

“Put away your weapon, Cyn. This is no joke. What I’m holding is real – you gave it to me.”

“How the hell could I have given you that?”

Karissa sighed, and a flash of pain passed across her face. She put away the pendant slowly, and sighed again. “Even that didn’t spark your memory, did it?”

“Karissa, I am really lost here. Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going on?” Cyn pleaded. Suddenly it felt as though the omnipotent presence returned with greater force, and the ranger could feel tiny threads of energy being woven all around the stalagmite like a quilt.

Karissa seemed to feel it too, for she paused in her reply and glanced towards the cloud-covered roof. When she looked back at Cyn, her expression was one of stark desperation.

“What, by the gods, is that?” Cyn asked quickly.

“My time is running short, I…I have to finish this!” With that she turned back frantically to the stalagmite. Again she searched her bag and her person.
“What are you looking for?”

“The last element – the Vixen’s Heart. Where is it?” she cursed.

“The Vixen’s Heart?” Why does that sound so familiar? “Why would you want it? What exactly are you trying to do?”

“I’m…I’m….” She sighed and collapsed on the ground, burying her face in her hands. “Cyn, I don’t know what happened to you…why you don’t remember me, why you changed so much. But none of it should have happened, like the Flameseeker Prophecies. You weren’t supposed to be a part of that. Such things pass us by. We are involved in other, deeper matters.” She looked up and motioned to the stalagmite and the surrounding obelisks. “Such as this.” She stopped, seemingly reluctant to continue.

“Please, go on.” Cyn pressed. A part of him wanted to go down and comfort her, to be there for her, but another part resented the notion. She was simply a stranger. However she knew of his past, and she could tell him who his parents really were, where he had come from, what he had been.

“The…world has become a cesspool of sin and violence. Humans have scarred the planet, corrupting it, violating the gods, and they must be destroyed.” She spoke as one in a trance, “Ja’al will fix that.”

“Who?”

“He’s a mighty warrior – a champion – birthed from the gods, and nurtured by my mother’s people. He will wage war against the Masters of this world and destroy them, cleansing the plane of their filth.”

For some reason besides the obvious threat of destroying Mankind, Cyn did not like the sound of that.

“I have to release him. Evil follows me at my heels – for a while I mistook you for it – but still it comes.”

“So, you want to wipe out the human race, and you need this Heart to do it?” Cyn asked. By all logic he should have attacked Karissa right then and there, but his heart resisted, and his mind was no longer bound by the shackles of simple logic. Something deeper was going on here.

“Not destroy it. Cleanse it, Cyn.”

“But wouldn’t that mean you plan on committing suicide? Are you not human? And what of me? I’m human! Do you think that after learning this I won’t try to stop you?”

“I’m not human entirely, neither by decent or affiliation. Neither are you.” She sniffed, “My father was an Elonian and my mother was a Forgotten. Their union was special, though considered an abomination by their separate peoples. But the gods blessed it and provided them with a child, which is me.”

Cyn could not believe what he was hearing. Surely he had experienced phenomenal acts before, but the thought of a human and a snake producing offspring was not only an abomination, but an impossibility. But her eyes are strange…and she does move with a…serpentine grace…Melandru!

“If I’m not human, then what the hell am I? A centaur?” Cyn asked incredulously.

Karissa sniffled, “You are not a centaur! You are of the gods, created when the Mists themselves were forged. No, Cyn, you are most definitely not a centaur.”

Cyn let his jaw drop ever so slightly, “I’ve heard enough. If you don’t wish to tell me of my past, you could have just said so, not go telling long tales.”

“You don’t believe me?!”

“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe anything. I’ve lived so far not knowing about my past – I might as well go on. I thought that you knew me somehow, but now I see that my hopes were misplaced. Let me have my bow and I’m gone.” Cyn said firmly, approaching Karissa and holding out his hand.

She looked up at him slowly, pain gripping her face and eyes. A sudden anger took her, “You don’t care! How could you?!” she took the Ithas bow from her back and literally threw it at Cyn. “You will be destroyed along with all the others!”

The ranger grabbed the bow out of the air and turned towards the cavern entrance. “For years I thought that I was the only crazy one. It’s good to know that I’m not alone.” He started for the entrance, not casting a backward glance.

Karissa screamed in a frustrated rage behind him, which eventually subsided into muted wails. Cyn, unable to ignore her cries anymore, stopped by a fat obelisk on the way back to the entrance and glanced back at her. She was still on the floor, frantically searching through her bag. But what she was looking for was not there. In that moment Cyn realised just how helpless she looked, how fragile, how desperate. What the hell am I doing? I shouldn’t just leave her here in the middle of nowhere. She’s crazy, that’s for sure – she really could not be serious about destroying Mankind – but what the hell so am I.

He turned and his eyes were immediately drawn to the curious designs on the fat obelisk. Unlike the others, this obelisk was not entirely encrusted with fine jewels. In fact, a wide expanse was devoid of any ornament, but upon it was drawn a very detailed picture, lined with a flowing script not dissimilar to the one surrounding the central hole of the stalagmite. The picture seemed to be telling a story, beginning at the middle, continuing around the breadth of the obelisk and finishing back at the middle.

A man stood upon the black rock, gripping the head of another man, violently wrenching it backwards. Cyn thought he recognised both men, but at that instant, the vision of the obelisk and the entire cavern was suddenly swept away….

...

He stalked up to the dark man at the door. Framed in silvery darkness the man’s face lit up with a smug smile, “Greetings, sir. And how may I be of service this evening?”

“Enough shit – where is she? Where is Karissa?!”

“Heh. Lost your pet? I don’t know where she is,” the doorman replied in a sweet tone, as though he were trying to sing, “Perhaps still in your bed?”

That smirk and his beady eyes deny his ignorance. He had played a part. He must die.

He struck out, his hand pummelling against the man’s head. His fingers closed around the man’s forehead like a steel vice and he wrenched the head back, exposing the bulging neck. “You son of a bitch! I will make an example of you!”

He kicked open the door and marched into the wide auditorium, the curving walls of which rose and met at a domed roof far off. Mist gathered at the roof, obscuring the massive painting that stared down at the floor. Four white pillars, shaped in the fashion of teeth, descended from the roof and protruded the mist. Other, much smaller pillars lined the inside of the auditorium, rank upon rank of pure marble. Armed men stood in the central auditorium, chatting feverishly amongst themselves until they saw the two men enter, one being dragged along like a bag of garbage, cursing and pleading for his puny, inferior life, the other staring at them coldly.

Casting the man to the obsidian floor he drew his blade. All actions in the auditorium that had continued even after the two men entered now ceased abruptly. A collective gasp went up from men and god alike as eyes swept towards the entrance.

I have their attention. The Filth. Now they shall learn!

With quick, flowing movement, he drove his blade into the doorman’s neck and severed his head from his torso. Blood gushed from the remains of the neck, forming a fountain of blood that quickly settled into a large pool around his feet. “Now!” he growled, “Where…is…she?!”

...

Cyn gasped and blinked. The obelisk faced him, and the man carved into its black rock stared out at him with a cold fury. Recognition struck him like a brick. He was looking at himself on the obelisk. And the man at his feet, he looked like…he was…. Cyn drew his gaze upwards, and took in the four teeth that hung from the roof, puncturing the blanket of cloud. Slowly he returned his gaze on the environs close at hand, at the obelisks – rank upon rank of jewelled obsidian.

As though functioning under some other will, his hand went for his dagger, and he scraped off small flecks of the surface of the obelisk. Beneath was a layer of marble. Pure white marble. Cyn’s heart began to throb as he brought his gaze back upon the carving of himself. The man on the rock continued to stare at him, but now with an accusing glare.

Where is she? Where is Karissa?!

Cyn turned back to the stalagmite. His right hand began to spasm.

Just leave Cyn. Go now.

That voice again.

Cyn’s head pounded, as though his very brain was beating upon the inside of his cranium. His breathing quickened as he suddenly realised that maybe, just maybe, this woman Karissa was telling the truth. But…but…what the ––

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a fierce growl that resonated throughout the cavern. He turned swiftly to the source of the growl at the entrance, and he gasped and cursed. There, jumping from the ramp to the floor, heading like an enraged bull to where Karissa lay, was a huge Charr blade warrior. A jet black cape trailed from its neck, spreading like the tail feathers of a raven as the beast leapt into the air.

End of semester is upon me and I'm working hard to keep all the deadlines for projects and whatnot, so, these posts may not come as frequently. I really don't know if I can bring it to a respectable finish before Factions comes out, but here goes! Don't forget to leave a comment or crit, so I can improve or if you just like the story. Here's Chapter 12.

Dead End

Farrion watched as Karak rounded the flames. There was nothing there that he could see, save the scattered remains of a fallen pillar. But his brother had seemed intent. Maybe the warrior had an interest in archaeology after all.

The Mesmer’s feet were still aching after the hard race towards the Elonian ruin. All night they had pressed on, almost never stopping. He was amazed at the hardiness of the Wraiths, from their mysterious leader to the thin monk. There was still a lot he did not know about them, but all that could wait. The fate of the world hung in the balance, and to him that was much more important than learning the life stories of each Wraith. Even though the warrior who called himself Habib seemed an interesting character. He did not speak much, but when he did, everyone listened. The warrior had apparently translated several ancient documents, a feat that Farrion, with all of his high education, could not match. That made Habib even more interesting. Educated warriors were few and far between.

A sudden shriek snapped Farrion out of his musings.

“Karak!” he shouted, starting for the other side of the fire. The Wraiths heard his cry, and came back swiftly.

He saw the large warrior looking down at a broken piece of the pillar, his eyes open in horror. He gripped his axe in a death-grip. Farrion glanced about quickly, and seeing nothing strange, he approached Karak and grabbed his arm.

“Karak, what’s the matter?”

The warrior looked at him, “Dana! She’s here!”

“Dana?! But she’s dead! I saw here in the tent!” Farrion replied.

“No, dammit! She’s here! She was right there!” Karak shouted angrily. He wrenched free of Farrion’s grasp and stalked about the area, searching behind every fallen pillar.

“Snap out of it, Karak,” Bones said as he approached the warrior, “You’re still freshly recovered – you were hallucinating.”

“I wasn’t! I swear to ––!”

“Then where is she?”

Karak paused and sighed deeply. He clipped his axe back on his belt and crossed his arms, “I…I don’t know.” He glanced at Farrion, “I need a damn beer.”

Everyone gave him a queer look, except Farrion and Tsuki. She didn’t see him, but Farrion saw the expression on the monk’s face, not one of puzzlement, but a distant look – something the Mesmer could not put his finger on. She pursed her lips to speak, but then her eyes flashed across at Farrion’s intent stare and she actually blushed and turned away. Farrion raised an eyebrow, but a sudden tingling jolted him. A feeling akin to static rippled through the air, and a presence weighed down on them like a physical burden. Everyone in the ancient chamber stumbled, and gazed upwards as if their gaze could pierce the roof and look into the raging storm above.

“Tsuki, get the hex breaker off Farrion – I don’t like the feeling of that,” Bones said quickly, arming his bow and notching an arrow, “Let’s get moving.”

“Wait – you had a hex breaker on me?” Farrion asked in disbelief. So that’s what that knot in my throat was! “Why the hell did you do that for? I could have been killed back in Amnoon!”

“According to Habib, you were being attacked on all sides by some rangers. Seeing Habib rushing at you in that state would have been detrimental to his health – we didn’t want him, or us, being hurt needlessly. You are the best Mesmer out there. Plus,” Bones paused, turning to face Farrion, “we had you covered.”

Those rangers. Bones never did say who they were and just why the hell they attacked me…he never explained Dana either. Maybe Karak just got her angry? All I know is that these guys are possibly taking me to Cyn. Their story sounds crazy for sure, but I really don’t have much else to go on. This is our only lead, and we have to follow it to its end. Hopefully not our end. Now get this blasted hex breaker off of me monk.

“Helluva risk, Bones. Please don’t do that again,” Farrion said as the knot in his throat suddenly melted. He sighed and turned to a nearby ruin.

“Storm’chai,” he whispered. Swirling energies erupted from the earth surround the pillar, weaving around in circular fashion. Anyone standing in the midst of that small storm would have the very essence of their life drained. Good. My spells are back.

“Thanks, Tsuki. Being without my spells and hexes are like having a limb cut off,” he smiled.

“You are most welcome,” the monk replied, returning the smile.

With that the company moved forward, Habib leading with torch in hand, and Karak and Farrion at the back. Bones stalked just behind them, searching the environs under the light of a torch held aloft by the Mesmer. Habib took one of the several square-cut passageways that delved into the rock. The roof was zigzagged with curious cuts, and the walls were absolutely featureless and monotonous, so much so that after a long time of almost silent walking, Farrion felt that he had not moved an inch since entering the passage. What he did feel, however, was that the passage was gently sloping, so slight that anyone not as bored stiff as he was would have missed it.

“I wonder how Normire is doing?” Farrion turned to Karak, hoping to break the silence, “It has been a while since we left him back in the Forge.”

“Heh.” Karak replied staring about at the walls on either side as though at any moment something would jump out at him, “I suppose it wasn’t a great loss. I hate necros.”

“Don’t forget that he’s still family,” Farrion smiled, “and that he’s very talented.”

“Talented at getting himself killed you mean – rushing into battles with a sorry excuse for a sword and getting pumped full of arrows like a pin cushion.”

“Well, necromancers are sadists.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s not here. You’re enough trouble to keep alive by yourself,” he glanced at the small back of Tsuki just before him as she walked beside Heavens, and his rugged expression appeared to soften. When he turned back to Farrion is returned to its harsh state, “At least Cyn can keep alive for more than ten seconds.”

“You always have something nice to say,” Farrion passed the torch to his other arm and let it rest at his side, “What exactly happened between you and Dana in the tent? Did you rub her the wrong way or something?”

Farrion did not know exactly why it happened, but everyone around him seemed to slow down at the instant he spoke, even as Karak turned to stare at him. His eyes nailed Farrion. Blazing, sea-blue eyes.

“She was a sadist. She went crazy.” He rasped, almost as though forced.
Then as soon as it had begun, pace returned to normal and Farrion half-stumbled into the back of the elementalist in front of him. Both he and Heavens tumbled unduly onto the ground, and the torch dropped from his hand.

“Hey!” Heavens grumbled, “Watch where you’re going!”

“Suh…Sorry,” Farrion replied as he slowly rose to his feet. Karak helped him up as Bones reclaimed the torch. The Mesmer glanced across at his brother’s face, and found that his eyes were the dark brown colour that they should be.

“Karak, what the hell just happened?” he whispered so only the warrior could hear.

Karak was taken aback, “What do you mean? You stumbled and fell over that kid. What do you think happened?”

Farrion sought for an answer, but just then Habib raised his hand and ordered everyone to be silent. Casting his gaze forwards he found that the company had reached the end of the passage. Literally. Before them the light of the torches were swallowed in an immense, gaping pit, which stretched beyond the vision of even the best amongst them. Farrion suddenly grew very wary. Frig; they led us to a pit! It’s a trap! He glanced over at Karak, and watched as his hand moved quickly to his axe.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the warrior ordered, eyeing the Wraiths as a cornered cat would a dog.

Habib turned to look at them, upon his face a look of disbelief. “This was not here two hours ago.”

“Then where did it come from? A meteor or something?” Karak replied in a harsh tone.

Bones walked to the very edge and peered into the blackness all around. “Blast, this is endless. A boundless chasm.”

“Maybe you took the wrong way? All these passages look the same anyways.” Tsuki offered quietly.

Habib shook his head. “No, impossible. I marked this passage on the walls every six feet. We only had a few more metres and we would have come upon the teleporter.”

“Heavens! Give us some light out here, see how far this really goes.” Bones ordered, stepping lightly away from the edge.

Heavens acknowledged him, walked to some feet away from the edge and raised his hand in the air, whispering a chant. “It’s hard to hold onto Air in here…like something’s blocking me.”

The look on Bone’s exposed face showed that he did not like the sound of that. “Keep trying, Heavens.”

The small elementalist went back to his chants, until sweat broke on his brow, and he almost collapsed from exhaustion. Habib and Bones rushed to support him, and rested him against the wall.

“Take it easy for now, Heavens.” Bones said softly, passing the torch to the elementalist, “I will light some of my arrows, but we have to go back. There’s no way we’re getting through here.”

Habib replied, but Farrion did not hear a word he said, for his ears and his mind alike were drawn to a soft noise, almost imperceptible at first, but growing, getting louder, getting closer. He glanced behind quickly, and strained his eyes to perceive anything in the darkness. Seconds passed like molasses draining into a cup, and ever the sound grew closer, until it suddenly struck him what it was. It was a mechanical sound, reminding him of the giant furnaces and tramways of the Dwarves.

He did not realise it, but all of the company now turned backwards, conversation ceasing, in silent anticipation of whatever was trailing behind them. He heard a shifting close by and turned quickly to see what it was. There stooped Bones, feverishly pouring oil on an arrow and lighting it. He rose deftly and fired it into the darkness behind.

The passageway lit up brightly in the wake of the burning arrow. The arrow continued its flight until it struck something, which reflected its light as polished metal would. The arrow rebounded and fell – its fire going out – to the floor. But the party had clearly seen what it was that followed them.

A moving wall of nothing but whirling, serrated, steel blades.

“Oh goddess!” Farrion gasped. The blades were no more than thirty feet away. In ten seconds they would be upon them.

“Quickly!” Bones cried as he lit and notched another arrow, “Into the pit!”

“Are you f**king kidding me?” Karak and Heavens asked simultaneously, the young elementalist no longer exhausted.

Bones launched the arrow into the gaping jaws of the dark pit. Turning back he hollered, “Follow my lead! It’s not far down!”

The blades had closed the gap by twenty feet. Farrion turned towards the edge and started for it. He caught a glimpse of Tsuki standing like a rock, staring wide eyed at the instruments of death. Shock rooted her to the ground. He reached out and grabbed her small frame, even as Karak grabbed them both and carried both of them into the pit. And darkness swallowed everything.

Factions is finally out and I have to say that it's pretty good - the music is great and the locale is memorable! Well, it's pretty obvious that I'm not finishing this today, but anyway here is Chapter 13! I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think - my writing can't be that flawless that no one has any suggestions

The Gallery of Crystal

Falling.

“Karak! My love! Where are you?!”

Falling. Darkness.

“Karak!”

Memory.


It seemed that heat itself rained from the tortured sky, trailing the giant, hell-wrought crystals that shattered the landscape. With his once fresh clothes tattered and burnt around him, and his breaths coming in painful wheezes, Karak crawled to his feet and gazed around.

The land was twisted, burned and cast about as though the earth itself had gone into fits of spasm. Ash showered from burning clouds, obliterating much of the landscape. Karak wheezed again, his mind not yet fully comprehending the event that had just happened.

“Diana!” he shouted, “Diana!” he collapsed on his belly, the ash of Ascalon clawing its way into his eyes. He tried in vain to clean them out, but his entire body felt weak, drained. As though the very air he breathed leeched away what little energy he had left.

“Dwayna! Merciful…Goddess!” he prayed, rolling onto his side. What lay next to him forced his breath to catch in his lungs.

A giant, pulsating crystal marked where it had fallen just minutes ago. Mere feet from where Karak lay.

He struggled to his feet and backed away, before he collapsed again. Then he saw her. Apparently the large crystal had tips akin to a pitchfork, and had fallen at a slight angle. But there, lying precariously and unmoving between the forks of the crystal, was Diana. Her long, black hair was singed almost to ash, and the thin monk cloths that she wore were no more – burnt completely by the intense heat of the crystal.

“Oh…oh my goddess!” Karak gasped, struggling once again to his feet and making his way painfully back to the crystal. Heat radiated out towards him, suddenly searing his flesh, and singing the hair off his face. He had to stop just out of arms reach of her…shocking heat and weakening body would not permit him to go any further.

“Diana!” he cried, “Diana! Please, answer me!” he stretched out his hand towards her, but still he was out of reach. He drew back his half-burnt hand, trying to cry, but tears would not come. Diana lay just there, unmoving, virtually naked, beneath a giant, burning crystal. Logic screamed that she was dead, but Karak’s heart screamed for her to still be alive.

“Diana!”

At that moment, his lovely monk raised her head; just enough that her seared and bloodied face could be seen. Confusion masked her deformed face…confusion and fear. She found him with her eyes, and slowly mouthed the words, “Help me?”

Karak rushed forward, but the heat was too much, he was too weak. Just to touch her hand, just to hold her…that’s all I need to do…Goddess! Dwayna! Help her! Just let me get to her! Tears came finally, streaming down his face like a small brook. He tried to infuse her – to heal her – but to no avail. He was too weak. He stretched out his hand again, but still he was too far…she was slipping!

Suddenly the crystal shifted, throwing its weight on the nook where Diana lay. There was a loud scraping noise as the crystal readjusted itself, but rising above that racket was a bloodcurdling scream, so sheer and so desperate, so final.


