Acherus: The Ebon Hold

[lionofthelight]

As the sun sets on Azeroth, the valley town of Lakeshire is touched by the shadows that stretch out of the Redridge mountains. High on the cliffside, Ademar's manor has long since chilled in the absence of the sun.

Zandros and Isidor arrive in the gazebo at the heart of the darkened garden. He steps ahead and calls to the Light, and with its guidance they navigate the winding garden maze. The home ahead of them is dark already, apart from the faintest candle glow from the upstairs windows and a pair of cyan lights at the manor doors. When Zandros notices the dead man's eyes, another set of blue lights flash in a vertical line.

As they approach the entryway Zandros snuffs the Light with a shake of his palm. The gesture calms the blade, which goes dark, but Ademar, standing stiffly at the door with his hands behind his back, remains unmoved -- figuratively and literally. He may as well be a piece of scenery for how little he reacts to the presence of his guests. It isn't until Zandros speaks that he moves at all.

"I hope we didn't keep you waiting long," Zandros says quietly, punctuated by a small, polite laugh.

Ademar remains silent.

Quietly, Zandros presses on. "Only, I didn't see you step out, so I thought you might have been waiting for some time, and--"

"I have," the death knight interrupts.

Zandros pulls a face. Ademar's eyes fall on him, then drift to Isidor.

"Let us enter, so that I might critique your guises before preparing the way. Lord Alter... I should hope you do not intend to arrive as you are."

Zandros feigns some confidence and raises his voice. "Isidor has a plan for me, I'm told."

Sufficiently assuaged, Ademar leads them into the foyer of his home, and with a businesslike quickness that his conversational manners belie he sets about lighting candles on the walls. Just inside the doorway an ornately-framed, full-length mirror has been propped against a wall. Zandros catches a glance of himself in it, but he's swift to look away. Narcissism just doesn't hold the same joy it once did... And besides, he can see Isidor in it.

Comments

[heirtothedragonsfire]

There was... a lot to do. People to meet, rituals to do. Yet by the time she returned to Zandros, Isidor had found a sense of zen. They will succeed, or they will fail, and that's the end of it.

To say that she's different when she returns is an understatement. She certainly looks different: Her skin has been covered diligently in a greyed green that mimics her god, not a single bit of pale skin shines through. Even the rims of her eyes are hidden under thick black lines that are not as flamboyant as her station really affords. She is, for all intents and purposes, made up for her coffin, right down to hair that is straight as a razor.

This will be the first time Zandros sees her armour, and with her axe by her side as well. By Earth standards it's beautiful. Black metal that echoes dragon scales. It does, however, lack a single skull, or the size of Harrowheart's armour. She almost brought her cloak, but the thought of failing to find Harrowheart and destroying his gift to her made her think twice.

By the time they head off Isidor is more than ready. She says very little to Zandros and when they arrive back on Azeroth she lets him take the lead. When they reach Ademar it's a relief. Back to dealing with people to enjoy silence and staring.

Once they're inside it's easier for someone with a sensitive nose to tell that she's taken Ademar's advice down to the smallest details. Myrrh clings to her, and as they stand still hints of cassia and camphor oil sneak through as well. She gives Ademar a moment to inspect her before she pulls out a locket that she has become well acquainted with by now. Wasting no time, she stands in front of Zandros and puts it on for him before she takes a step back to see it take effect. She needs a moment to snuff out the pang of sadness that comes with seeing Harrowheart's face again, and to grip it tightly within her so that it doesn't show itself.

"I can't make him look... deader, but..." She turns to Ademar. "Do you think you can work with that?"

[westfallcorndog]

Zandros had an idea of what would happen, but magic has a funny way of being so much more when one sees it with one's own eyes. The illusion takes hold of him in an instant, and suddenly Zandros can't tear his eyes away from his own reflection. Only, it's not his reflection. It's Harrowheart's. But at the same time, it is him. It parts its lips in surprise, spins as he spins, and even boggles at its own right hand, all in time with him. He flexes his fingers, and then, hesitant to learn a depressing truth, slowly reaches out to touch the glass. To his surprise, he finds that his hand is really there... Even if it isn't his own.

He turns to Isidor with a bright and wondrous smile. He'll take looking like a corpse if it means he's whole again! When he laughs, it's Harrowheart's laughter that echoes in its hollow way with its undertones of warmth and joy. He reaches out to take her hands and squeezes them tightly.

And then...

"Marvelous!" he exclaims, posh as he's ever been, beaming brightly all the while. "What a masterful illusion! Isidor, you've such a way of surprising me, even still! Oh, Ademar! Don't you find it just perfectly convincing?"

Ademar blinks slowly. His gaze lingers on Zandros a while before languidly drifting toward Isidor.

"Mmh."

Ademar crosses his arms and Zandros chooses to do the same. The real death knight keeps his focus on Isidor and determines it would be best to converse with her.

"What we are doing now is business, Miss Durant, so I will dispense with pleasantries and the frivolousness of the living. His illusion is more than sufficient, but I question whether you might have played the part better. Harrowheart the Converter is not a dandy. Lord Alter will need to speak and behave as the man he is purporting to be. And you... Mmh. Keep your eyes down. Otherwise, I respect your considerable effort."

He looks between them, considering them each in his own slow fashion