“Karak, are you alright?”

The warrior opened his eyes suddenly, and a lean face materialised just before him. It was blurry, but it looked like…, “Diana?”

The young monk smiled and rested a hand on his forehead. Turning to someone beside her she said, “He seems okay, Farrion, maybe he just hit his head on the way down. He’s groggy.”

“Thank the goddess his head is so thick and hard then,” Farrion replied, chuckling.

Karak shook off his grogginess with one shake of his head. His vision cleared quickly and in seconds he realised where he was. Immediately before him sat Farrion and Tsuki, both gazing at him with broad smiles on their faces. The elementalist lay in a sprawled fashion beyond them, as Habib tended to the young man’s possibly broken foot. Bones tended a small fire not too far away.

Besides that, nothing met his eyes but utter darkness. Neither above him nor to his sides at the far end of his vision could he see anything else. It was as though they sat in a small bubble of light, floating in a vast space of black. He could hear nothing else either, besides the sounds of life around him – the breathing of Farrion and Tsuki, the crackle of the flames, the sighs and curses of Heavens, and the beating of his own heart. Karak relaxed. He always felt at peace, surrounded by life.

“Guh…good to see you,” he began, smiling, “Is everyone okay? Was it really as far down as I thought?”

“I’m glad as hell to know that you’re alright, Karak!” Farrion said happily, “If it weren’t for you, both of us might be dead right now. Your thick hide broke the fall considerably!”

“As I guessed,” Karak sighed as he remembered grabbing Farrion and the monk in his arms. Who were you really going for? Your brother? Or the woman that reminds you so much of her?

Karak jumped and looked around quickly, “Did you hear that?!”

“What?” Farrion replied, suddenly tense. In his mind Karak knew that the Mesmer was weaving together hexes to be cast in an instant.

“A…uh…um…never mind. It was just my imagination.” Karak replied eventually. He massaged his head, trying hard to think away the memory, and Dana’s voice that had filled his mind. I know that I’m still sane. Something happened to me back in Amnoon. She not only sliced my neck…she put her bleeding wrist over it. Blood transfer? Shit! I hate necromancers! But no, that couldn’t have been it. Normire’s done it before and it did not work like that. Whatever the hell she did, I can hear her voice! I have to get her out!

“I think you need some more rest, Karak,” Tsuki began, “It was a long way down.” She gazed into his eyes for an awkward moment, and then turned and went to check on Heavens.

“Nice one isn’t she?” Farrion chuckled.

“I guess so,” Karak sighed, “Where are we exactly?”

“I imagine it’s obvious that we fell into this chasm. We ambled along from the wall some ways, using a couple of Bone’s arrows for light. We met absolutely nothing so far – almost as though this entire place is empty.”

“Why don’t we go back and climb the wall? Those blades must be gone by now.”

“The walls are too sheer. We have no other choice now.”

Karak was just about to reply when he thought he heard another noise. Not a voice, but more of an ambient noise than a particular sound. In the back of his mind he thought that it sounded like many small feet running, coming towards them, surrounding them.

“Everyone to the fire!” Bones commanded, in a tone no less controlled than anxious.

Karak, Farrion and the Wraiths responded swiftly, and in seconds they stood, backs to the fire, facing the darkness.

“Ready your weapons,” Bones whispered, “I feel…strange things. Not of Melandru.” With that he drew his bow and fitted an oiled arrow. In his bow-hand was a piece of flint, which would strike against the launching arrow, causing it to burn.

Karak drew his axe, but his eyes were curiously drawn to a sword, wrapped in dark cloths by his feet. The hilt of it glimmered in the firelight. Must be Habib’s spare blade…I wonder if push comes to shove he would use it. It looks expensive.

Suddenly a purple beam lashed out from the darkness, striking Farrion straight in the chest and sending him doubling over, screaming in pain. At that instant, scores of many legged, black coloured monsters leapt into the pool of light, and raced hungrily towards the humans at the fire. Dryders sweetheart. Black Dryders.

It happened quickly. Farrion had not too long fallen before one of the dryders was upon Karak, its salivating maw biting at his face. The eight legs wrapped around him like a bed sheet, and the frenzied chittering drowned out most other sounds.

A change came over the warrior. Fearlessness replaced shock, and lust for death suddenly replaced the desire for life. I am weak no more! As adrenaline burned through his veins he forced his axe between him and the dryder, ripping the beast away. With one powerful slash, he cleaved through the dryder, burying the axe in the ground. All around him the Wraiths engaged the dryders; all of them reverting to melee, for the beasts were too close for anything else. Farrion grunted next to him and tried to get to his feet. At that instant another five dryders rushed Karak and he tugged on the axe. It did not budge.

“What the ––.” Karak glanced down at the weapon and realised that he had buried the entire breadth of the blade in the floor. He tugged on it again, and still it did not move. Gotta get another weapon! He cursed as he remembered Habib’s spare blade. Going behind him he grabbled up the broadsword and revealed its naked blade. It suddenly lit up in a pale yellow glow. The dryders were suddenly upon him, and he met them with cold, unforgiving steel. Karak felt suddenly invigorated with every stroke and he lost himself in the killing.

The next few moments were a blur as the pale blade leapt amongst the dryders, severing limbs and slicing through them as though there were nothing but empty air.

Suddenly he heard a voice, “This way! There’s too many of them! Get back here Egilos! Tsuki cannot keep healing you!”

Karak blinked and realised where he was. He was surrounded and up to his shins in hewn dryder corpses, about twenty yards from the fire. Still the beasts attacked, hoping to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

“How the hell did I get all the way out here?” Karak whispered to himself. He did not have any time to think of an answer, for at that moment, the camp fire suddenly went out, and his vision was plunged into darkness.

Then a loud, fierce breathing echoed throughout the expanse of black, and heavy footsteps jolted the ground. A terrible grumbling saturated the air, and a monstrous voice came from seemingly everywhere.

“I come…Ja’al rises….”

“Balthazar’s strength! What the f**k is that?!” Karak cursed. A deep terror settled over him like a poisonous miasma, and the darkness seemed to deepen just before him. The only light was that of the strange blade that he wielded. He focused on the blade and slowly backed over the dryder corpses towards where he remembered the campfire to be.

Gods I hope I’m going in the right direction! But what the hell was that! Have the dryders stopped attacking?

A bright streak of light erupted from a few ways behind him. He turned around swiftly and quickly realised that it was a lightning bolt. In the sudden after-light he saw the elementalist half-suspended in the air with arms upraised. Heavens was calling forth lightning! A second bolt lit up the chasm, and for the first time Karak beheld where he was. All around him, as far as the eye could see during the lightning, rose immense pillars, shaved off at the top to resemble obelisks. They glinted and shone in the light, many faces of pure crystal. Crystal statues of every shape and size lined the space between the obelisks.

Karak pelted towards the others. He met no other dryders on his way back, but he had the feeling that something much worse was going to be soon upon them. Another flash struck and he could see dryders, still attacking the Wraiths! Suddenly he realised that Heaven’s lightning was not for illumination. Quickly Karak jumped into the fray, splitting the dryder ranks like that wooden table against Habib’s fist. The acrid scent of burnt dryder flesh choked him.

“Karak! Thank the Goddess you’re alright!” Farrion said breathlessly as Karak worked his way towards him. The Mesmer clutched his chest, but Karak could see nothing wrong with it as another lightning bolt lit up the chamber. Farrion was wielding the warrior’s golden axe, trying his best to fend off the dryders. How he wrenched it from the floor Karak could not begin to guess.

“Are you hurt?” Karak asked.

“No, Tsuki fixed me up. I’m very tired though – it wasn’t easy work here, and my hexes and spells seem to have no blasted effect on these bastards!”

“I…come!” the voice bellowed once again.

All eyes turned in the direction of the words, and as another lighting bolt exploded amongst the dryders the huge figure of some thing materialised from the darkness. Karak thought it to be a man, about as tall as, if not taller than the lighthouse in Lion’s Arch, clad in armour, and wielding a large sword with a waved blade. The man seemed to be some sort of apparition, for he was not entirely opaque – shifting in and out of nothingness. One thing was clear, however. He was striding straight towards them.

“Ja’al…rises!”

good story alot better plot than others iv read

Greetings once again folks, thanks for your support so far! This chapter is not as thick as the previous two or so, I just decided to lay off the throttle a bit and ease down on the word count. I didn't add in alot of lamb, pork, sweet potato or cou-cou in this one, but I still hope you will enjoy it and feel free to post any crits and or comments. Now here is Chapter 14 in all its simple glory!

Mistress of the Four

Farrion lashed out at the snarling face of the dryder just before him, sending the beast cringing back into the darkness as the light of Heaven’s latest bolt vanished. Another flash lit up the cavern and the back of Karak appeared in his line of sight – the warrior tearing into the dryders with more than a reckless abandon. On the other side of the circle of humans surrounding the dead fire fought Habib, moving with military precision against the dryders.
Bones completed the defence, fighting tooth and nail with anything he could get his deft hands on. Altogether, nothing could work its way past them.

But nothing lasts forever, and there was the issue of that huge thing lumbering towards them. Farrion guessed that they were nothing but mere flies to that thing, flies to be stepped upon without remorse. We have to get the hell out of here!

“Bones!” the Mesmer hollered, “There’s something coming towards us! Something big! We have to move!”

“Melandru’s grace, I know! But we’re being swamped by these bastards! We need a miracle!” Bones hollered back, grunting as a dryder glided past his defences and sank its teeth into his shoulder. Tsuki sent a healing breeze his way as the ranger pried the beast off him and gouged out its face with his hunting dagger.

Darkness returned as the lightning bolt passed, but light returned as another struck. In that light the far wall of the cavern was revealed in an instant. A massive doorway burrowed deep into the wall. The doorway beckoned, and Farrion would have gone straight for it if five hundred dryders from hell did not stand between him and it.

For years the Mesmer had trained as a strategist. He knew the inner workings of battles, and the minds of both beast and man. But he left most of the decision-making to Karak, or Cyn, or whoever else had become the leader. Only in the most desperate times did his true talents show themselves. His actions were subtle and may very well be forgotten, but he did not care for recognition. He wanted to stay alive.

“Heavens!” he cried, backing towards the elementalist, “We need something…explosive! What have you got?”

“I…I don’t know! I can’t make anything explode!” Heavens replied anxiously as he called forth yet another lightning bolt that ripped into the dryder ranks.

Lightning bolt. Ripping.

“Heavens! Listen to me quickly! I need you to stop with this lightning for a few seconds ––.”

“What?!”

“ –– Listen! Build up your energy and send one massive bolt – a series of bolts, a chain – straight through the dryders! Aim in that direction!” Farrion pointed towards the wall, hidden in darkness.

“I don’t know if I can! I’ve never ––.”

“For the love of all the gods! Throw everything you have in that direction!”

Heavens cursed and sighed. The lightning ceased abruptly, and darkness swept in like a rushing wind. The curses and cries of Karak, Bones and Habib filled Farrion’s ears. They were fighting blind. Only for a few seconds.

“I…come!” the voice cried again, this time so close that Farrion could imagine the speaker’s breath on his neck.

“Now Heavens! For the love of the goddess, do it now!” Farrion screamed, making towards the wall. In his mind he grasped a spell, hoping against hope that it would work. His voice took on another tone, little used, but very effective. “Everyone to me!”

As the last syllable left his lips, a powerful electric shock surged through his body. In the instant that followed the cavern was lit up as by daylight. A series of massive lightning bolts tore through the dryders, frying the beasts to crisps as they travelled towards the wall. In awe Farrion gaped around at the sheer immensity of the cavern, with pillars and statues of many coloured crystal. His eyes were drawn to the thing that marched towards them, and he cursed. It was mere feet away.

“To me!” the Mesmer cried, making a mad dash past Bones and into the wake of the massive electrical surge. Dryder bodies crumbled to ash as he passed them, but more were clambering to fill the void, and the thing was almost upon them. With one mind Karak and the Wraiths raced after Farrion.
With inches and seconds to spare the thing landed on the campsite, crushing the dryders. Loud, sickly gasps went up from the slain creatures, but Farrion did not look back. He was moving like a flash through the crumbling bodies. It was as though only he moved, and the world stood at a permanent halt.

A heavy footstep jolted the floor and sent the frenzied Mesmer careening through the dark doorway as Heaven’s lightning surge evaporated like mist. Karak and the Wraiths were still many feet behind.

Farrion kept running, more out of the fact that he could not stop rather than his desire to live. Darkness lay all around him, and utter silence. Where am I going? Shit, I have to stop! The Mesmer reached out his arms to catch anything that would slow him down, but his arm crashed into something cold and rough and he lost his footing, crashing onto the ground – his head smashing onto the cold floor. It may not have been possible, but his vision went even darker and his body went suddenly numb.


Consciousness. Pain.


Farrion opened his eyes slowly, and squinted as a brilliant light – though dim – caressed his pupils. His body was even slower to respond than his eyes. He tried to move and speak, but all he managed to do was mumble something incoherent.

A figure shifted to his left, turned, and crawled over to him. For a fleeting moment Farrion thought the worse. The figure was darkly clad, and moved in a most…inhuman…way. He sought for a hex as a clammy hand was pressed against his temple.

“Well, you’re a most interesting present, or snack, depending on what you are,” a voice said. It was female, and light, as though the speaker was young.

“Wha ––.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you. You’re handsome, but you don’t look tasty.”

Farrion’s eyes finally put his world back into focus. A half-dressed figure crouched over him, and a kindly face peered out between long hair. Farrion placed the woman’s age at somewhere around the late teens, although the eyes that gazed at him suggested a much older age. What struck him, even in his numbed state, was the woman’s subtle accent. It was strikingly akin to a certain ranger who had found his way into the desert, blindly chasing after some young woman.

He was lying flat on the hard ground, and although strange light illuminated the room, he could not find its source. To his left and right were curving walls close by, bordered by the mangled bodies of several dryders. Their dark and distorted features contrasted sharply with the bright, warm atmosphere of the small room. Four figures were carved into the wall on his right, images that he recognised to be Grenth, Dwayna and Balthazar. The three gods were holding hands, and seemed to be simultaneously blessing another figure that knelt before them – an act that the Mesmer thought inconceivable. Someone receiving the blessing of three gods? Farrion locked eyes with the woman and tried to form words.

“Who are you?” he managed, licking his lips.

The woman smiled broadly, revealing a set of beautiful teeth, bordered by two canines that hung much farther from the top row of teeth than should have been. “Just call me Heather, Mesmer. It’s quick and easy to remember, isn’t it?”

“Heather…where am I?”

“You fell into my lair. I was busy helping myself to some of those dryders that were swarming all over the place and you popped in to pay me a visit. Forgive me if you find some…bites…on your legs and arms. It was a little while before I realised that you were not a dryder.”

“You were eating the dryders?!” Pain spiked into his head and Farrion tried to calm down, under the circumstances. Stay alive.

“A girl’s gotta live.” Heather sighed, “But enough about me. Who might you be? Are you the reason for all those fat, juicy dryders? If so we could become very close friends.” She smiled deviously.

“I’m Farrion, missus. And you could say that I’m partly responsible for those dryders. I was with a group of people, those beasts attacked us all of a sudden, and then some thing walked over us.”

Heather’s eyes lit up and then went very sullen. “There’s more of you – that’s good news. But this thing you speak of…that is not a good sign. I have seen it before, and I heard its passage – that demon. For what it’s worth, I even helped to imprison it. I do not have the strength or the desire to confront it again. My time is over. My last years to be spent wandering dark caverns and feasting on mindless animals.”

Farrion grimaced at Heather's final words. She looks human, but then again, I’m not so sure…there’s something…odd about her. She’s knows of this demon-thing! By Dwayna’s grace was that really what that thing was back in the cavern? Shit!

“The group I’m with – we intend to stop this thing. But we have little time.” Farrion said eventually.

Heather’s eyes lit up once again, “You? You little humans intend to stop Ja’al?” She sat back on her legs and laughed, “I must say, Cyn was right about you – the race of the two extremes. Blind bravery coupled with amazing feats of cowardice and selfishness. Heh, you are noble nonetheless.”

Farrion shook his head quickly, as his heart suddenly thumped in his chest, “Who? Did you say Cyn?”

Heather looked at him queerly, “Yes.”

“Cyn who? Cyn Eaver? The ranger?”

She shrugged. “He was Cyn to me. Only you humans have the pleasure of last names.”

Farrion breathed hard. What were the odds of meeting some woman in the depths of the earth, who might have knowledge of the man he was looking for? One thousand to one? One million? A couple trillion?

“What was he to you? How did you know him?”

Heather gave him a sidelong glance, “Why are you so interested? Do you worship him or something?”

Farrion almost choked on his tongue, “No! Worship? He’s a friend of mine, and he’s in trouble! I’m looking for him!”

She jumped back in shock, “You know Cyn? Well that’s amazing. He actually took the time to make friends with humans. He really does like you guys.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You have it seem as though Cyn isn’t human!”

“Well, that’s because he isn’t. But enough of that. You said he was in trouble? What has that crazy bastard done to himself this time?”

Farrion swallowed back a bundle of questions that worked its way into his throat. There was so much about Cyn that he did not know…. “I…I think that demon is heading straight for him.”

It really has been one helluva week, with all of the rushing to get work finished and what not. Sorry to say I haven't had any time to work on another chapter. This week is going to be pretty much the same, but hey, its my last of the semester! Now I managed to finish up this chapter today so I decided to post it up. Right off the bat lemme thank Normire for letting me use his character! I wanted to have a little fun with this chapter so I threw in a character I had not planned for (I really didn't plan for anything so I guess that doesn't matter does it?) So here's Chapter 15! I hope you enjoy and as always thanks for all your views!

Relic from the North

Cyn drew two arrows and loaded them onto his Ithas bow. Strafing around the obelisk put him in range of the Charr. To his right he could see the figure of Karissa, still crying and searching her things for an item she did not have. Apparently she had not heard the Charr’s growl, or maybe she just did not care. He pulled back on the bowstring, but his hand trembled and the pain from his wounded hand jack-knifed up his arm, jolting his aim.

I have to fire now! She hasn’t seen it…and that beast will be upon her in no time!

His hand trembled vigorously, but he forced it to remain steady. He waited until the Charr bounded into the direct path of his aim…and he released the arrows. Off they flew, spinning through air, straight into an obelisk. As he swore, Cyn drew two more arrows and took aim. Without waiting to aim properly, he fired. This time the arrows flew true, catching the sword-arm of the Charr. The beast grunted and flew around, its eyes finding Cyn in an instant. It cried what Cyn guessed to be a battle chant and started for him, bearing its long fangs.

“Damn,” Cyn cursed, notching another duet of arrows and launching them at the Charr. The heavy beast surprisingly dodged every volley, while not even breaking stride.

Cyn continued to fire, missing every time, until his hand went numb with pain. His whole hand burned and went into a shocked spasm. Cyn ground his teeth and dropped the bow. With his left hand he drew his dagger, and stared defiantly at the advancing Charr.

“Bring it you bastard! I’ve hunted and killed hundreds of your kind before! You will be nothing but a smear beneath my heel!” he shouted. His eyes went ablaze as he wove together the element of fire.

The beast closed the distance swiftly, but then halted abruptly ten feet from the ranger. The two races eyed one another, both of them breathing hard, adrenaline rushing through their veins. Cyn was just about to release his fireball when just then, the Charr did something strange. It suddenly bowed, sheathed its sword and approached the ranger.

“Well, it’s about time I found you, old chap!” It said, in a sprightly yet deep voice.

Other men would have been genuinely shocked. Other men would not expect a mindless beast to open a mouth not built for anything but snarling and biting to speak.

“You, lad, had me running through that bloody desert for a long time! Blimey! It was a helluva run.” The Charr spoke between snarls of pleasure, with a rich accent to boot. “Do you still want to do battle with me, for I apologize for getting you so worked up just now? I’m quite overeager, and the thrill of jumping from the cavern entrance really got me going.”

Cyn blinked long and hard. When he opened his eyes the Charr still stood there, as he expected. Only crazy men could meet a talking Charr, who spoke fluently and had such diction that defied the very structure of its biology. The ranger looked over the beast, at its finely crafted armour, and at the smooth silk cloak clasped at its neck that covered its back and hung over its shoulders. Besides the obvious fact of it speaking, this Charr was not any ordinary Charr.

“What the f**k are you?” Cyn found himself saying, not sheathing his blade. He had met enemies before that tried to kill him under the guise of friendship – human enemies. He would be damned if he would let down his guard on one of the beasts that had been responsible for the decimation of two human kingdoms.

“Why, my good lad, I’m Sir Big Charr, of the Hairy Council.” The beast’s nose twitched in pride, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you didn’t really mean to make me into a smear beneath your heel, my good fellow. I bruise easily.” With that he pulled the two arrows from his large, hairy arm and cast them to the ground without flinching. “Take all the time you need to reply – I have that effect on people.”

“The Hairy Council?! Do you know how foolish that sounds? How is it that you are talking to me? And where the hell did you come from – this is the Crystal Desert!”

The Charr frowned, “Well it is a rough translation, but I learned your language in the finest university in my land, lad. Jolly old language is it not? Although the only way to properly express oneself is called cursing.” It sighed, “I travel a lot, and I came here on a quest to save the world, believe it or not.”

Cyn struggled to find a reply. All these years he had thought Charr to be nothing but animals, albeit animals that could wear armour and wield magic and weapons. How is it that none of them had talked to him before? Had talked to anyone before?

“That lass that you were trailing, now she’s an interesting human. I hear that she is up to something rather naughty.”

“Who sent you…how do you know this?”

“I am in a fine old guild – we’re called the Wraiths and we have access to naughty information. I’m not sure what in blazes she’s up to, but all I know is that it’s quite naughty.” The Charr’s small eyes jumped on Cyn’s bandaged hand, and suddenly his voice took on a much more serious tone, “Did she attack you, lad?”

“Well, not exactly,” Cyn replied, his senses trained for any sudden movements of the Charr, “There’s something else in here – watching us. It attacked me I think, but I attacked her, thinking she had attacked me. Obviously she retaliated.”

“Something else you say?” he turned and studied the jagged teeth far above, “I indeed felt something on my way through that long entrance corridor. It was a powerful presence I’m sure. But enough chatter, sport, I need to speak with that lass.”

Cyn was just about to answer the Charr when a question slipped into his mouth, “Why did you destroy Ascalon, Charr?”

Big Charr looked back at Cyn quickly. The ranger thought that a shadow of regret and shame passed over his small eyes, but he couldn’t be sure, “I did not attack your country, lad, but for your answer – your guess is as good as mine. My folk lived far in the north, far away from the factions that invaded your country.” He stepped closer to the ranger, “But now is not the time to discuss such matters! Where is the lass?”

Tell him. Maybe he will kill her for you.

Something was happening. He could feel it. The atmosphere was charged, and even though he felt that he should be very surprised and unnerved at meeting this Charr at this time, he was not. Everything felt…right. The earth itself, the very cavern in which he stood, waited in silent anticipation for the culmination of…something. I’m back at square one!

“I’ll lead you to her, but if you try anything funny, I will make you into a smear under my heel, Big Charr. She’s under my protection.” Cyn never took his gaze from the Charr, and his dagger was still poised to strike, a spell never far from his mind.

“I understand your terms, sir; I shall even walk before you, so that you can always see my back.” Big Charr replied with a bemused look on his long face.

“Good. That way, back towards that giant stalagmite over there.” Cyn replied, pointing with his dagger. He had so many questions to ask…. A talking Charr? An image of him on a stalagmite in a place he was sure he had never seen before? That familiar man who he had apparently killed? Some presence lingering, growing stronger in this place…? No time!
The fallen figure of Karissa was still there, but she was unmoving, sitting on her legs and looking blankly into space. Her bag was torn into shreds all around her. Melandru!

Big Charr stopped suddenly before Cyn. In that instant the Charr’s sword was out, and the huge beast lunged backwards at Cyn, driving the steel through flesh, muscle and bone. All Cyn could do was gasp, as his world was plunged into sudden darkness.

Cyn blinked. Big Charr had stopped, but his weapon was still sheathed, and he was staring quizzically at Karissa. Cyn shook the vision out of his head. He was unscathed. Big Charr had not suddenly attacked him. So what the hell just happened?

Suddenly his eyes were drawn to a glint of metal in Karissa’s hand. It took the ranger mere seconds to determine what it was. A small, sharp stiletto! From where Cyn stood, it seemed that the blade of the weapon was iridescent – glimmering pale yellow. His stomach lurched as he suddenly recognised the blade…but suddenly the memory slipped away. Melandru’s grace! Where have I seen that before?! Even as he tried to remember, the sudden memory fled from the grasping fingers of his mind.

“Bloody hell?!” Big Charr exclaimed.

Cyn snapped back to things close at hand. His eyes went back to Karissa, and at the stiletto in her hand that was flying towards her neck. Let her do it, Cyn Eaver, let her take her own life. In an instant, the world seemed to freeze as Cyn sheathed his dagger and leapt towards the young woman. A breath escaped his lungs as he grasped her hand, pulling it firmly away from her neck. The stiletto trembled a hair’s breadth away from her flesh. She opened her tear-moistened eyes suddenly, and they locked onto his. In a heartbeat he was consumed, falling into the vertical slits of her pupils.

~ * ~

He was standing in a dark room, but dim light hung like mist in the wide expanse. Features were obscured by darkness. His focus was on the person before him, on the conversation he was having. The young woman was a relative, and younger than he – he knew – but how he knew, he did not know. Elongated canines were revealed as she spoke quickly.

“…to Tyria. There was an agreement. They’re planning for something big there, and they sent along the scapegoat. Your scapegoat.”

“She isn’t a scapegoat, Heather.”

“An abomination all the same. Created for this one purpose. Tyria will fall if she completes it.”

“If. There’s still time to stop her, to reason with her, to tell her the truth.”

“There’s no time, my lord! There isn’t a way you can get there without danger!”

“The danger I must face. I have to stop her.” He replied, massaging his crossed arms.

The young woman paused and gasped, “No. Not that way. It’s too risky! You will go against all the accords of the gods – more than you have already! You will run the risk of becoming ––.”

“Partially insane?” he finished, “I care not for risks. Tyria must be preserved.”

“They’re only humans!”

“Humans aren’t that lower than us, Heather. If they fall, who next will these so-called gods target?”

“What happens if you don’t return? What if you cannot stop her? She is powerful!”

“She is also mine.” He went and embraced the young woman, “Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shred, crystal forms lie forever in dread, waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.”

~ * ~

Charr surrounded him on all sides, weapons drawn, and standing in the violently wavering light of their effigy. A tall, black haired commander addressed him.

“…from the north. Unexpected.” The Charr said in a gruff voice, large locks of thick hair dangling from his head as he spoke.

“Do what you must. Root her out.”

“Use the burning crystals?”

“Do it, Charr. But no more. You will wait for further instruction….”

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star, a crystal…

Suddenly he was swept away, a forest growing from the empty plains around him. The light of the fire dimmed to the half-light of a false dawn, lessened even more by the foliage above him. He was lying on his side, bleeding profusely, with a bloodied sword in his hand, and facing another man in like condition. The man staggered towards him and under the dim light, the man’s face was revealed, hatred burning in his eyes. In his hands he wielded a long black staff. A raven staff of a necromancer. Green mists enveloped him as he tried to land the final blow to the man on the forest floor.

“Grenth shall take you now, fool. Like he did me. And he will feast on your rotting soul, the soul you traded for this cursed world!” the necromancer rasped, staggering.

“Fuh…f**k you. You hadn’t the balls to release the demon yourself, and you don’t have the balls to kill me. Your head should still be rolling about the obsidian floor, you waste.” The man replied.

There was a sudden flash, as though everything around them had lit up in white fire, and a feeling of burning and disorientation quickly set in. The man dropped his sword and grabbed his head as his body was wracked with pain. The necromancer fell to ground, screaming.

~ * ~

Cyn blinked and breathed again. Still gripping Karissa’s hand, he collapsed to his knees, his mind reeling from the memories and the questions they brought. That was me…talking to the woman…Heather? But I’ve never met her before…have I? That was me, talking to the Charr…what were we talking about? Burning crystals? The Searing! Me…fighting that necromancer. He looks so much like….

A myriad of names jumped into his mind, flicking past his mind’s eye as quickly as a speeding arrow, yet he could read each one. Only one name froze, standing out among the rest like a mesa among endless, unbroken plains. He knew that name. He knew that person. He had known him for the better part of his adult life.

Normire Darkwind.

Whoa. I'm back after a while, and I'm glad to say that I'm on vacation! That's right, no more stress or project deadlines for a while, until at least I decide what I'm gonna do with myself for another year Well, here is the much delayed finale to the story! Just kidding, but it is the much delayed Chapter 16. I hope you enjoy!

The Demon Within

He awoke suddenly, throwing the bed sheet from over his shivering body. Moonlight cascaded through the light curtains off to his right, casting confusing images of half-dark about the room. He tried to control his frenzied breathing, sighing and drawing his legs close to his chest. He buried his face in his knees and tried to fight back tears. What was happening to him? What was he turning into?

Things had happened to him. Strange things followed him during the day, wicked beasts waited for him at night. It was as though his life had descended into a downward spiral of decay and rot. He had not eaten for days, and the water that touched his lips burned like hot coals. Something was definitely after him. It did not let him rest for more than an hour. It did not grant him even the illusion of peace of mind. Not even for a minute.

When had it all started? I can’t even remember…everything has been a blur…an endless nightmare! When was the last good night’s rest he had? That night at the Forge. That’s when it started, when…when…when It began to hunt me….

He sniffled, pulling the bed sheet back around his shoulders as a cold breeze swept in from the open window. Maybe I should shut that. It might come through the window! The man glanced at the rippling curtains, and shook his head.

“I can take no more. I need one night of peace, just one night.” He said, half-crying, “By Grenth what have I done to deserve this?! I’m sick – I feel myself dying every goddamned day! I can’t take anymore…!” his words turned into deep tears.

Amidst his sobbing he did not hear the wooden door off to his left open, swinging inwards almost with a mind of its own. A silent figure crept into the room with as much disturbance as a breath. Quickly, noiselessly, it crossed the room and stopped in the bleeding darkness beside his bed.

The man in the bed looked around to see the flash of steel, and feel the bite of pain as he was flung carelessly out of bed, towards the window. In seconds the intruder was upon him again, driving twin daggers through his stomach and chest. The man screamed, half-crying, and tried to fling the intruder away, whilst reaching around aimlessly in the dark for something to defend himself.

His hand came upon a small satchel just in time to diminish a powerful blow from the intruder. The man fell back anyway, dazed, his head swimming with confusion, pain, and the reek of death. The last thing he felt was a glowing, pale yellow blade, which impaled his neck to the floor.

Blood welled up in his throat and as he coughed and spat, squirming against the blade in his neck, the intruder crawled over him, and bent over his face. He tried to grab at the figure, to do something, but life and energy were slipping away. The cold, subtle chains of death were already wrapping around him. A bright pair of sea-blue eyes, stark against the dark, stared down at him.

“Die, necromancer. It is the only way to remember.” The figure said, in a melodic, sensual voice. She lowered herself on him until their lips locked, her tongue feverishly lapping up the blood that spilled from his throat.

Die. Rot. Remember.

And then a spasm took him, and bloody fingers crept from the sides of his eyes, taking away his vision.


He found himself standing alone in a narrow passage. Strange statues lined either side, gazing at him through dark, hollow eyes. The faces were stark images of people, misshapen and twisted in agony. They seemed to be melting, deforming as though in intense heat.

The man averted his eyes quickly as a deep sense of fear settled about him.

“What the hell? Where am I?” he asked himself, feeling his neck where the glowing blade had linked him to the floor. To his surprise, there was no wound. Suddenly his eyes were riveted to the far end of the passage before him as a person materialised from the darkness. He could not tell exactly, but it seemed as though the person was beckoning to him.

“Hello! Is that someone out there?” the man shouted down the corridor.

The figure did not respond, but kept beckoning towards him. Then it turned quickly, and merged once again with the dark.

“Hey!” The man shouted, breaking into a run after the figure, “Hey! Wait! Stop!” the twisted figures on the corridor walls flew past him briskly, so fast that they appeared to be only one face – turning, melting, twisting.

He kept his face forward. What is this place? It feels evil! Just then he felt a harsh tug on his right arm. He stopped and glanced backwards, where nothing but empty passage lay. He focused on his right arm, and gasped. There was a long tear on his arm, as if sliced by a sword, but the wound was…expanding. Decayed, rotting muscle lay beneath the retreating skin, and his head swum as the sickening smell of dead meat filled his nostrils.

“Oh…f**k! Dwayna’s light!” he screamed, falling to his knees. “My hand! Oh god, my hand!” he picked at the decaying flesh, hoping to rip it away, to stop it from spreading, but it was no use. What was more, he did not feel a thing. It was as though the nerves in his entire body had gone dead.


Die. Rot.


“The Crystal Desert, my friend, that’s where the Tower is, where Ja’al lays dormant at the loins of this barren earth.” Said a voice, eerily familiar.

The man staggered to his feet, and gazed up at the man who had just spoken. This man was dressed in fine, flowing black robes and in his left hand he held what seemed to be an eye, encased in glass. But it was this man’s face that held his attention. He knew that face.

“Cyn! What are doing here?” he gasped, clutching the rotting wound.

“I came looking for you, Normire. You weren’t at the Meeting tonight. Is something the matter?” Cyn’s eyes studied the man intently, “I’m looking for Karissa, have you seen her?”

“Who? Look…what are you doing here? What am I doing here? Where is here?!” Normire replied feverishly. He could feel the muscle beneath his fingers withering.

Cyn looked surprised, “Are you sleepwalking or something, bossman? You’re in the Hall, remember?”

The Hall? The Hall of what?! Normire shook his head. “Cyn…I was sleeping! Someone came into my room and…and…killed me! Now I find myself here…and my arm! Look at my arm!” the necromancer held his decaying arm for Cyn to see.

Cyn gasped and covered his nose, “By Melandru’s grace, Normire! What have you done to yourself?” he put the strange eye away in a pocket on his robe and fetched a small flask from another. Unscrewing the top, he poured a clear fluid over Normire’s arm. “I don’t know what the hell is causing this, but this potion should help. It will burn.”

The fluid saturated his arm, but Normire felt no burning. And the decay continued to spread.

“What the hell?” Cyn asked, startled. He took out a small hunting knife, with a hilt of ivory inlaid with jewels. He grabbed Normire’s other arm, “Keep still, man, I’m going to try something.” He made a small incision on the necromancer’s arm, and gasped and cursed as a sickening smell swept out of the slice.

“Normire! You’re rotting from the inside out all over your body!” Cyn screamed.

The man fell back to the ground, clutching his arm and screaming. Darkness took him as his breath suddenly caught in his throat.


Remember.


Normire found himself grabbing the arms of a lithe, beautiful woman, whose sleeveless blouse revealed smooth, brown skin. Her eyes were wide with fear and confusion. The necromancer realised that he was speaking to her, even though the voice that came from his mouth sounded so…alien.

“…do you understand what you have to do woman?”

“Yes, my lord, but…but…why? I need a reason before I could do such a thing!”

“You question me?!” Normire found himself screaming. He wanted to calm down, to find out just who he was talking to, but his body was not his to control. The back of his hand crashed into the woman’s face, sending her staggering to the floor.

“You will not question me you freak! I am the reason you’re still alive! I am the reason you managed to live here amongst beings higher than yourself! Me! Now, you will go to Tyria, to the Arid Sea, and release the demon…release him! And you shall need this,” he tossed a glass covered eye at her, “The key.”

“But…this is Cyn’s key,” the woman said, rising slowly and eyeing Normire like a viper.

“Correct. Release the demon with that, and he will never be stopped.”
“Why would Cyn approve of this? I thought he loved humans…I thought he loved…me….”

“I told you already that he is a monster, Karissa. He cares nothing for you or for the inhabitants of Tyria.” Normire said, approaching the woman and gently caressing her face, “He is f**ked up.” Normire replied quickly. “Now get along, and please don’t you fail, for if you do, I swear upon Grenth’s throne that I will punish you!”


Remember…


“Where is she, Normire? Where is Karissa?”

Normire shook his head. Before him stood Cyn Eaver, dressed in another elaborate robe, but this time he wielded a strange sword. Malice filled his eyes.

He didn't want to reply, but his mouth moved under another will.

“Did you check under your bed sheets? Perhaps you lost her under ––.” The necromancer did not have the opportunity to finish his sentence, for Cyn’s blade ripped through his neck, severing it from his body in an instant.



“Sir?” Called a voice, “Sir? Sir! Oh shit!” Footsteps, running, “Someone get the Guard, quickly!”

Normire opened his eyes slowly and was met by the rippling curtain over his face. He was lying in a pool of his own blood. A fly lighted on his forehead. And then another. Soon he was covered with flies, and between them hung a sickly green mist. But that did not matter. All he felt was a pure hatred for one being. One Cyn Eaver.

Well I'm happy to say that this tale has reached 60 pages in MSWord! I hope that everyone is still enjoying it and I thank you all once again for your many views. Plus, I would like to thank Heather for allowing me to use her character (sorry for the awkward introduction ) but I hope that this chapter makes up for it. I've learned quite a bit about writing from working on this fanfic and I'd like to thank all those who supported me on the project and kept asking me when it was coming out. I'd also like to thank...wait. What am I doing? I haven't even finished the story yet! Just Chapter 17!

Necrotic Traversal

Heather sat back and sighed. She grumbled to herself and studied the floor. Farrion took the opportunity to find out exactly where he was, and if there was an exit. The room was indeed small, with a low roof and the floor was littered with Dryder corpses. Behind him some ways stood a wooden door, made from what looked like thick cedar. A small stone desk rested behind Heather, and upon it laid a strange assortment of items. Again his eyes were drawn to the walls. Several images were engraved on them, but the stranger ones depicted a small figure apparently being blessed by a multitude of the Old gods.

I wonder where the others are. I hope they got away from that demon!

“You look worried, Farrion,” Heather said, bringing her eyes back upon him.

Farrion could not help but reveal a smile. He always did in the company of beautiful women, albeit those that relied on dryders for nourishment. “The monks used to tell me that I’m a chronic worrier. But who can blame me? I always get thrown in some situation to save the world.”

She chuckled and found a thin, grey robe to throw over her shoulders, “Maybe someday we can all sit back and relax.” She sighed and returned his smile, “It’s nice to have some company – I was beginning to get bored in here.”

“It’s a pleasure to comply,” Farrion replied, studying the apparently young woman’s face and body. It occurred to him that she was similar in appearance to the strange figure chiselled into the wall face, being blessed by several different gods. “I have to get back to my company,” he continued, “They must be worried sick about me.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?” Heather replied, getting to her feet. As she rose the robe fell around her shoulders and back, reaching her feet in wide cuffs. Her pale arms extended from the short sleeves, which looked like they belonged on a snow-coat. Through the gap of the button-less robe, her inside clothes were revealed, seeming very fragile and quite incapable of turning back any blow. She turned and reached for the stash of items on the desk – two daggers, a featureless staff, several multicoloured flasks, jaws, legs and a whole set of oddities. Then she found a small bag and dropped them all in, save for the daggers, which she hung in sheaths at her waist, and the staff which she carried in her right hand.

Throwing the bag around her shoulder she glanced back at the Mesmer. “Shall we go?”

“Certainly,” Farrion said as Heather helped him to his feet. He was surprised at the strength in her grip, and at the sleek way that she carried herself. There’s something more than strange about her. Obviously. She’s about five miles below the Arid Sea, in an Elonian ruin, who apparently imprisoned a demon and knows Cyn. Of course there’s something strange about her.

“Are you coming? Or are you just going to stand there and smile at me?”

Farrion shook himself. He was not only smiling, he was grinning like a fool. “Um, just a joke I remembered, dear.”

Heather chuckled, “You Mesmer’s are all weird.”

“Indeed, but so are you.”

“I have reason to.”

“That’s you on the walls, isn’t it? Being blessed by all those gods?”

“Yes. I have an interesting background…and several talents. But they came at a price.”

Farrion tilted his head. Several talents. Blessed by many gods. Several professions? Impossible! He scanned the engravings one more time, Dwayna for monks and air elementalists. Balthazar for warriors and fire elementalists. Grenth for necromancers and assassins…

“Price?”

“It’s why I like dryders so much. You see,” she kicked a dryder corpse from the doorway, “I don’t actually eat the critters. I feed on their life essence – their blood.”

“Like a damn vampire.” Farrion offered, hoping to Lyssa that Heather did not suddenly have a craving for humans.

Heather laughed, revealing her long, sharp canines. Farrion finally realised what they were used for, and it was not only tearing through flesh. “Like a damn vampire. I can see why Cyn likes you – you have a sense of humour.”

Farrion began to smile again, but at the instant, his attention was riveted to the door. A booted foot burst through the solid cedar, sending splintered wood flying like mosquitoes from a dragonfly. A giant of a man bounded inside, dark cloak soaring, and followed by another armoured man, who, though smaller in stature, was just as eager.

When the two intruders realised that the only beings in the room were a man, a woman and several dead dryders, they sighed.

“Karak, Habib!” Farrion shouted gleefully.

Heather stared at the men in disbelief. “You could have just knocked, boys!”

As one the three men turned towards her, confusion masking Karak’s face.
“How did you manage to meet a pretty girl in this place, Farrion?” he asked in disbelief.

“I’m talented,” the Mesmer replied, giving Heather a wink.

The other Wraiths bounded into the room, weapons drawn, and kept them drawn even though they were sure that all the dryders were dead. Bones examined the room closely, and the look in his eyes told Farrion that he did not particularly like what he was seeing. He soon brought his gaze upon Heather and managed a smile beneath his mask.

“Well, greetings, ma’am. Might I ask how you got here? And why this place is stacked full of dead dryders?” He asked quickly, breathlessly.

“You’re rather forward, Mister Ranger. Well, to answer your bevy of questions – this is my home in exile, and my home for the simple fact that I can’t find a decent way out, and I was tasked with the job of keeping that demon here. About the dryders…I kill them for fun.” Heather smiled and returned Farrion’s wink.

“Well, I’m glad that you’re safe, man,” Karak said, turning back to Farrion, “That was some quick thinking back there, even though no one is quite sure what you did.”

“As per usual. Mesmers are so underappreciated.”

“So what do we do now?” Tsuki asked, gently poking a nearby dryder with her rapier. It jumped from rigor mortis, and she almost flew out of her skin.

Silence answered her.

“Farrion here filled me in on your plan,” Heather spoke into the silence, “You're lost, and this place is really, really dark. I might be able to lead you to the teleporter that zaps you out of here.”

“I thought you couldn’t get out,” Bones retorted.

“I couldn’t leave my post, which was to keep that demon imprisoned. I really don’t have the strength to do that anymore, and someone up there is summoning it, which makes keeping it imprisoned even harder. When he eventually gets out of this maze, I will have no obligation to stay here, see? I couldn’t get out for I wasn’t allowed to. Now I can.”

Bones sighed, “We haven’t much choice now. We’re almost out of time. I can feel it.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here, eh?” Heather laughed, locking arms with Farrion and striding outside.

~ * ~

The low hallway in which they stood was pitch black, save for the light of the single remaining torch, and the strange, glowing mist that had apparently followed Heather from her lair. Farrion thought that the place carried the term ‘claustrophobic’ to new levels, with narrow, straight walls with strange, disfigured statues gazing out at them through hollow, twisted eyes. The roof hung like a bird of prey above them, lurking. And like all of the other passages in this accursed ruin, the hallway was bloody long. It seemed to go on and on and on, without even so much as a side corridor.

The disfigured statues caused Farrion to pray for smooth featureless walls. I’d rather have monotony than these…things looking at me. By Lyssa! They look as though their faces were melted in some unholy fire! Well at least I’m next to a lovely, weird lady. If these statues decide to attack us, I’m sure she’ll protect us!

“Dwayna, have mercy!” Heavens cried, exhaustedly, “How much farther?”

“Shush!” Heather said suddenly, raising her pale hand, “There’s something out there, in the darkness. Waiting for us.”

Bones stooped low and prepared a burning arrow. When it blazed alight he drew on his bow and fired the shot into the waiting darkness. The light revealed nothing but empty hallway, with statues silently guarding either side.

“There’s nothing there that I can see,” Bones said eventually, rising to his feet. “Did you hear something?”

“Whispering. The whispering of many voices. There’s something ahead of us, alright.” Heather replied, strapping the staff to her back and drawing her twin daggers.

That action brought several raised eyebrows, but the tension was broken by a shrill voice that cried out of the darkness.

“So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, beware of he who comes before the dawn.” The voice sounded tortured, desperate, hollow.

Everyone shivered. Cold settled on the hallway like a swordsman’s grip, and a sudden feeling of anxiety enveloped the company. Farrion’s heart lurched in his chest, but he quickly regained his composure. That was only a voice…a riddle? Then why the hell am I so damn frightened?

Bones drew a barrage of arrows as the two warriors worked their way to the two ends of the group – Habib to the front with Bones, and Karak to the back. Tsuki and Heavens kept close to Farrion and Heather in the middle. All without a word.

“What the heck does that mean,” Bones asked Heather in a whisper.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve been through here before, but a long time ago, and I was never one for deciphering poems.”

“Poems?”

“It sounds like a part of one of Cyn’s favourite poems. Except the part with beware of the guy who comes before the dawn…I don’t remember that verse.”

“Balthazar! Are we supposed to answer it?”

“I don’t think so,” Habib whispered suddenly. “It was a command, a warning, not a question. Something’s giving us a warning – preparing us for something.”

Bones nodded, “Let’s get moving then. Slowly now, one step at a time. Keep close together.”

With that, he and Habib inched forward, with the rest of the company close behind. A warning? Farrion thought, Beware of he who comes before the dawn…beware he who comes at night! What comes at night? Assassins? Undead? Necromancers! But why should we beware of a necromancer?

The company continued forward, assailed only by a gripping feeling of anxiety. Just when Farrion was beginning to think that he could not possibly get more anxious, the feeling suddenly disappeared. Out of the darkness came a pinprick of light, quickly growing, shifting, coalescing into a shimmering figure that hung like a dying man on the gallows. Dead, glassy eyes stared at the company, and a sickening stench of rotting flesh streamed from the many decaying wounds on the apparition’s body. Farrion’s heart skipped several beats when he looked upon the apparition’s face. With the exception of eyes, the thing really had no face. Only saggy flesh, pockmarked by some disease, covered the area where the nose and mouth should have been.

Sheer pride and the fact that he had not eaten since morning were what kept Farrion from emptying his stomach contents on the floor. Tsuki and Heavens were not so fortunate. Amidst their frenzied vomiting and Heaven’s cursing, Farrion heard Heather whisper some sort of incantation. Farrion could tell exactly which incantation it was, but he gasped as he immediately recognised the type.

Necromancer…

The glowing mist surrounding Heather swirled around her and lashed out, settling on Habib. Suddenly her eyes were aflame with a demonic, green flame as more mist drained into her daggers.

“Attack!” she hissed, “Before it has chance to cast a spell!”

Everyone except Habib remained shell-shocked. In a heartbeat he was charging towards the solid apparition, and just when the dead thing raised a misshapen arm towards the company, the warrior’s rapier was slashing into its chest. The zombie-apparition jumped as if startled, and a sickly green mist enveloped it, rushing out towards Habib.

“Attack it, for Grenth’s sake!” Heather screamed, as the mist around her changed suddenly from palish green to a bright white. It descended upon Habib like a cloak just as the green mist from the zombie struck him and dissipated.

Farrion recognised both the exact spell and its type. Heather had just cast a powerful healing breeze on Habib. The most powerful healing breeze he had ever seen. She continued casting – enchantments, curses, hexes of a type he had never before witnessed, like a card player dealing out a fresh deck. Farrion Neightswift stood there in awe. Oblivious to the fact that Heather and Habib were the only ones fighting.

He snapped out of his trance when Heather grabbed his arm, “Do something, Farrion!” With that she was gone, simply vanishing.

Beware the necromancer…

“Oh shit.”

Suddenly Heather reappeared at Habib’s side, daggers flying like lightning bolts into the zombie’s flesh. Nasal cries erupted from the zombie’s throat, muffled due to its lack of a mouth. But still cold steel rained down into it, both Habib and Heather moving like partners in some ballroom dance, until the zombie was nothing more than a heap of broken, decaying flesh.

Farrion summoned a phantasm just for the hell of it.

“Melandru’s grace!” Bones whispered reverently, “I’ve seen some strange things in my life, but ––.”

“There’s no time for talk, Bones!” Habib interjected suddenly, “Can’t you smell? There’re more of them!”

Just then Karak hollered and cursed. Every eye darted back to where he stood, gazing in restrained horror at the misshapen zombie that was pulling-squeezing itself out of one of the nearby statues. The stone had cracked open, like the metamorphic shell of a butterfly, but what was easing out of it was not a beautiful, two winged insect.

The sound of cracking stone filled the hallway, as more twisted zombies worked their way free, and it was at that moment that Farrion realised the reason for the claustrophobic design of the place. It’s another trap. A death-trap. Dwayna help us all.

8 days later and here's the next chapter! This one gave me some trouble, but I hope that you guys still enjoy it. Thanks again for your continued viewership...(is that even a word?)...and I look forward to finishing this story and hearing more of your comments! Here's Chapter 18 for ya!

The Choice to end All Things

His body throbbed with anxiety, but at the same time, it shook with unsettling cold and fear. No less that a dozen zombies were clamouring towards the company, and he was the only thing that stood between them and the spellcasters. But that was not the reason Karak shook.

When Farrion had run like a madman into the pitch-black labyrinth, it was Karak who knew exactly where to lead the group, right to the door of the strange but interesting woman who called herself Heather. He had tried to make it seem like he was following the Mesmer’s trail, but in fact, he was following a voice in his head – the voice of the woman he had seen die in the main tent at Amnoon. But even that was not the whole reason why guilt worked its way up his throat like bile.

Minutes after crashing through Heather’s door, he had had a vision, almost a foresight, of this exact situation. He half-recognised every step of the way Heather was leading them, and to what end, but he could not bring himself to say anything. She did not want him to.

And now she laughed bitterly, as he stood clutching a sword of unknown origin as though it were his only grip on life, and tried bravely to stand against the swarm of undead. The walls and the roof seemed to close in on all sides, trying to trap the company with a malevolence of their own.

Ah Karak…do you honestly believe that you can survive without me?

“I have been for twenty-seven years, bitch. Get out of my head!” he whispered fiercely.

But you were as helpless as a baby for the last two days…you would be dead already without me, both you and your friends.

“Leave me alone! I don’t need you!”

You know that’s not true…

Suddenly his muscles stiffened up so tightly that he thought that he had turned completely to stone. He could not move. The nearest zombie raised a hand towards him, and a black miasma curled off its fingers, swirling towards him.

The sound of cursing and frenzied spellcasting sounded from behind him. The zombies must have reached Habib and Heather at front. They would soon reach Karak, too, and he could not do a thing.

The death gas inched closer, travelling slowly, as though the zombie spellcaster knew that Karak could not get away from it.

I control you Karak. You need me because I am part of you, like two peas in a pod. Or a vine around a tree.

Through stone-like numbness Karak felt a grip on his shoulder. He could not move his head to see who it was, but he recognised the touch – the gentleness in it, and the quiet peace. Almost at the same time, Tsuki peered over his shoulder and stared straight into his eyes.

“Diana….” He found himself saying.

Just then he felt a pain rip at his innards, as though something was biting and clawing its way through Karak – trying to get out. He doubled over and lost his footing. Unknowingly he had grabbed the little monk’s hand, bring her down with him.

“Karak, what’s the matter?” Tsuki asked quickly, fearfully. In her eyes Karak thought he saw a deep hollowness, as though there was nothing behind her brown irises, nothing beneath her pretty face.

“I…I can’t move!” he grumbled as the numbness worked its way to his face.

“Bones!” the monk screamed, “Karak’s down!”

There was the sound of frenzied cursing, and then a blazing arrow soared over the monk’s head, exploding in the chest of the nearest zombie. Charred strips of undead flesh spun through the air, and a nasty smell assaulted Karak’s nostrils. Bones jumped over his fallen body, launching barrage upon barrage of arrows into the dense undead army. Some collapsed, but most still approached – walking pin cushions of undeath.

“Heavens!” Bones shouted.

The young elementalist responded with a series of lightning bolts, which seemed to rip from the walls in jagged frenzy, slicing and jumping from one zombie to the other. The sudden light was blinding and Karak quickly closed his eyes, but even then the brightness pushed its way into his rolled-back pupils.

You can’t survive without me, Karak. We’re in this together…forever….

Suddenly Diana’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, bright and lovely; just like it was on the day he met her, standing alone on the balcony overlooking the central square of Rin. To his eye it had seemed that, even though it was a very sunny summer day – the light of the blazing ball of nuclear energy one hundred thousand miles away fell only upon her, caressing her features like that of a goddess.

Then, in an instant, it was gone.

Fire whipped about behind her, and consumed her. Strips of her flesh came away like chaff from her face, revealing muscle that burned and boiled with pus. She was screaming, so loud that Karak’s ear was deaf to all else. A strange hand reached out from the fire just above her head, and reaching down, clutched her forehead in a death grip, pulling her head backwards. The claws of the hand ripped into her eyes, wrenching them straight out of her sockets. Still she screamed, even as the fire peeled off the remaining strands of flesh and charred her gaping skull.

Karak opened his eyes viciously and realised that it was not Diana screaming, but he. His throat was burning and he choked back tears. Tsuki was still above him, gazing intently at him…at his eyes.

“Oh my god….” Karak heard the monk whisper, “Karak, what’s happening to you?”

Karak struggled to a sitting position. All around him intense battle raged – the very air he breathed was saturated with the acrid scent of diffused spellcasting, the stench of undead and necromancy burned at his nostrils. Shouts and curses were being thrown like discuses through the air, punctuated by screams of pain and mindless desire.

The small circle of defenders was getting smaller.

Bones had resorted to melee just in front of the warrior, and it seemed that everyone else had as well. Although Farrion, Heavens and Heather still threw whatever spells they still had energy to cast, each wielded weapons – Farrion with Karak’s golden axe, Heavens with his fine rapier, and Heather with her twin daggers.

And Karak, limbs splayed on the floor like a forlorn sack of sugar.

Desperate to rise to his feet, Karak willed his body to move so strongly that, with a little redirection; he would have moved a mountain easily. Yet he remained fixed to the floor.

The shimmering glow of a protective barrier suddenly appeared around Bones as he fought more or less alone at the back of the group. It was Tsuki’s doing, even though she sat on the ground, with Karak’s head in her lap.

Move goddamit! Karak, move! Karak commanded himself.

You need me, you big fool. I’m here to stay. Want me. A voice rasped back from all the corners of his mind.

Never!

At that instant, Bones cried out. And the next instant, he was flung like cricket ball towards the roof, where he cracked his head against the merciless, solid granite and fell back amidst the group. He cried no more.

Time seemed suddenly slowed, cloying together like too many dumplings in the mouth.

Bones’ swords returned to the floor as slowly and softly as rose petals, glimmering in the torch light and gracefully slicing arcs through the ambient mist. An uncountable horde of zombies approached the group’s exposed back, walking gracefully like monks in the temple of Dwayna, their arms upraised as if in supplication.

Tsuki’s expression changed from repressed horror to stark shock all too quickly.

He had to do something. He was a warrior for God’s sake, and he had not even taken a single blow. He had been crippled from the inside, by a woman who he saw die in Amnoon. How and why she got inside his head Karak could not and, more likely, did not want to know. Possibly he could not fathom it. What mattered was now, at this moment – how in Balthazar’s name he was going to get back on his feet before he and everyone else were nothing more than corpses soiling the floor.

He felt Tsuki’s arms tighten around his neck. He could almost feel her thoughts, willing him to rise to his feet like some armoured Phoenix and charge into the ripe field of undead, swinging his sword like a scythe, harvesting their rotted souls.

A zombie was right before them, right upon them, preparing to fire a spell at point blank range, even as more of its brethren closed in from behind. Karak felt Tsuki resting his head on the ground. She rose like a cat, rapier gleaming, slicing off the zombie’s out stretched arm and half its head with a single stroke. She uttered a word and holy fire suddenly consumed another reanimated corpse.

But onwards the undead came, pressing and pushing past one another in a perverse lust to get at and slaughter the monk. As one they came, passing over Karak’s frozen body as though he did not even exist. The sight of their undersides was enough to make Karak vomit. He closed his eyes and wept bitterly. Tsuki’s cries echoed throughout the caverns of his mind, half occupied by an insane woman he did not even know.

Want me!

Farrion’s cries and curses filled his ears keenly, magnified as though by shock, fear, or some wicked taunt. The Mesmer sounded pained, desperate, overpowered. He was fighting death, but he knew that he could not defeat it. Maybe there was hope in his voice as well. Hope that Karak would somehow get to his feet and keep his promise of protecting his brother.

The image of Diana, her broken figure, still beautiful though trapped under a burning crystal, jumped into Karak’s mind. She had asked desperately for help. The desire to be saved by the only one she knew who could actually do it was on her lips even as the crystal crushed her, burying her forever in the bleak soil of Ascalon.

Karak had not been able to save her.

And now he could not even save the woman that looked so much like Diana that they would have passed for sisters.

He could not even save his own brother.

He could not now attempt to rescue Cyn.

Help me, Karak…

Want me.

Anguish and primal despair ravaged Karak. In a hoarse voice that was almost like a growl, he screamed so loud and so desperately, that for a moment, every creature took pause.

Give me back my body! Give me back control! Let me save my friends! Take whatever else you want!

In that small moment of decision, just as the thought was formed, Karak knew that he had somehow condemned himself to the abyss. Somehow, he felt as though he had made a pact with Grenth himself. Or something worse than Grenth.

Vigour and strength poured back into his veins and he leapt to his feet, drawing the pale broadsword in one seamless motion. Bringing his sword upwards he halved the zombie standing above him, and the two halves of the undead parted as he stood. His Underworld-wrought steel armour absorbed the ambient light and reflected it in a strange, almost holy glow. Zombies reeled back from just the sight of him, and the reckless hate that shone in his eyes like two blazing furnaces was as tangible as cold steel. His eyes were afire. His very flesh burned. His blood boiled from head to smallest toe, and with every breath, every swell of his lungs and beat of his heart, he felt more power surge through him.

He felt as powerful as Balthazar himself.

He felt acutely alive.

He felt…unreal.

Whoa. A little over a week and still no advice from ya'll. What's up with that, lol? I honestly feel that viewers should take the time out to leave a brisk comment at least on any story in the forum, for the writer's sake. I mean, many of the writers here give of their best and would like a little feedback. You know what I'm saying? Anyhow I thank everyone for the continued views and I hope to bring this story to a close real soon, as I got some other upcoming commitments to meet. Got some new characters on the way, so here's Chapter 19!

No Way Out

A weak blue light broke over the horizon, capping the tallest buildings with hazy halos in the mist. Seagulls cried from far off and cocks crowed, almost as if in reply. The air was cold, blowing inland from the Sea. It brought with it a fresh smell – scents of salt, fish, and an unnameable smell that reminded one of life and inspiration. The harbour was mostly deserted, with the bobbing naval vessels the only activity, the creaking and groaning of wood the only other sounds.

Most of Lion’s Arch was still asleep, dreaming, preparing their bodies for another day. Soon, however the city folk would wake from their slumber and bustle, making Lion’s Arch the central hub of human civilization that it was. The last bastion of human power left in the world.

Surf broke on the pier, sending wide fans of foam over the wooden structure, and gently washing the figure that stood there, staring out across the waters.

Normire blinked the water out of his eyes and tightened the black robe around his shoulders. The robe covered all except his finger tips and face. Even though it was supposed to keep him warm, he still felt as cold as ice, as though the robe sucked the heat out of him.

He tried to forget the night before. He tried to convince himself that it was all one bad nightmare. One hell of a nightmare. What else could it have been? He had woken to the sight of several Lionguard soldiers in his room, with a monk gazing down into his face. Granted, he was lying in a pool of dried blood, but the monk had found nothing wrong with Normire. So he tried to tell himself that Cyn had not…could not have attacked and killed him. If the ranger had done that, how the hell would Normire be standing on the pier? Logic, ever the necromancer’s friend and ally, was failing him. Within him boiled an almost insane anger towards Cyn. But what had the ranger done?! They were in the same guild for years for God’s sake, through it all, from before the Searing to even after the events at Komalie. They had remained in contact even after the fall of the Jade Empire.

Cyn was a friend. Surely he had his secrets, and Normire was never actually sure of his past, but the ranger was a good man, loyal and patriotic. He was a master with the bow and doubled as a fine elementalist to boot. But in none of those years had Cyn raised a finger against him.

Then why did those dreams feel so real? Why did they feel so much like memories more so than simple images woven together by an active yet tired mind? Normire thought.

“Enjoying the surf ol’ fella?” came a voice from the necromancer’s left.

Normire spun around and came face to face with a small-built man. He was bald and tanned arms bulged from his short sleeved shirt. He wore baggy work pants and was barefoot. In his hand he grasped a length of thick rope and seemed to be untying it from the pier. He looked like an experienced sailor, and Normire was sure that he would have had flecks of grey in his hair, if he had any hair to begin with.

“Um, yeah. It’s a nice morning.”

“Indeed skippa. Most morns are clear, but not nearly as peaceful as this. It’s almost as though something great is going to happen. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Normire sighed and the image of the strange, bright sea-blue eyes from the night before jumped into his mind’s eye. Who was that? A woman by the sound of the voice, but what was she talking about? What did she mean about me remembering?

“Travelling today, skippa?” the bald sailor asked.

Travelling. Gods, now I know something is chasing me. Last night had to be a dream. I can’t let whatever’s chasing me get me for real!

“Yes. I think I’m going to be travelling today.” Normire said finally.

“Aye. Today’s a good day for sailing. Calm waters and gentle breeze. Where might a man like yourself be headed? If I may ask?”

“Somewhere far. Do you have a ship? Do you take passengers?”

The sailor finished untying the rope and cast it onto the deck of the small ship at the pier. “Aye, skippa. I’m sailing. And hard too. I’m in a hurry to get from Tyria, and by the looks of ya, I’d have to say you were in the same boat.”

“How far are you sailing?”

“I’m making two ports. I’ve got some folk to drop off at Amnoon, and then I’m off to Cantha.”

Cantha. By Grenth’s grace whatever’s following me won’t reach me there. Or at least I’ll have some more time to hide.

“What’s your fare, sailor? I wish to get to Cantha.”

The sailor smiled. The pier was now beginning to bustle with life as scores of sailors and merchants swarmed to their ships, off-loading supplies and readying the vessels.

“Five hundred gold, skippa. Half here, half there. Are you still interested?”

“Hell yes.” Normire replied quickly. He suddenly had a sense of urgency, and even if the cost of his trip had been all of the monies he had saved from his guild and his inheritance, he was sure that he would not have given pause.

“Aye. You had better get all your things together – complete any business. I leave in the hour.”

“I’m all there is. I have no other luggage.”

Normire realised that the sailors eyes had strayed past him. When he spoke his voice was quick and quiet, “There’s someone watching you, partner. Don’t look! Don’t draw their attention. Now listen carefully to me. I’ve dealt with your sort before – folks running from their pasts. If you board this ship you’re follower will undoubtedly trail you. You have to lose him in the city crowd. There’s a bartender there on the market street who serves at a pub called the ‘Dread’. Tell him Pister sent you. He will sort you out. Then get back here as quickly as possible. Go now, son. But walk away slowly. I will start to hum if the person starts to follow you. Now go!” with that the sailor climbed aboard his vessel and continued making preparations.

Normire stood there for a few seconds in disbelief. Something in him wanted to turn around and face the person trailing him, but logic and common sense drove him back into the city, walking at an easy pace. He did not have to hear the sailor’s musical humming to know that the person was trailing him. Their eyes seemed to be boring holes in his back.

By Grenth! Does this nightmare ever end?

The stone arms of the city clasped around him as the necromancer fell into the bustling semi-chaos that was the market district of Lion’s Arch. Peddlers and merchants of all sizes and demeanours, fronted by squabbling customers of various backgrounds, choked the main artery that flowed into the heart of the District. Buildings two and three floors high, built from large blocks of greyed limestone and coral, hugged the road, seemingly bending towards the necromancer.

Scents of perfumes, meats cooking on a grill, fruit and earth-caked ground vegetables filled Normire’s nostrils. The smells were so powerful that he could almost taste the foods in his mouth. He would have stopped and just savoured the flavours in the air, if this day was any day but this day. He always knew that he was being pursued, ever since the frozen landscape of the Shiverpeaks, but even here, in the dense human jungle of Lion’s Arch, he had not gotten away. Maybe last night had been a dream after all – foreshadow of worse horrors. Normire shuddered uncontrollably.

Slowly shouldering past the city folk, he had to resist the almost insane feeling of breaking into a mad dash, shoving people out of his way like an enraged Minotaur. Crowded as the road was, he felt his pursuer’s gaze so strongly that the street could as well have been empty.

A sign drew his attention to his far right. On it was a brightly coloured image of a dark-skinned man shaking his dreadlocks. Above the face was the word ‘Dread’. The urge to push folk out of his way on a mad dash to apparent safety grew suddenly stronger.

Easy Normire. Easy goddamit! I can’t let whoever’s chasing me see me going into that bar…Gods! How the heck am I to do that?

City folk crowded around him at all sides, yet he could still feel that piercing gaze. He looked around quickly, trying to pick out some wicked face, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Every face looked almost alike, as if they were printed on some epic tapestry. Logic told him that he was simply suffering from paranoia. It told him that the bald sailor was just playing with his mind, that there was not really anyone trailing him. Logic told him that everyone was in on it – some plan to kill him.

Sometimes Logic and Paranoia are indistinguishable.

Fighting back his urges, Normire worked his way steadily to his right, deviating on purpose to some merchant stall or the other. But everyone else was wearing dull colours, or went about bareback. He was wearing a jet black robe, with a hood for added conspicuousness. He did not attract many stares, but someone could definitely see him if they wanted to. Normire cursed his bloody ignorance. He probably stood out from the crowd like a middle finger.

Unbuttoning the robe he ducked under a yet-to-be-occupied stall table, leaving the robe beneath it. When he re-emerged on the other side, all he wore was a simple shirt and long cloth pants, albeit woven from fine materials.

The gaze suddenly seemed to have shifted, and Normire found himself sighing with relief. He made a bee-line for the ‘Dread’.

In moments he was at the door, and as he passed it a voice called out to him from just outside the doorway. It was undoubtedly feminine, and almost musically mesmerising. He stopped dead in his tracks and sought the owner of the voice. A tall woman stood with arms crossed at the right of the doorway, dressed in non-descript clothes suited for work at the harbour. Despite her clothes, she was remarkably beautiful and almost sensual. The sort of woman that makes a man want to undress and get things started urgently.

She perused his body with bright sea-blue eyes. A gentle half-smile was upon her lips.

“I like your new outfit.” She said.

Normire’s heart and stomach held hands and both lurched into his throat. This woman was fine for sure, but something strange emanated from her as well, like some taint on a delicious set of ice-cream straight from the Shiverpeaks.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

The woman pursed her lips and ran a hand through her long, jet black hair, “I’m sure you’ll remember.”

The piercing gaze knifed Normire in his back. He glanced back towards the street quickly, and saw no one looking at him. He glanced back at the woman. She was gone, vanishing like mist in a warm breeze.

Normire lunged into the pub and walked towards the bar. Who the hell was that woman? Why did she like my new outfit? Does she…. Realisation struck the necromancer like a lightning bolt sent from the hand of Dwayna herself. Grenth preserve your servant. Was she the one following me? I recognise those eyes of hers…my god! Last night in that dream! That person who…killed me…with the daggers, told me something about remembering! That person had blue eyes!

Was he still asleep in the bedroom? Or can characters from dreams and nightmares jump between worlds? Or was last night real?

Normire stopped that train of thought. He knew that he was getting ahead of himself. He was freaking out. The woman at the door was just that – a woman. Probably a harlot. Or something. Maybe even a Lionguard. Now that made sense, there were a couple of the Guard in his room last night. She could have recognised his face and just decided to compliment him on his new attire.

The gaze suddenly returned, this time burning into his back like a fire.



Two fists landed into the bar and a panicked man leaned over the counter at the bartender. The latter walked up to the counter and finished polishing a glass.

“Can I help a brother?” the bartender said.

“Oh shit! F**k!”

“Mon, you insane? You don’t step to me like dat! Where’s the good morning, eh?”

“Suh…sorry.” Normire struggled to get himself back under control, “I…I’m…. Pister sent me.”

“Did he now?” the bartender gave Normire a long search with his eyes, and then glanced at the door and the environs. “Afweeh got something for you then.”

With that, the dreadlocked bartender replaced the now polished glass and motioned for Normire to join him on the other side of the bar. The necromancer quickly obliged, following the bartender out a well-concealed side door and onto a stairwell that cut into the earth beneath the shop.

“Ah, I know folk like you. Pister always sends them up my way. On the run are yuh?”

“Yes!”

“Cool mon. Chill bossman. Not a boy coming through dat door. It warded and trapped and thing, you site? Now. We’ve got some quick work to do. I’m ah gonna make you disappear.”

After a few moments of tense silence, Normire glanced back up the stairs, despite the bartender’s assurance. The stairwell was quiet, and building paranoia sharpened his hearing. The sound of a door, softly being opened, reached his ears.

Whoa. A little over a week and still no advice from ya'll. What's up with that, lol? I honestly feel that viewers should take the time out to leave a brisk comment at least on any story in the forum, for the writer's sake. I mean, many of the writers here give of their best and would like a little feedback. You know what I'm saying? Anyhow I thank everyone for the continued views and I hope to bring this story to a close real soon, as I got some other upcoming commitments to meet. Got some new characters on the way, so here's Chapter 19!

No Way Out

A weak blue light broke over the horizon, capping the tallest buildings with hazy halos in the mist. Seagulls cried from far off and cocks crowed, almost as if in reply. The air was cold, blowing inland from the Sea. It brought with it a fresh smell – scents of salt, fish, and an unnameable smell that reminded one of life and inspiration. The harbour was mostly deserted, with the bobbing naval vessels the only activity, the creaking and groaning of wood the only other sounds.

Most of Lion’s Arch was still asleep, dreaming, preparing their bodies for another day. Soon, however the city folk would wake from their slumber and bustle, making Lion’s Arch the central hub of human civilization that it was. The last bastion of human power left in the world.

Surf broke on the pier, sending wide fans of foam over the wooden structure, and gently washing the figure that stood there, staring out across the waters.

Normire blinked the water out of his eyes and tightened the black robe around his shoulders. The robe covered all except his finger tips and face. Even though it was supposed to keep him warm, he still felt as cold as ice, as though the robe sucked the heat out of him.

He tried to forget the night before. He tried to convince himself that it was all one bad nightmare. One hell of a nightmare. What else could it have been? He had woken to the sight of several Lionguard soldiers in his room, with a monk gazing down into his face. Granted, he was lying in a pool of dried blood, but the monk had found nothing wrong with Normire. So he tried to tell himself that Cyn had not…could not have attacked and killed him. If the ranger had done that, how the hell would Normire be standing on the pier? Logic, ever the necromancer’s friend and ally, was failing him. Within him boiled an almost insane anger towards Cyn. But what had the ranger done?! They were in the same guild for years for God’s sake, through it all, from before the Searing to even after the events at Komalie. They had remained in contact even after the fall of the Jade Empire.

Cyn was a friend. Surely he had his secrets, and Normire was never actually sure of his past, but the ranger was a good man, loyal and patriotic. He was a master with the bow and doubled as a fine elementalist to boot. But in none of those years had Cyn raised a finger against him.

Then why did those dreams feel so real? Why did they feel so much like memories more so than simple images woven together by an active yet tired mind? Normire thought.

“Enjoying the surf ol’ fella?” came a voice from the necromancer’s left.

Normire spun around and came face to face with a small-built man. He was bald and tanned arms bulged from his short sleeved shirt. He wore baggy work pants and was barefoot. In his hand he grasped a length of thick rope and seemed to be untying it from the pier. He looked like an experienced sailor, and Normire was sure that he would have had flecks of grey in his hair, if he had any hair to begin with.

“Um, yeah. It’s a nice morning.”

“Indeed skippa. Most morns are clear, but not nearly as peaceful as this. It’s almost as though something great is going to happen. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Normire sighed and the image of the strange, bright sea-blue eyes from the night before jumped into his mind’s eye. Who was that? A woman by the sound of the voice, but what was she talking about? What did she mean about me remembering?

“Travelling today, skippa?” the bald sailor asked.

Travelling. Gods, now I know something is chasing me. Last night had to be a dream. I can’t let whatever’s chasing me get me for real!

“Yes. I think I’m going to be travelling today.” Normire said finally.

“Aye. Today’s a good day for sailing. Calm waters and gentle breeze. Where might a man like yourself be headed? If I may ask?”

“Somewhere far. Do you have a ship? Do you take passengers?”

The sailor finished untying the rope and cast it onto the deck of the small ship at the pier. “Aye, skippa. I’m sailing. And hard too. I’m in a hurry to get from Tyria, and by the looks of ya, I’d have to say you were in the same boat.”

“How far are you sailing?”

“I’m making two ports. I’ve got some folk to drop off at Amnoon, and then I’m off to Cantha.”

Cantha. By Grenth’s grace whatever’s following me won’t reach me there. Or at least I’ll have some more time to hide.

“What’s your fare, sailor? I wish to get to Cantha.”

The sailor smiled. The pier was now beginning to bustle with life as scores of sailors and merchants swarmed to their ships, off-loading supplies and readying the vessels.

“Five hundred gold, skippa. Half here, half there. Are you still interested?”

“Hell yes.” Normire replied quickly. He suddenly had a sense of urgency, and even if the cost of his trip had been all of the monies he had saved from his guild and his inheritance, he was sure that he would not have given pause.

“Aye. You had better get all your things together – complete any business. I leave in the hour.”

“I’m all there is. I have no other luggage.”

Normire realised that the sailors eyes had strayed past him. When he spoke his voice was quick and quiet, “There’s someone watching you, partner. Don’t look! Don’t draw their attention. Now listen carefully to me. I’ve dealt with your sort before – folks running from their pasts. If you board this ship you’re follower will undoubtedly trail you. You have to lose him in the city crowd. There’s a bartender there on the market street who serves at a pub called the ‘Dread’. Tell him Pister sent you. He will sort you out. Then get back here as quickly as possible. Go now, son. But walk away slowly. I will start to hum if the person starts to follow you. Now go!” with that the sailor climbed aboard his vessel and continued making preparations.

Normire stood there for a few seconds in disbelief. Something in him wanted to turn around and face the person trailing him, but logic and common sense drove him back into the city, walking at an easy pace. He did not have to hear the sailor’s musical humming to know that the person was trailing him. Their eyes seemed to be boring holes in his back.

By Grenth! Does this nightmare ever end?

The stone arms of the city clasped around him as the necromancer fell into the bustling semi-chaos that was the market district of Lion’s Arch. Peddlers and merchants of all sizes and demeanours, fronted by squabbling customers of various backgrounds, choked the main artery that flowed into the heart of the District. Buildings two and three floors high, built from large blocks of greyed limestone and coral, hugged the road, seemingly bending towards the necromancer.

Scents of perfumes, meats cooking on a grill, fruit and earth-caked ground vegetables filled Normire’s nostrils. The smells were so powerful that he could almost taste the foods in his mouth. He would have stopped and just savoured the flavours in the air, if this day was any day but this day. He always knew that he was being pursued, ever since the frozen landscape of the Shiverpeaks, but even here, in the dense human jungle of Lion’s Arch, he had not gotten away. Maybe last night had been a dream after all – foreshadow of worse horrors. Normire shuddered uncontrollably.

Slowly shouldering past the city folk, he had to resist the almost insane feeling of breaking into a mad dash, shoving people out of his way like an enraged Minotaur. Crowded as the road was, he felt his pursuer’s gaze so strongly that the street could as well have been empty.

A sign drew his attention to his far right. On it was a brightly coloured image of a dark-skinned man shaking his dreadlocks. Above the face was the word ‘Dread’. The urge to push folk out of his way on a mad dash to apparent safety grew suddenly stronger.

Easy Normire. Easy goddamit! I can’t let whoever’s chasing me see me going into that bar…Gods! How the heck am I to do that?

City folk crowded around him at all sides, yet he could still feel that piercing gaze. He looked around quickly, trying to pick out some wicked face, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Every face looked almost alike, as if they were printed on some epic tapestry. Logic told him that he was simply suffering from paranoia. It told him that the bald sailor was just playing with his mind, that there was not really anyone trailing him. Logic told him that everyone was in on it – some plan to kill him.

Sometimes Logic and Paranoia are indistinguishable.

Fighting back his urges, Normire worked his way steadily to his right, deviating on purpose to some merchant stall or the other. But everyone else was wearing dull colours, or went about bareback. He was wearing a jet black robe, with a hood for added conspicuousness. He did not attract many stares, but someone could definitely see him if they wanted to. Normire cursed his bloody ignorance. He probably stood out from the crowd like a middle finger.

Unbuttoning the robe he ducked under a yet-to-be-occupied stall table, leaving the robe beneath it. When he re-emerged on the other side, all he wore was a simple shirt and long cloth pants, albeit woven from fine materials.

The gaze suddenly seemed to have shifted, and Normire found himself sighing with relief. He made a bee-line for the ‘Dread’.

In moments he was at the door, and as he passed it a voice called out to him from just outside the doorway. It was undoubtedly feminine, and almost musically mesmerising. He stopped dead in his tracks and sought the owner of the voice. A tall woman stood with arms crossed at the right of the doorway, dressed in non-descript clothes suited for work at the harbour. Despite her clothes, she was remarkably beautiful and almost sensual. The sort of woman that makes a man want to undress and get things started urgently.

She perused his body with bright sea-blue eyes. A gentle half-smile was upon her lips.

“I like your new outfit.” She said.

Normire’s heart and stomach held hands and both lurched into his throat. This woman was fine for sure, but something strange emanated from her as well, like some taint on a delicious set of ice-cream straight from the Shiverpeaks.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

The woman pursed her lips and ran a hand through her long, jet black hair, “I’m sure you’ll remember.”

The piercing gaze knifed Normire in his back. He glanced back towards the street quickly, and saw no one looking at him. He glanced back at the woman. She was gone, vanishing like mist in a warm breeze.

Normire lunged into the pub and walked towards the bar. Who the hell was that woman? Why did she like my new outfit? Does she…. Realisation struck the necromancer like a lightning bolt sent from the hand of Dwayna herself. Grenth preserve your servant. Was she the one following me? I recognise those eyes of hers…my god! Last night in that dream! That person who…killed me…with the daggers, told me something about remembering! That person had blue eyes!

Was he still asleep in the bedroom? Or can characters from dreams and nightmares jump between worlds? Or was last night real?

Normire stopped that train of thought. He knew that he was getting ahead of himself. He was freaking out. The woman at the door was just that – a woman. Probably a harlot. Or something. Maybe even a Lionguard. Now that made sense, there were a couple of the Guard in his room last night. She could have recognised his face and just decided to compliment him on his new attire.

The gaze suddenly returned, this time burning into his back like a fire.



Two fists landed into the bar and a panicked man leaned over the counter at the bartender. The latter walked up to the counter and finished polishing a glass.

“Can I help a brother?” the bartender said.

“Oh shit! F**k!”

“Mon, you insane? You don’t step to me like dat! Where’s the good morning, eh?”

“Suh…sorry.” Normire struggled to get himself back under control, “I…I’m…. Pister sent me.”

“Did he now?” the bartender gave Normire a long search with his eyes, and then glanced at the door and the environs. “Afweeh got something for you then.”

With that, the dreadlocked bartender replaced the now polished glass and motioned for Normire to join him on the other side of the bar. The necromancer quickly obliged, following the bartender out a well-concealed side door and onto a stairwell that cut into the earth beneath the shop.

“Ah, I know folk like you. Pister always sends them up my way. On the run are yuh?”

“Yes!”

“Cool mon. Chill bossman. Not a boy coming through dat door. It warded and trapped and thing, you site? Now. We’ve got some quick work to do. I’m ah gonna make you disappear.”

After a few moments of tense silence, Normire glanced back up the stairs, despite the bartender’s assurance. The stairwell was quiet, and building paranoia sharpened his hearing. The sound of a door, softly being opened, reached his ears.

Thanks again for the views everyone and thanks Mister P. for allowing me to use your character! I'm glad that you folks are (hopefully) enjoying this, so here is the next chapter. The story is soon going to be over, as you're probably going to surmise from Chapter 20!

Taken

Another zombie, now limbless and headless, collapsed to the floor as Karak’s pale sword careened to the next one. The zombie back-peddled like a madman, but was trapped when it found its back to the wall as it stood beside a misshapen statue. Karak went for it and dismembered it with the passion of a footballer.

Karak blinked, and realised that all around him, zombies lay hewn and dead, their limbs scattered as though by a hurricane. He turned and found the others staring at him. Except for the shocked and frightened look on their faces, they looked generally unharmed. Farrion was gripping the battle-axe for dear life, his entire posture like that of an exhausted, energy-deprived man. Heather and Habib looked completely exhausted themselves, and strips of torn undead flesh hung from their blades and clung to their armour.

“Oh my goddess! Sweet Dwayna! Sweet Dwayna!” Heavens moaned, gasping for breath. Of all the company, he seemed the least exhausted. Surely he was not low on energy, but maybe he was just too frightened to do anything, or perhaps he did not have a clear shot on many of the zombies.

“We must get from here quickly.” Habib said, sheathing his sword and moving to Bones. “I don’t know if we can hold off another assault like that.”

Karak sighed and brought the pale sword to his side. For some strange reason, he knew that they had seen the last of the zombies. The undead had finished what they had come to do.

Tsuki joined Habib at Bone’s side and her fingers moved gracefully over the ranger’s body – hovering inches above it. A soft blue glow radiated from her finger tips. To Karak, the ranger seemed unconscious. The man had taken quite a blow to the cranium, so if he was as hard headed as Karak, he should not have suffered terrible injury. But the looks on Tsuki’s and Habib’s faces said otherwise.

“Are you alright, bro?” Farrion asked weakly, as he made his way to Karak’s side.

“Yes,” and no, “I’m…I’m glad we survived that one.”

Farrion sighed and followed his brother’s gaze to the fallen ranger, “I don’t know how much longer I could have fought. There were so many of the bastards! So fast! Even Heather was getting tired.”

“They’re gone now.”

“Thank the gods,” Heather said as she joined the brothers. Karak looked up at her and realised that she, too, had sheathed her weapons and was leaning on her staff. For a split-second, she looked much, much older than she had first appeared.

“That was quick work back here, Karak,” she continued, managing a smile, “You’re a good warrior.”

“I’m the best there is,” Karak replied.

Now you are, that is.

That voice again. Dana. Why was she doing this to him? What was her plan, for the love of Dwayna? She had done nothing but help him up until now, even if she had attacked him back in Amnoon. Was she some sort of demented guardian angel?

For some reason Karak doubted that possibility very much.

“I agree with Habib, though. We should get moving.” Heather continued, “How’s Bones?”

Tsuki glanced up at the three of them. Slowly she spoke, “Not good. He was knocked unconscious, but he suffers from internal bleeding. I patched him up best I could, but I don’t know…I just don’t…know….” She buried her face in her hands, crying.

Karak had to subdue the sudden urge to run to her, hold her in his arms and comfort her. She looked so much like Diana, and seeing her like this was almost too much to bear. She felt the sting of failure just as keenly as he would in her situation. She looked so much like Diana, before the crystal came and ended her life.

Habib rested his armoured hand around Tsuki, gently cradling her in his bear-like grasp and spoke soothingly to her. Karak did not think it possible that the huge, chiselled man could even be remotely capable of being a cuddly confidant, but there he was, looking as though ‘comforting’ was his part-time job. Maybe those two have something together. Dwayna’s grace, what was I thinking?

A loud noise, like the sound of confused chatter, snapped everyone back to matters close at hand. The noise came from the way they had come, far away, but it was getting closer.

“Alright everyone, let’s go! I’ll carry Bones. Heather – you take the lead. Karak will bring up our rear. Let’s go!” Habib commanded. In a flash he was back on his feet, gently lifting Bones in his great arms like a father would a child. The man seemed able to merge cold, hard professionalism with gentleness with perfect ease.

In a matter of moments the company was moving. Heather’s glowing mist encircled the group and many metres ahead and behind it, revealing nothing either trailing them or lying in wait for them. The pace was swift, yet careful, and after many moments they were still unmolested. And the passage still went on and on. Statues, split and cracked from the birthing of the zombies, continued to glare at the group as it ran past. Silently cursing their every step.

Furious bloodlust ceased to run through Karak’s veins, but he could still feel its presence, lurking behind some barrier, waiting to be released again.

Whatever it is, Dana somehow gave it to me. But why? Why do I feel so…guilty?

“Look there!” Heather said suddenly. Karak snapped out of his musings and focused on what lay ahead.

The narrow passage finally opened onto a small square, walled on either side. Near the far wall rose four monuments, carved like curving teeth. In the midst of those teeth stood a glimmering portal. Through it Karak could see shifting images of what looked like endless desert.

“Thank Dwayna! The portal! Now we can get the hell out of here!” Heavens shouted with relief.

Heather ran over to the portal and stared into it. She then turned back to the group, smiling jubilantly, “Who wants to be first?”

At that instant, a tremor jolted the ground, followed by the deafening noise of chattering. Before Karak could think or turn around, he felt something grab him and throw him across the room like a stone. He saw the glimmering portal beneath him as he soared over it, shifting in and out of the room like a dream. He struck the far wall hard and for a moment, everything went black, and he could feel nothing.

When dark thoughts my spirit shroud…beware of he who comes before the dawn.

Get up, sweetheart. You will live.

Suddenly Karak opened his eyes. Lightning bolts ripped through the air with such a fury that for a moment, he thought that he had fallen into a thunderstorm. The very air was singed by frenzied spellcasting. The warrior rose unsteadily to his feet and gasped as he surveyed the small portal room.

Dryders, twice as large as those before, were swarming inside like flies. They raced along the walls and the roof, and the desperate efforts of the Wraiths were almost as useless as a paper sword. The dryder swarm was so thick that he could only tell where some of the others were from the glow of their spells. Karak could not now understand how the dryders could have gained upon them so quickly, but he knew what had to be done about them. They had to be dispatched.

Grabbing the pale sword he bounded into the first huddle of dryders before him, cutting the beasts down without pause. As he worked his way through the mass of hairy flesh, he looked about desperately for a clear view of Farrion.

“Farrion! Where are you for the love of Balthazar?!” he screamed. A pained cry answered him from off to his left, close to the doorway.

It was definitely Farrion – Karak had gotten more than accustomed to his cries of agony – but something was wrong. There was something in the mesmer’s voice that just oozed of oddity. It seemed as though the mesmer’s cry was more than a simple cry. It sounded as though he were saying…. Karak ignored all thought as the power rushed back through his veins.

“I’m coming Farrion!” Karak screamed. He raised his blade and crouched as the dryders – now realising the threat he posed – swarmed in around him.

With a flash of pale steel, the sword lashed out, striking one hundred places at once; severing tendons, muscles, and slicing through dryder bone. Two dozen dryders suddenly dropped around the warrior, and with each death it seemed that the fire, which burned beneath his flesh, grew even hotter. Each death was like coal to an already blazing furnace.

But they still pressed towards him, innumerable dryders that seemed to just appear out of the darkness. Karak spun and continued his assault – a score fell before him, two score, three…but still he could get no closer to Farrion.

“Gods!” Karak screamed in frustration. It was then he realised something that he had overlooked in his frenzy. They’re just standing there. Blocking me…none of them have really attacked me…oh shit!

A powerful hand gripped his shoulder and Karak spun around to see Heather, daggers in hand. She looked on the verge of collapse. Her robes were torn and stained with the blood of dryders, yet the woman herself was virtually unharmed. She was no use to herself and yet….

“Heather, where are the others?”

The strange woman just stood there, gazing at him blankly. She looked drained – and she seemed to have aged even more. Yet nothing struck her down – no claw or tooth arced into her head or chest.

The portal stood ten feet away, glimmering. A desert lay beyond it. Cyn stood alone against the fate of the world, just beyond that shimmering pane.

A bright light suddenly filled the room, followed by the sound of gentle humming. Karak glanced towards the portal. At its mouth stood Habib, sword in hand.

“To the portal!” he bellowed. “Tsuki! Heavens! Farrion! Karak! Heather! To the portal! Don’t ––.” A large dryder suddenly cracked its foot across Habib’s head and shoved the huge man through the portal. The room was illuminated yet again, and the sound of gentle humming filled Karak’s ears.

Karak realised that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it.

Get out Karak. Forget the others. You alone are important. You alone are mine!

The way to the portal seemed to open as dryders pushed to the sides of the room. There was a yelp, and suddenly the lightning bolts ceased. Karak was torn between minds. On his right lay the portal to save the world, and on his left lay his brother, in mortal danger.

He did not take long to make up his mind.

“Go through the portal, Heather!” he shouted at the dazed woman. When she did not move, he grabbed her and shook her roughly, “Go goddamn you!”

With that he turned and charged back into the dryders.

“Farrion! Tsuki! I’m coming! I’m coming! Diana, I’m coming!” he screamed as he clambered through the dryders.

Suddenly a pained cry ripped through his ears, “Karak!”

The warrior’s heart stopped. The pale sword seemed to pause in mid-strike; the hewn dryder before him splitting as though in a dream.

“Karak!” Farrion cried again, “Get…Cyn! Stop….End….sorry…. Go ––!” his final words were suddenly cut off. The sound of gurgling, like that of a man choking on his own blood, filled Karak’s ears above all other noise.

There was laughter. If it came from one of the dryders or from the person in Karak’s head he did not know. At that instant, all strength faded from his body. Karak fell to his knees.

“Farrion!” he screamed.

His brother did not answer him again.

Suddenly he caught sight of torn white robes, being passed through the dryder ranks. Struggling to his feet, Karak dived towards it, grabbing blindly through the dark of the close-serried dryders. He grabbed what felt like a hand, and he held fast, pulling. The dryders pulled against him, but they gave way, and a body fell towards Karak.

It was Tsuki. Large gashes wound their way across her body, and most of her clothes had been ripped off.

Karak brought the monk into his arms and screamed her name. Amazingly, her eyes fluttered open, and when she recognised Karak, her mouth moved, but no words came. Karak knew how to read lips, however, ever since the days after the Searing.

“Get out,” she mouthed, “Stop the demon.” She pressed something into Karak’s left hand.

As soon as the last breath left her lips, a searing pain jack-knifed through Karak’s right shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw a long, bloodied claw protruding from his flesh. The dryder behind him ripped out its arm and drove it into Karak’s other shoulder.

He reeled back, releasing his grasp of Tsuki. There was a flurry of movement as the beast jumped over him, falling body but Karak caught himself and in seconds he jumped back up. Tsuki was gone. He looked about frantically for her, and the last sight he caught of the monk was of her being dragged off into the darkness, with two claws thrust through her chest.

Karak screamed, and forgetting all pain, grabbed up the pale sword, and bolted after her. Before he could make two steps, he was knocked off his feet, and several clawed feet were pinning him to the ground, with their claws driving through his body. He had struck his head hard, jarring his jaw and breaking bone. His vision blurred.

No! Dwayna, no! Gods, no! Help me! Help me!

He felt the dryders lift off of him, and heard their frenzied cries. Then he felt arms around him – human arms, with a powerful grip. He was being dragged away from the dark doorway. A weak blue light brightened the ground around him. Someone was helping him towards the portal. But who? He did not care. His body felt weak, and he was now feeling the pain of all of his wounds.

He was squeezing something hard in his hand. Opening it slowly, he saw a jade ring. Immediately he remembered it. It was Farrion’s ring, an heirloom given to him by their parents when they had left home on a mission of vengeance. The mesmer had never worn it openly. Despite being a mesmer, Farrion never took too much of an interest in material things.

Karak wondered how Tsuki got hold of it, but it did not matter.

Heavens was dead. Tsuki was dead. Farrion was dead. He had failed them all.

There was a burning sensation, then sudden cooling, and his body was ripped to its smallest units. The portal room faded into nothingness.

Greetings again everyone! I managed to do up a small chapter during some scarce free time - now that I'm on a summer job and all - so forgive me if it isn't as meaty and salty as it should be. Yeah, I'm in a pretty good mood, and its not beacuse Brazil beat Ghana today. Go West Indies!! Now I hope you enjoy Chapter 21! (It is 21 is it?)

Darkest Dawn

Normire grabbed the bartender’s hand.

“Grenth preserve us! I heard the door open!” he gasped.

“Impossible, mon. That door is sealed.”

“Be that as it may, but I know I heard that frigging door open!”

The bartender looked at Normire hard, and then sighed and glanced back up the stairs.

“I’m thinking you’re just paranoid, bossman. But,” he sighed deeply, “I trust instincts more than my brains. Let’s get the hell out of here. Come on! Pick up the pace!”

Normire did not need to be told twice. Both he and the bartender pelted down the stairs, turning right, left – following the sometimes confusing descent of the stairs. In the back of the necromancer’s mind, he could hear footsteps – quick, light footfalls – pursuing them. There was no doubt in his mind that they belonged to the alluring woman who complimented him at the door. The woman from the night before.

They suddenly came upon a thick oak door, set in a reinforced frame amidst three feet thick limestone. There was no keyhole.

“Grenth’s grace!” Normire gasped. His heart was racing, and his entire body was shivering with anxiety. Whatever was pursuing them seemed to be sending some manner of…thing…feeling…ahead of them.

“Chill bossman!” the bartender replied, resting his hands on the door. He uttered what sounded like a spell, and the door creaked once and fell into the floor.

Without another word the bartender bounded into the wide room beyond, with Normire at his heels. The door rose seconds after they passed, sealing the way behind them.

“Okay mon.” the man paused, glancing back at the necromancer, “This is my workshop, where ah help make people like you vanish.”

Normire stopped to catch his breath and gazed around at the contents of the room. Large tables were scattered everywhere, and all manner of mechanical equipment. Several lamps illuminated the place, ensuring that any grasping shadows remained tolerably imprisoned. The necromancer could not identify any of the machines at all, but they seemed remotely akin to dwarven makes.

“Is that door sealed as well?” Normire glanced at the bartender.

“Yeah mon. If something managed to get through the first one, I ensure you that they won’t be able to get through this one.”

Normire sighed in relief, but for some reason, he just could not bring himself to relax. Maybe he had grown too accustomed to being on the run from hidden enemies, or maybe his paranoia had become permanent. Whatever it is, something here just ain’t right. He examined the room again, and suddenly realised that there seemed to be no exit than the door they had just come through. Shit. Could this be a….

“Come, bossman, let’s get this done with quickly,” the bartender said, interrupting Normire’s thoughts.

He nodded, and followed the dreadlocked man to a nearby chair. Steel fingers and small, strange tubes wound their way around and over it. Normire could not understand the machinery, or its purpose, but he did realise that the chair boasted straps. It was designed to keep someone locked into it.

“Wait one minute,” Normire said, stopping and grabbing the bartender. He quickly pulled his hand away – the man’s flesh was so cold that it burned.

The bartender smiled at him. “What’s the problem, bossman?”

Normire shook his head to clear his thoughts. I’ve gotta calm down, dammit! Even my senses deceive me now…no one can be that cold.

“Um, what’s the process here?” the necromancer replied finally.

“It’s simple. You sit down here, I throw some switches, and a powerful enchantment is cast on you, making you seem like someone else for a given time. It’s a genius invention, using the best of technology and magic.” The bartender said, resting his hand on one of the Byzantine mass of tubes and pipes.

“I see.” I wish Farrion were here, he would sure as hell know if this man was telling the truth. But by Grenth something just doesn’t feel right!

“Into the chair please,” the bartender insisted.

Normire moved to the chair, then halted and turned back to the bartender. He needed time to think. He did not like this place – it all felt like…. “Is there a bathroom about? I can’t hold this any longer.”

The bartender seemed to jump in shock. He regained his composure quickly however. “Are you serious? You ah want to use de toilet at this time? Someone could be chasing you man!”

“Well, they’ll have to wait. I really need to use the bathroom.” Normire bit his lip, “Or I’ll have to do it right here.”

The bartender sighed and directed him to a small room in the far wall of the room. Normire followed the man’s outstretched hand quickly, making sure to scan the apparatus that enveloped the chair. He rounded a thin wall of galvanize and saw the small bathroom door before him. It was closed. To the right of that door was another small wooden door. It was slightly ajar, and a weak yellow light spilled out from the crack. From the look, it could have been a storeroom of some sort.

Being a necromancer, Normire could sense death – he could feel it like a tangible pull. At times he resented his profession, for to think of death as sweet and and be attracted to it like a bee to pollen was logically sick. Exploiting the dead was a sin. Draining one’s own blood for energy and to use in healing was to become the embodiment of a vampire.

Yet, the feel of death called out to him from behind the storeroom door. Something was very dead in there.

Normire glanced back and around him to make sure that no one or nothing had followed him. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door and came face to face with the dreadlocked bartender.

The man was hanging from the roof by several thin lengths of steel wire. Wire pierced his feet and arms, suspending him in midair as though he were on a cross. His throat had been slit, and with a quick inspection, Normire realised that every major vein and artery had been torn open. It looked as though someone had dug their very nails into his flesh. His eyes stared blankly at the floor below, seeing nothing. Bile seeped up into Normire’s throat.

“Oh f**k.” He gasped.

It was then that he realised that no blood stained or pooled underneath the poor dead man. It was also then that he realised that for a dark skinned man, the bartender was incredibly pale. It was as though something had drained every pint of blood from him. And then that something had strung him up like a bloody Wintersday light.

Normire closed the door behind him and started to hyperventilate.

Oh Gods! Oh Gods! Tell me I’m still dreaming! Tell me I’m still RED ENGINE GORED ENGINE GORED ENGINE GORED ENGINE GOing dreaming! Oh Gods! The bartender’s dead! Who…? How could he have gotten in here and killed before I came?

That thought snapped Normire back to his senses. Unless the murderer had teleported into the room, grabbed the bartender, teleported into the bathroom, killed and sucked the man dry, strung him up with the wire, all within under thirty seconds, the dreadlocked man he now gazed at and the dreadlocked man back outside were two completely different people. Maybe it was that the man outside was not a man at all, but something else.

Normire focused his trembling energies and tried to place the time of the man’s death.

The sent of death was very weak. The man had been slaughtered very recently. Normire guessed it at no more than two hours ago. Where was he two hours ago? At the docks…watching the sunrise.

Something snapped in his mind. Maybe it was his sanity. Maybe he had just realised that things don’t happen logically in Tyria, or that if they did, he was out of touch. But the snapping noise he heard sounded so akin to a puzzle piece snapping into place. Why he would hear such a thing at a murder scene unnerved him.

If he had nothing else going for him, Normire was logical and cunning. It was one of the reasons he had been a guildleader in the first place, and the main reason he had managed to stay one step ahead of whatever malice pursued him. If they think they’re going to catch me now…if that blue-eyed woman feels that she can get me now!

Drawing his shortsword, he moved towards the hanging man, and cut him down. He gently rested his body by the door and sheathed his weapon. He closed the man’s gaping eyes and uttered a prayer. He may be a necromancer, but such sadistic disrespect of the innocent disgusted him.

“Rest easy, brother. May Grenth preserve your soul.” He said.

He should have used the corpse to create a minion. He should have used it for something. Maybe that was its purpose, placed as it was in a most unlikely place. But the man had been killed by whoever was chasing Normire. By circumstance, Normire had been indirectly responsible for his death. That was what he thought anyway. And for some reason, Normire figured that Cyn was even more responsible. That insane anger burned within him once again.
Although logic told him differently, Normire knew that he was intended to find the dead man. However unlikely that concept seemed. Another look around the room and Normire found that it was stacked high with crates and barrels.

It was a storeroom after all, built a quarter of a mile beneath Lion’s Arch.

There was no way out.

Die. Rot. Remember.

Normire opened the door, walked back outside and left the door open behind him. He was literally shaking in his boots, and for a moment he really felt like relieving himself in the bathroom. But he grew wary of running from some unseen foe.

Whoever you are, you going to see what Normire Darkwind does when his back is to a wall. I’m going to make you die, rot, and remember who killed you!

He headed back towards the bartender. Or the thing that appeared to be the bartender.

Hey again everyone, it's been a while! I've been rather busy lately, and have really spent alot of my free time thinking about my future, working on some other projects and what not. To tell you the truth, I did up this chapter a few days ago, but never really got around to posting it until now. Thanks again for your continued readership and I hope you enjoy this next piece! Here's Chapter 22!

By Design

Normire strode back past the thin metal wall, leaving the feel of death and slow decay behind him. If he managed to get out of this place, he would make sure that some Guard or the other knew of the dead man that lay hidden in the storeroom. The time he had been away should not be too much of a concern – he was supposed to be indisposed anyway.

The fake, dreadlocked bartender was still standing at the chair, gazing disinterestedly at the vague equipment around him. He was backing the necromancer – facing the door. His arms were crossed behind his back and he seemed very intent on the door…or what was happening to the door. Normire could not see the thick door from where he stood.

Normire drew back behind the wall shield, out of the man’s line of sight. He did not really have a plan. Just several fragmented courses of action he could take if certain things happened. Most of these certain things were terrible outcomes, including not in the least Normire being strung up and drained like some water balloon. The option that made the most sense to him was to go up to the man, unnoticed if possible, and stab him in the back. Make a minion out of him before his body even touched the ground, and face whatever else was waiting at the exit.

He took a dramatic deep breath and strode back into the main room before he think of changing his mind. He kept his hands loose at his sides, but his right hand itched – yearning to grip the hilt of his shortsword. The bartender turned to face him as Normire approached.

“Finally. Now, have a seat bossman,” he motioned to the empty chair.
The necromancer took a quick glance at the door. Nothing met his eyes but crafted wood. A swift look around the room revealed nothing else besides the stationary machinery. Nothing but wavering shadows spied out at him. The room was silent, and the tendrils of tension fingered Normire’s mind. He had no more time. Now he was at the decisive point – the place where his action might mean his death, or his escape.

Maybe you need to speak another spell to reopen the door…if I kill this man, how the hell would I be able to get back out?

He was tarrying too long. The bartender-that-was-not-a-bartender would realise this very soon, if he had not already. Normire hoped that he would just assume that the necromancer was a little unsure, if not terrified, of the apparatus.

“It only take a sec, man. Nothing to be scared of,” the bartender insisted yet again, this time smiling broadly. If Normire had not seen the real, dead bartender in the storeroom, he would have jumped right into the chair at that very moment. So much passion, conviction and sincerity were in the man’s voice, and faced with the situation as Normire was; any help would be a godsend.

But he did see the molested corpse of the bartender.

“Why is your skin so cold?” Normire asked, moving his fingers over the hilt of his sword, “You feel as dead as a bone minion.”

The necromancer watched as the man’s face twitched, moving from quiet indifference to near-rabidity. Suddenly it seemed as though he grew to thrice his size, swelling with muscle and bulging veins – towering over the necromancer. Then the vision passed as quickly as it had appeared, and all that remained was the bartender, laughing heartily.

“A bone minion, my friend? What are you talking about, mon?” he continued laughing. “I’m just a man. One with a talent in the art of disappearances. A man you can trust.”

Normire almost believed him this time. A strange feeling of happiness and security captured his mind, and against what little will he had left in the euphoria, he began to move towards the chair.

He was almost upon it when a dark figure flitted past his line of sight from behind a small collection of crates close at hand. The figure jumped into the light like a cat, and a long, wicked dagger appeared in its hand. Normire froze instantly. He was right in the path of the person’s aim, but at that moment, his muscles locked up like the steering of a dwarven carriage.

The dreadlocked man behind him let out an amused laugh, even as the dagger left the person’s hand and darted towards Normire face.

Normire’s heart failed to beat as the dagger sliced the skin on his nose and soared into the bartender’s head. The laughter stopped abruptly, punctuated by the soft thud of the dagger’s hilt slamming into the man’s forehead. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man’s body shiver, and then collapse to the ground with a strange sigh.

The person rose from their crouched stance and strolled over to the bartender’s body. Normire could not move an inch. He felt as though the muscles in his body had been replaced with cast iron.

What the hell is happening to me? What the hell just happened?

The person rounded Normire and gazed into his face. He shivered when he realised who had just killed the bartender. There before him stood the blue-eyed woman from his dreams.

“What…the…hell?” Normire gasped.

The woman smiled, and stepped closer to him. “Why are you here, Normire? What exactly did you expect to achieve?”

“How…how do you know my name? Who are you?”

“Why, I am the proprietor of this bar. I was expecting you. One of my good friends is a Guard, and told me all about how they found you last night. I recognised you after Pister described you to me.”

“What?”

She smiled again, and suddenly Normire felt all warm inside. He was quickly beginning to feel very comfortable around this woman, even though anxiety still tickled his mind.

“I was out on an errand, and that man there,” she motioned to the dead bartender on the floor, “He killed my assistant and took his place. I don’t know how he did it.” She moved even closer, gazing into Normire’s dark eyes, “I saw him leading you down here, and I followed. There is another entrance that he does not know about.”

Several thoughts swirled inside Normire’s head. Logic told him that the woman was telling the truth. Everything seemed to make sense…yet everything seemed so out of place. He had seen the real, dead bartender, and she had killed the fake one, apparently saving his life. Still….

She gripped his hands gently and looked him over; her gaze was like a tangible hand moving over the necromancer’s body. His eyes fell to her barely exposed chest and neck, and he noticed a rather strange thing. Several tiny veins, brighter in complexion to the rest of her skin, criss-crossed her flesh.

Another snap of the puzzle filled Normire’s mind’s ear. There was revelation to be grasped, there was satori. Yet, even as he reached for it, the revelation was swept away. Suddenly she gazed back into his eyes.

“He damaged my machine. I do not know if it will still work, but you must still leave this place – whatever is after you might be very close.” Her voice fell to a whisper at the last words. “Let me help you.”

Normire closed his eyes as two opposing thoughts erupted in his mind.

But…that dream…that experience back at the inn. Someone with blue eyes killed me! It was her! Paranoia screamed.

Impossible Normire. You’re in Lion’s Arch for the gods’ sake. There must be scores of blue-eyed assassins around. What’s more, that was only a dream. You could not have died. Did you not hear what she said? Her friend told you of her. One of the Lionguard. That’s why she recognised you and liked your new look. Believe her. Logic replied calmly.

Normire opened his eyes, “How do you plan on helping me?”

“I can change your dress, and give you some things that will protect you. I will see you to Pister’s ship. You will be safe, if only you let me help you out.” Normire had not realised that he held the woman in his arms. Her skin was warm and inviting – she embodied the only sense of security he had felt ever since the Shiverpeaks. No matter what his paranoia said, he was going to believe her.

“Anything. Anything that you can do to help me…please.” The necromancer said softly. “Even though I don’t know who you are.”

The woman grinned, “You may call me Diana…of Egilos. Egilos was the name of the monastery I studied at before the Searing. Now,” her eyes strayed past Normire, “let us be off.”

Egilos.

Another puzzle piece snapped into place.

Wow, just wow. Gr8 story! kinda confusing though, but thats probably just me cant w8 for your next chapter keep up the gr8 work

Thanks very much for the comment Tera! I'm sorry that it's all been a tad confusing, but as I wrap it all up I will try to clear up everything nicely. Thanks to everyone who continue to read my story - it's even reached 1000 views ! I wrote this chapter a few days back, but I never got a chance to post it. Now I'm dedicating this chapter to two of the folks that helped make this story possible, with their suggestions, support, allowing me to use their characters and just taking the time to chat with me. It's chapter 23, just for them!

Satori

Sand tore into his armour like razors with the strength of meteors. Screaming wind drowned all other sound, and pain numbed all other senses. The sky was an evil mix of red and black – with the veiled sun glaring like some wicked eye through the sheen. He could not see exactly where he was, for his tears and the prying sand blinded him.

He was still being dragged along, as he lay helpless and unwilling to do anything. He continued to clutch Farrion’s ring in his left hand, so much so that it bit into his flesh.

Gods! Dwayna! Why? Why have you ignored me yet again?! Why? I swore to protect him! I swore to protect her! I swore! I failed!

Suddenly, the gnawing sand gave way to gentle breeze, and the sight of the churning sky faded into soft semi-dark. The large warrior felt his body being laid upon soft sand. Through his tears he could see a small figure kneeling over him.

“Karak! Please say something…don’t leave me!”

He blinked, and the blurred image came into focus. It was Heather. She carried a desperate look on her face, and her body was scarred by the howling sand.

Karak looked about. All around and behind him was dark, but before him was an opening, made small by intrusive sand. Beyond that the storm raged. He tried to move, but pain tore into him from several places. He even found it hard to speak.

“Shu…shit. Farrion!” he cried eventually. “Oh, god!”

“Yes, Karak,” Heather started, fighting back tears. She clutched the large warrior closer, “He’s gone…but…please don’t freak out on me. I can’t find the others!”

Pain and failure fought to overwhelm Karak. It seemed as though the very insides of his heart had been ripped out. In just a few short moments, his world had crumbled yet again. The only person that he would die for without a thought was gone. Yet again.

But looking up at the dishevelled figure of Heather he realised that he still had a job to do. He did not know the woman, but somehow they were in this together. Whatever powers she held seemed severely weakened, and the sudden loss of half of their company while under her leadership must have taken a drastic toll on her mind.

Farrion was gone. He could not change that. But there was still Cyn and the rest of the world to save.

F**king Cyn! F**king demons! You are the reason Farrion’s dead, goddamn you all!

Anger thrust agony and sadness into a corner as Karak rose to a seated position, holding Heather close to him. She was trembling like a thin coconut tree in a storm, and suddenly she did not look nearly half as strong as she had seemed just some hours ago.

“Good,” she said, straining to speak, “I’m not sure where we are – so we must keep our heads on.”

Karak tried to stand, but a searing pain jack-knifed up through his legs and thighs. He cursed, remembering the claws of the dryders that had pierced his body. He checked his armour, and although it was ripped open in places, his skin beneath it was whole, though incredibly tender.

“I tried healing our wounds, but I’m too tired to do more than that,” Heather said, watching Karak closely.

Why is she staring at me so? Karak wondered. But the answer to that question would have to wait for another time. He did not know how much time had passed since they met Ja’al in the underground cavern, but an educated guess placed it at no less than five or six hours. How much time would it take for a demon to get to where Cyn was at? That, Karak could not guess. But time is short now. By the gods Farrion would not die for nothing!

“Heather,” he croaked. His jaw ached terribly, “How far are we from the teleporter? Have you any idea?”

“No,” she sighed and looked away from Karak’s face, “We teleported into the worst desert storm I’ve seen in ages. I had no sense of direction. It was by luck that we stumbled in here.”

“You carried me along through all that, huh? Thanks.”

She managed a weak smile, and her countenance brightened, “We kinda helped each other…you weren’t entirely unconscious, until you got here.” Her face took on an expression of bemusement, “In fact, you were very conscious. Just that you weren’t saying anything.”

Karak could not suppress a jump. He was sure that he had fainted after they had teleported out of that dark room of death. Maybe he did, maybe he did not. Maybe he had been conscious but had not remembered anything…or maybe…. Maybe she had taken control of me.

The warrior sighed and massaged his throbbing head. He then turned and took in his surroundings yet again. Darkness yawned from the corridor behind them, which seemed to stretch forever into the rock. Where he lay was wide, but as the corridor wound on, it seemed to get narrower. A chill breeze issued from the gloom.

They had to find a way to reach Cyn. But the storm hemmed them inside the darkly passage, and Bones and Habib were missing-in-action. And the clock was ticking. The fat lady was clearing her throat.

“I’m sorry about Farrion.” Heather said softly as she rose stiffly to her feet and walked towards the sand-blasted entrance.

A pang of pain pierced Karak’s heart yet again. No matter how hard he tried, he could not fight back the tears, the anger and the sense of loss that sought to overwhelm him. He clenched his fist, and shivered. I’m alone now. There’s no one else left in this world that I care about…. Gods! Gods? I hate you all! You’ve taken everything from me!!

You still have me. Came another voice, soft and sensual, And I’m not done yet. Neither are you. The time is near, and you will be there to meet it, even though you’re a monumental failure. You couldn’t save your brother…and you left your precious girlfriend to die and rot in hell.

“Shut up! I loved Diana! I loved them both!” Karak cursed.

“Hmm?” Heather started, turning back from the storm, “Who’s Diana?”

Karak sighed. So Dana was still in his head, carrying out some strange agenda. He did not want to hear anything else from her.

“Diana…we were together a long time ago in Ascalon. We studied at the Egilos Monastery before the Searing.”

“What happened to her?”

“She’s….” Images of Diana’s tortured face jumped into his mind’s eye – burning, melting, and rotting in the depths of Grenth’s cold embrace. “She’s dead.” He massaged his eyes and clutched his chest as he failed to subdue a heart-wrenching sob. Not only for Diana, but for Farrion, and for everything else he had lost.

If good old Cyn hadn’t come all the way out here, none of this wouldn’t have happened, now wouldn’t it?

That was Dana again, but this time Karak listened, this time the warrior agreed with her. If not for Cyn’s bullshit antics, Farrion would not be dead miles beneath the desert, being feasted upon beasts that had never seen the light of the sun. Karak tried to restrain his anger, and focused on the power he had neglected ever since failing to bring Diana back from the brink of death.

“Piel menda,” he whispered. He suddenly felt the tendons and tissue beneath his flesh knit together, finishing the job that Heather had started. He was about to stand and see to the woman’s wounds, when Heather pointed a finger behind him and exclaimed:

“Look at that, Karak!”

The warrior flung himself around, expecting to see some other malicious thing crawling out from the gloom. However, he saw nothing.

“What am I looking at, again?” he asked, rising to his feet.

“In the sand. Footprints.”

Karak looked again, and indeed there were footprints. From the amount that lay there, he estimated at least two sets of booted feet, one walking, and the other half-stumbling along. They appeared to have been made recently.
Karak fetched his sword off of the ground and glanced back at Heather.

“Those could have been made by Habib and Bones.” Or some other monster, “Maybe they made it here before we did.”

“Maybe.” She agreed, grabbing her staff from off of the ground. “Let’s find them before it’s too late.”

Karak slipped Farrion's ring on his middle finger as he placed his best healing prayer over Heather, and she smiled in appreciation. Then the glowing mist surrounded her again, and they entered the narrow passage of darkness.



The passage seemed to stretch for miles. Heather’s mist encapsulated them in a moving orb of light, but beyond them lay what seemed to be an endless plain of black. No wind was blowing, and not even the sounds of the massive storm outside touched Karak’s ears. The passage was simply dead silent, and cold.

The warrior had learnt much from Heather as they had walked, talking to one another so as to keep away the fear of the darkness. She had apparently grown up in Ascalon, and had seen it all – from the Searing to the Titans. When he had asked her how the hell she had gotten from Ascalon to some Elonian ruin below the desert sands, she had simply smiled and told him that she had had a job to finish.

Karak glanced at her again in the dim light. The woman was mysterious, but in an intriguing manner. Yet she seemed so familiar, as though reminding him of someone he had met before in his life. The way she spoke, and the way she seemed to gaze into his soul with just a glance…. Cyn. She’s everything like him. Shit, she could be his sister.

It was probably because Karak was thinking so hard and looking at Heather that he did not see what lay before him. Before he could react, a strong arm grasped his leg, sending him careening forward – landing face-front on the ground.

He drew his sword and flew around. He saw the dark form, rising off of the ground, and lunging at Heather. The woman seemed to be transfixed by the thing rushing at her.

“Goddamit! Heather, move!” Karak cried desperately as he jumped towards the dark thing.

At that instant, and to Karak’s horror, Heather dropped her staff, and firmly grabbed hold of the dark thing. “Wait, Karak! Wait! It’s Bones!”

Karak sent his sword crashing down, inches from the ranger’s feet.

“Bones?” Karak gasped.

Torn cloths were all that was left of the ranger’s armour, and his skin was the colour of ink, and it was cracking and flaking in many places. For the first time Karak saw underneath his mask. Where they should have been a mouth, was a large maw, packed with teeth the size of his pinkie finger. Thin, bleeding lips bordered the maw. The only thing recognisable about the ranger were his eyes – dark and hollow.

“Bones! What the f**k happened to you?” Karak gasped, helping the ranger into a sitting position.

The ranger shivered, and his decaying maw moved several times before he uttered a word. “I…I guess…that I won’t be getting that antidote…after all.” He coughed and spat blood onto the cold floor, “Listen, Karak. I…sent Habib on…he wouldn’t have left me otherwise. He’s…still blaming himself for what happened…. Are you two all that’s left?”

“Yes,” Heather answered. Karak thought that her face was calm and condescending, quite unlike the stark horror that surely masked his own face.

“I’m…so sorry….” He spat blood again, this time the cough shook him to his very core. “I’m…sorry…about everything! It shouldn’t…be…this way.” Dark tears trickled from his eyes, “You don’t have that far to go…now. Please. Hurry…can’t you feel it? It’s…it’s….” Another cough took him, shaking him violently. He screamed in mute agony as his muscles and bones seemed to twist and spasm beneath his flesh.

Then suddenly he stiffened, his bleeding eyes frozen in shock.

“Bones?” Karak whispered, gently shaking the ranger.

But Bones could hear no more.

Heather closed his gaping eyes and helped rest his body on the ground. “May Grenth preserve your soul.”

Karak struggled to speak. “What…what was wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. It was surely a disease…I’ve never seen it before.”

But he was suffering from it even before he met Farrion and me. Yet still he went on this journey to stop a demon. Gods, such a selfless man doesn’t deserve to die. Not like this.

A quiet rumbling shook the passage, sending small pebbles and grit falling upon the ground from heights unimaginable in the dark. The first breeze that Karak had felt since he had entered the passage swept down past them.
Karak looked across at Heather, and she returned the look. Again they armed their weapons and continued onwards, leaving Bones to rest forever in the cold darkness.

Welcome to the end of it all, Karak my dear. Dana laughed.

Whoa, had to catch my post before it fell off of the main page ! It's good to see so many new stuff being posted. Well, things are winding down for this story, as I try to pull everything together so that I can make a decent end to it. Thanks for bearing with me on this and hope that everyone enjoys this next chapter, which goes out to a certain necromancer whose guild was the first I ever joined way back in Pre-Searing. Here's Chapter 24 for ya bossman.

The Final Horizon

“The essence of life is strange, complex. Each thought we think, each action we do, is somehow definitive of our character and our future. But what if we lived once, thinking and doing evil, but then forgot it all? Do we now have an opportunity to change? And if so, in what way? Are we still accountable for what we did before? Are our final destinies still governed by those past thoughts and actions?” The wiry sailor said as he turned back to watch the sea.

“Interesting philosophy, although it sounds strange coming from a man such as yourself, Pister.” Normire replied, grinning.

“Ah,” the sailor replied, “When you’re travelling for months at a time, with no women around to distract you, a man’s got a lot of time to think.”

The two men shared a laugh and turned to watch the horizon from the bow.

It had been three days since Pister’s ship – the somewhat aptly named ‘Fate’ – left port at Lion’s Arch, and though an amalgam of storm clouds hung in the eastern skies for all that time, each day had been a day in heaven for Normire. Unlike most of the stories he had heard about living on the sea, the food was good here, and he had what was arguably the best cabin on the ship.

Then there was the added bonus of having Diana around. Much to his surprise and sudden joy, she had insisted on joining him to Cantha. She said that she needed the trip, and wanted to be sure that Normire would be alright. She had even taken it upon herself to alert the Lionguard to the two dead men in her basement. If he did not have the money to cover his trip, Normire was sure that Diana would have paid for his passage as well as her own.

Well, there surely was not two of her around. Satori tickled the back of his mind for the entire journey. Some hidden truth – or some hidden anxiety – lurked just beneath the surface…but Normire was so damned happy that he ignored it completely. Whatever was following me won’t get to me now.

“What are you two laughing at this time?” Came a voice from behind the two men.

Normire turned from the rails and beheld Diana. She was clad in her rugged dress, which clung to her shapely body like a second skin. The neck of the dress lay open, revealing yet again those curious veins on her upper chest. She squeezed between Normire and Pister like nobody’s business and leaned over the rails.

“Just philosophy, Miss Diana.” Pister replied, managing to take his eyes off her and return them to the horizon.

“Really, now? Then what do you think of this – is it possible for one to be alive, yet dead; dying, yet live?”

The necromancer thought that Pister stiffened, but if in tension or anger, he could not tell. The sailor kept his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Normire shook his head and smiled, “Where do you people get these things? Don’t you mesmers have anything else to do with your time?”

“Oh, I do quite a lot with my time, dear Normire,” Diana retorted, feigning shock, “like helping certain necromancers traverse the ocean.”

Normire found himself smiling again. It seemed that wherever Diana went she brought with her such peace and happiness that Normire had no doubt whatsoever that she was a monk, or had been a monk in years past.

“By the way, Diana, since you studied at this Egilos Monastery, do you happen to know a man by the name of Karak Neightswift? He used to go under the name of Karak Tomo.” he asked.

Diana glanced up at the necromancer, and a strange, distant look came over her piercing blue eyes. For a moment it seemed that her face began to contort, that her flesh burned and boiled, and stripped off of her face in bloody ribbons. But it was her eyes that kept Normire spellbound. They were still blue and bright, but they seemed so hollow, so empty with loss that the necromancer could almost feel himself falling into them, like some void. Then Normire blinked in shock, and there was Diana, looking as usual, smiling at him.

“I don’t think I ever met him,” she said.

For the first time since meeting her, Normire doubted her words. Diana must have seen the doubt in his face, for she rested a warm hand on his face and continued, “I really haven’t met him, Normire. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes. He was one of my most trusted guild officers. He and his brother used to fight with me, but they went their separate paths. The last I saw of them was in the Shiverpeaks.”

“Oh, alright.” She looked back across the calm ocean. “Is he a monk?”

“No, something happened to him after the Searing. He lost everything except his brother. He’s now a warrior – out to take his revenge – and a damn good one at that.”

“Is he brave?” Diana said softly, her voice almost not reaching Normire’s ears. Did she sound regretful? Normire could not place the expression.

“Yeah, very brave. He’s got a big heart.”

“Good, then,” she began, “I’m going to fetch something to snack on. I’ll leave you two to your crazy philosophies.” With that, she flashed both of them a warm smile and went towards the aft of the ship.

Normire followed her with his eyes and realised that she stopped some ways behind and was chatting quickly with two men. Telling from their dress, they looked like experienced rangers, with fine bows strapped to their backs. Both listened intently at what Diana was saying, and then left her side without a word. Diana disappeared below deck and the rangers went swiftly towards the aft.

“Interesting.” Pister said.

Normire turned and realised that the sailor had been watching Diana as well, “What’s interesting?”

“Diana, of course. She always has been.” Pister turned back and exclaimed, “Ah, land! Look over younduh Master Darkwind! There’s the Oasis.”

Normire followed his outstretched arm, watching as the golden shore slowly crept up from beneath the horizon like some leviathan. The sun was falling behind the shore, throwing crimson-gold arms outwards over the ocean. To the southeast the massive storm continued to build in the sky, and the occasional gust of drizzled wind washed over the ship.

Pister sighed, “Ah, lad. There’s a storm coming.”

“Yes,” Normire agreed, “One hell of a storm.”

~ * ~

Night had already fallen by the time the Fate made port at Amnoon. Although folk bustled in the upcoming port-city, Normire had no intention of leaving the ship and exploring the environs. It was the only place that he felt safe in, and he was not about to leave and probably jump back into the arms of the thing that wanted to torture and kill him.

So he had gone into his cabin, and there now he lay, half-awake, allowing the gentle waves to rock him to sleep.

Just four more days and we will be at Kaneing City. From what I’ve heard from the sailors, that place is home to about half a billion people, and it’s built like a maze. Nothing from Tyria will find me there. Nothing!

He turned on his side and watched the wooden door. And Diana. She’s so beautiful, and I know that she’s attracted to me. I sure as hell am attracted to her! I wonder if she’ll stay with me in Cantha? Who knows? This is a new start for me.

He closed his eyes, letting sleep take him.


The earth opened up beneath him like the petals of a flower – dense trees giving way to a clearing of ankle-high grass. He felt his feet crash to the ground and he rolled many metres before coming to an abrupt stop in the dead centre of clearing. Waiting until the vertigo slipped away, he rose to his feet and took in his surroundings.

A gentle breeze was blowing, causing the trees to shiver and bringing with it all the fresh scents of spring; mingled smells of pine, flowers and dewed grass. The sun was low in the western sky – already the trees cast long shadows over the grass, like dark fingers creeping towards him. An owl screeched from the nearby forest and thunder clapped in the distance. He pulled his coat closer to his neck and gripped his staff tighter. He seemed to be alone here, but suddenly there was another presence.

“Ah, Normire. What an unexpected surprise.” Came a voice from behind him.

The necromancer turned around slowly, knowing already the person who had spoken.

“I’ve always tired of your sarcasm, Cyn.” He began, “It’s time that you atone for your sins.”

“My sins?” Cyn laughed as he approached. A wicked dagger hung at his waist, and his gloved hand hovered very close to it, “I know all about your plans. I know how you intend to use Karissa.”

“You think that you know. Cyn, you know nothing. And now you will be destroyed for your bullshit theories and your outright rebellion to the gods!”

Cyn rounded Normire, keeping his gaze fixed on the necromancer, “You want to release Ja’al from his prison in Tyria, using the Vixen’s Heart. You want to destroy humanity.” Cyn paused and smiled, “But there was a catch. No one among us can come to Tyria without dire consequences, unless we’re given permission from the gods. So you decided to coerce Karissa into your plan, for she isn’t one of us and cannot be bound by our rules.”

Normire felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He suddenly felt very hot, as though all of the chill in the breeze had suddenly been extracted. Another thunder clap sounded in the distance, but this time it sounded closer.

“You have no way of proving any of this, fool. I was sent from the gods to bring you back for punishment,” he smiled, “You will be executed once you get back. That killing of yours in the Hall surely did not go unnoticed. So, even if you decide to charge me, it’s your tainted word against mine.”

Cyn stroked his goatee, as if in thought, “Heather knows all about it too, lest we forget. Even as we speak, she’s telling them all about your plans, which she learned from the horse’s mouth itself, in one of your drunken stupors. If you decide to go back, it’s you who’s going to be executed.”

Blood boiled in Normire’s veins. He suddenly realised that Cyn was not the stupid, naïve fool that he had always appeared. Heather is on his side?! Shit, I told her everything! I can’t go back now, they’ll kill me! I’m trapped on this god-forsaken world! But he was cunning. He still had one more ace up his sleeve.

“It doesn’t matter. Karissa’s here, in Ascalon. She’s just waiting until I discover the exact location of Ja’al’s prison, and then it’s the end for these humans.”

“Ah. So you don’t know where it is.” Cyn smiled broadly, “And I’m afraid that you’ll never get the opportunity to find out, either.”

Normire jumped as a third thunder clap rent the air. Not only could he hear it down to his soul, he could feel it. And outside was getting even hotter. By the gods, it seemed as if the very sky were giving off heat. What the hell?

“You look confused, Normire,” Cyn said slyly as he drew his dagger, “I will teach you not to mess with those I love.”

Cyn rushed at the necromancer like an enraged pit-bull. Normire just had enough time to raise his staff, and in moments the men clashed. Hungry steel tore into fashioned wood as Normire was flung back by the sheer force of Cyn’s attack.

The bastard! He plans to kill me!

Normire parried Cyn’s next attack and flung an unholy curse upon him. The necromancer smiled as Cyn fell to his knees, a green miasma choking the breath out of him. In seconds Normire raised his staff, and rushed towards the fallen Cyn. One thrust with the staff sent him reeling backwards, spitting blood from his mouth. Normire continued the assault, with each blow filling him with a euphoria that he had never before experienced. It was not until Cyn lay at his feet, bleeding profusely and reaching desperately for his dagger, that Normire paused.

Green mists suddenly enveloped him as he raised his staff for the last, crushing blow. Here now was the man who wanted to foil his plans, who wanted to save humanity from the demonic purge that was soon to come. Here was the man who had been nothing but a pest; a thorn in his side. Here was the man who had killed him in the Hall – the man who had sent him to Grenth’s domain. You have nothing left now, Cyn. You burned all your bridges back to the mists. And Karissa is mine. You’re nothing! Normire smiled, Gods! I’m going to enjoy this!

A shaft of pale yellow steel flashed from the bottom of the staff, effectively turning it into a spear, aimed at Cyn’s head.

“Grenth shall take you now, fool. Like he did me. And he will feast on your rotting soul, the soul you traded for this cursed world!” the necromancer rasped, staggering with restrained anger.

“Fuh…f**k you.” Cyn replied, coughing blood and gazing at Normire through blood-filled eyes, “You hadn’t the balls to release the demon yourself, and you don’t have the balls to kill me. Your head should still be rolling about the obsidian floor, you waste.”

“Die Cyn!!” Normire screamed as he plunged the spear downwards.
Thunder clapped in the sky above, and the air was rent by something massive and burning.

There was a sudden flash, as though everything around them had lit up in white fire, and a feeling of burning and disorientation quickly set in. Cyn disappeared from Normire’s view, even as he lost the feeling in all of his limbs and his vision was filled with an uncanny white light. The spear slipped out of his grasp, and he fell to ground, screaming. He could feel flesh ripping off of bone, and he could smell it burning, burning.

There was a strange sound of a puzzle piece snapping into place.


He jumped up when he felt his bed depress. In his clouded mind, he saw a small devil staring at him, reaching towards his neck with a clawed hand. He screamed, but when the hand reached him he realised that it belonged to Diana.

“Take it easy, Norm, it’s only me.” She smiled. The former monk seemed happy, but lines of worry creased her forehead.

Normire got the better of himself and sat up in his bed. Diana was sitting next to him, but for how long he could not tell. How long was I asleep? An hour? A couple seconds?

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She leaned closer to him and sighed, “I’ve done all I can, Nomire. I…I can only hope now…. But, but…. It’s been a long time between the forest and the desert.”

Normire raised an eyebrow, but suddenly the final words Diana spoke had meaning for him. In a flash, his dream rushed back to him – of him and Cyn in the woods, trying to kill each other. Then his vision from Lion’s Arch filled his mind eye, and a cold shock gripped his throat.

That was no dream at Lion’s Arch. I remember that blade in my neck; those blue eyes gazing at me… Suddenly his mind was taken even farther back, to a place where spirits walked under the eyes of gods, and to a dark place where he had hatched a plan to wipe humanity from the face of the world, under the watchful eyes of something else.

It all rushed back to him now, so clearly that he knew that he was in a place such as that, doing such things. Names filled his mind’s ear – Karissa, Cyn, Heather, Ja’al…. He knew them all. Normire felt his grasp on his body slip, as memories and stratagems filled his psyche. Desperately, he cast the bed-sheet from off him and flung himself off of the bed. He half-ran, half-stumbled towards the door, and tried in vain to claw his way up the steps.

What is this madness filling my head?! I have to get away from Diana! I have to….

“It makes no sense running, Normire.” Diana called after him. Her voice was cold and lifeless, “You’re his now. You died in Lion’s Arch that night, just as I died in Ascalon. It makes no sense running, for the devil you flee is the one within.”

Normire fled up the stairs, with his head bursting with pain. It barely registered that outside was dark, and that cold desert air bit into his body. He fell to his knees, no longer able to feel them. Before he collapsed onto the deck, he thought he saw Pister standing over him. It seemed that every square inch of the sailor’s flesh boiled, and such heat radiated from him as though he were the sun itself. Gone were the solemn gaze and raucous smile. A demonic gleam was in his eyes, and he grinned darkly, even as Normire fainted at his feet.

The necromancer thought that he heard him speak, “You’re mine now!”

And then reality and memory fluttered far away as cool darkness took him.

Hey man all i have to say is that you have done a great job with this story. I have not had time to read it all but what i have read is fantastic. Keep up the good work, i look forward to your next chapter.

On a side note, i think that you should get this out to other forums for different reviews other then just this one. Even if its a lot of copy past, i think its worth it.

hehe, still confused, might have to read this afew times still very good stroy cant w8 for the next chapter

Thanks for your comments transmii and Tera! I'm very glad that you guys are enjoying the story, and your support is very inspiring. I am still in the process of tying up the events in the story, so I'm hoping that by the end things would be much clearer As for posting the fic on another site...I have been thinking about it and I love the idea. I just want to wrap things up here first. Thanks again to all those who continue to read the story! This chapter goes out to another very talented warrior who I haven't done a guild battle with for ages. Chapter 25 for ya, man. Peace. (P.S. I really dig these new emoticons )

Undying

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” the girl asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, “You were talking your philosophical nonsense.” He smiled and pressed his head against hers, looking over the windswept ocean of grass from their perch on the hillock.

The sun was high in the morning sky, but it was paned by large white clouds that seemed to cover the entire breadth of the heavens. The breeze was cool and gentle, fondling their clothes, and making her warmth so much more inviting.

“It seemed like so long ago. I never thought I’d ever see this place again,” the girl continued, pulling herself even closer to him.

“Well, we were at a monastery. I don’t think they give out vacations or anything.” He laughed as the girl punched him playfully.

“I’m glad it’s over, to tell you the truth. But I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I know I’ve been a Monk apprentice for a while…but I just don’t know if that’s where I’m supposed to be. You know? What if it doesn’t turn out the way I wanted? What if I can’t find a decent job? Or what if I completely suck at what I do?”

“You worry too much.” He wrapped his arms around her and leaned back against the burr oak behind him, “Take life in stride. The world is your oyster…or something like that. Just look at this place – there’s so much to do, so much places to see.”

She smiled up at him, and followed his gaze over the grassy sea. Thunder clapped in the distance.

“The world’s my oyster,” she repeated quietly, closing her bright blue eyes. “For some reason I don’t think you came up with that by yourself.”

Now it was his turn to give her a playful punch. “I beg your pardon! But yeah, I got that one from my brother.”

“He’s on his way here, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. We’re going to see our parents in Rin…so I won’t be letting you out of my sight anytime soon.”

She giggled, “Thanks, Karak.”

“What did you expect, Diana? You know I’ve gotten to love you too much to let you go now.”

“I love you.” She smiled.

Another thunder clap throbbed in the sky, this one much closer than the last. Karak glanced up at the sky, and through the bushy branches of the oak, saw that the clouds were beginning to darken.

“Seems like a storm is upon us, let’s get the hell back into the City before we get soaked.” He said.

“Yes. It’s going to be one hell of a storm. Just look at those clouds!” Diana replied, taking her time as she rose to her feet.

The sun appeared to be turning into a red dot in the sky, as the clouds began to darken before it. A light haze spread all over the plains, covering everything with a soft reddish hue. Thunder clapped again, so loudly this time that Karak could even feel it down to his soul.

“Let’s move, I don’t like the look of this at all,” Diana said. She looked visibly shaken.

“Yeah.”

Karak grabbed her hand and they struck out from underneath the eaves of the oak. They moved quickly, but for the first time in his life, Karak was beginning to feel terribly anxious. He cast another wary glance skyward. The clouds were continuing to darken, and faint flashes of thunderless lightning danced from within them. It seemed that the clouds were swirling – ever so imperceptibly – as though something was rushing through them, about to be birthed into the open sky.

The breeze suddenly died, and heat followed immediately, as though the sky was some celestial oven. At that same instant, there was not a sound to be heard, save for the throbbing of Karak’s own heart.

“Sweet Dwayna, what the f**k is going on?” Karak spoke into the sudden stillness.

The last thing he remembered before his world fell away from his sight was feeling Diana’s warm body pressed against him and hearing her scream.



“Karak! Karak!”

The large warrior felt himself being shaken. He opened his eyes, “Yes, Heather.”

“Were you just sleeping on your feet? I’ve been talking to you for the past two minutes or so!” Heather replied, frustrated. “If you weren’t going to listen you could have said something!”

Karak raised an eyebrow, “Well you’re damn touchy all of a sudden.”

She sighed deeply and massaged her forehead, “Sorry. It’s just that I’m still feeling weak, and I haven’t had any nourishment for a while.”

“Nourishment? Well I haven’t exactly had three square meals today either.”

“It’s not like that. I was telling you, but you weren’t listening.”

“I’m like all ears now.”

Heather came to a stop and glanced up at Karak. In that split-second, the warrior saw a strange gleam in her eyes. He could not place the expression, but suddenly he was very afraid. Fear cut through to his core like a spear. He could clearly feel every throb of his heart, and he was sure that every vein in his body shivered. His blood was racing.

Then she closed her eyes and looked away. The feeling of fear was swept aside like chaff.

“What the hell was that?” Karak asked as he raised his sword into a defensive stance, “Answer me!”

“You’re not a man for long-winded explanations, so I’m just gonna tell you.” She continued to stare into the darkness, “I can draw strength from three gods, allowing me to master four of the human professions. But…everything comes at a price.” She paused and glanced back at the warrior, but glanced away before he could lock onto her eyes, “I need blood to sustain myself. Karak, I’m the closest thing to a vampire that you’ll ever meet.”

Karak felt his jaw slacken. Well that explains how she managed to survive down in the dryder-infested hellhole. She was feeding off of those bastards…but now that she’s out….

“I used up a lot of my energy in that last fight. If I don’t find a proper source of blood soon…I don’t know what’ll happen to me. It’s already started. Don’t look me in the eyes, Karak.”

“Did you tell Farrion this?” Karak asked quietly. If Farrion trusted her…then I’m willing to do the same.

“Not all of it. He doesn’t…he didn’t know about what would happen to me if I went without blood for too long.”

“How much would you need? I don’t know what’s up ahead, and I’d hate to kill you if you decide to attack me out of bloodlust or something like that.”

She shook her head, “I’m not sure,” her breathing grew harsher, deeper, “Maybe a pint, or two. Three would be best.”

“Shit, three pints?” How the hell is she going to get three pints of…? An idea suddenly formed in Karak’s mind. How much of Dana’s blood got into me? Had to be less than a pint. If I let Heather drink it out of me….

No Karak. Came Dana’s voice, You’re not going to ever get rid of me that easily. She laughed bitterly, But you’re free to try.

Karak shook his head and stared at Farrion’s ring on his finger. What would his brother have done? Gods…I wish he was here. Why? Why did you have to die like that?!

Karak closed his eyes and fought back tears yet again. Farrion would have gone for Habib, if he’s still alive in here. He would have asked his opinion. Karak hated the idea, but he was almost out of options. The fat lady was already on the stage, and now Heather was quickly turning into something he would rather not meet.

“Let’s move. We gotta find Habib – he’ll know what to do about this.” Karak said reluctantly.

“If you say so.” Heather replied. Her words came out harshly, almost like a snarl, “I’ll lead this time, so that if the worst happens, at least you’ll be able to see me at all times.”

Karak nodded as she walked past him and continued along the passage. They moved in complete silence.

You’re such a wimp, Karak. Do you even think that you’ll be able to kill her when she loses control? You’ve failed in everything else. Farrion must be glad that he doesn’t have to bail you out anymore. Dana’s voice came through the silence.

“Shut the f**k up.” Karak cursed under his breath. “I’m going to be damn glad when Heather drains you from my body.”

And naive too.

Suddenly, a small ball of light up ahead caught Karak’s attention. It was only a few metres away, but it was moving quickly.

“Habib!” Karak shouted, “Man, wait!”

The light stopped moving. For a split-second the image of some hideous beast filled Karak’s mind’s eye, with a small ball of light as its lure. He froze.

“Who’s that? Is that you, Egilos?” Came Habib’s voice, dispelling all fear.

Karak and Heather crossed the gap in moments and soon all three of them were standing in the revolving, glowing mist.

Habib’s features were set in concrete, his eyes still piercing, yet hollow with grief. Long, bleeding scars crisscrossed his face and his armour, but still he stood tall, as though they were nothing but decorations. A heavy shield was strapped to his left arm, and he gripped his torch in the other.

Karak cursed as he cast a healing breeze on the warrior, knitting most of his wounds, and seeming to invigorate him.

“Thank you,” Habib sighed, “So you’re all that’s left of our company?” He closed his eyes as a sob shook him, “I…I feel so empty, now. I failed everyone!”

“Easy, Habib, it’s not over yet, man.”

Habib locked eyes with Karak, “Did…did you…where’s…Bones?”

“Bones is dead.” Heather said flatly.

Both warriors looked at her in surprise, for in her tone there was something akin to rabidity. She did not return the look, content to continue gazing at the floor.

“He’s dead, then?” Habib sighed again, turning away from Karak, “It’s my fault. We could have gotten the gold for his antidote some other way.” He shivered with restrained anger, “The bastard insisted on stopping this thing…he knew it would have been a one way journey.”

Karak rested a hand on Habib’s shoulder. Now is not the time for regrets. “He would have wanted us to finish this. Those were his dying words, Habib.”

The larger warrior turned back, “And your brother?”

Grief clutched Karak’s throat, and for a moment, he could not speak.

“He’s dead too. They’re all dead. As doornails.” Heather said.

Before he could stop himself, Karak launched his hand backwards at Heather’s face. In a flash, the woman grabbed his arm, and wrenched it towards the ground so hard that he was sure that it was broken in three places. He glanced up at her – her eyes were afire with an insane hunger. She opened her mouth wide, revealing her fangs, which seemed suddenly much longer and sharper.

She wrestled Karak’s massive bulk to the floor with utmost ease – almost as though the very strength of Balthazar himself energized her muscles. In seconds he was pressed against his back, staring into Heather’s hypnotic eyes. The only thing he could feel was his blood pumping through his veins.
Heather seemed to slow as she arced her head backwards and then brought her teeth flying towards Karak’s exposed neck.

Now we’ll see, my dear.

Karak’s vision suddenly blurred and darkened just as Heather reached him, but he did not feel the sharp impact of her teeth. He could hear her bite into something, and then heard her drinking – almost gleefully – yet he could not feel a thing. Maybe she had paralyzed him?

Just then his vision cleared, and he realised that something was being lifted off of his face. He also realised that nothing was keeping him pinned to the floor. Karak jumped up quickly, his hand going to his neck. It was unscathed. What the hell just happened?

On the ground sat Heather and stooping next to her was Habib – with his right arm exposed. Heather was almost literally wrapped around his arm, drinking from the blood vessels that merged at Habib’s wrist.

Gods! He just caught a bullet for me. Why?

“So, she really is a vampire.” Habib said, some of the coolness returning to his voice as he gazed at the scene before him.

“Did you guess that before?” Karak said, approaching only out of curiosity.

“Yes. You didn’t see them, but some of the engravings inside and outside of where we found her with Farrion showed some woman draining blood from dryders. The likeness was too uncanny.”

“But she’s drinking your blood, man!”

“She’s the only spellcaster we have left, and she’s very strong.” He turned and regarded Karak with a practised eye, “And if anything happens to me, I know that you two will see this through. If I’m good at nothing else, I want to be able to give you a fighting chance.”

Karak was stunned into silence. He stood and watched Heather drink what seemed to be more than three pints of blood from Habib before she released his arm and sat back against the passageway hall. She seemed strangely satisfied. Habib, on the other hand, looked as pale as an apparition.

As Karak helped Habib to his feet, Heather opened her eyes and covered both of them in a powerful healing breeze. Habib’s wrist wounds closed up instantly and even Karak felt suddenly refreshed.

“Thanks, Habib,” she said, “I feel so much better now. How are you feeling?”

“Like a bottle of beer,” Habib said. It was probably meant to be a joke, but no one laughed.

“I’m sorry that I attacked you, Karak…I…I lost control.”

Whatever. “That’s alright. How long will that hold you?” Karak replied.

“Till the end, I hope.” She said as she stood and helped support Habib. “I hope you’re not too weak.”

“I’ll be fine.” Habib smiled, “We don’t know what we’re going to find when we get to the end of this passageway, but I just want to let you know…that if this is a one way trip…or if we fail…it was a pleasure fighting with you.”

“We won’t fail.” Karak found himself saying. We damn well can't afford to.

The passageway suddenly rumbled, jolting the trio from their feet, and sending boulders crashing down upon the floor from above. The sound of a deep growling filled Karak’s ears, and the unmistakable throb of large footsteps resonated through his body.

“I…come!”

The fat lady was about to start the first verse.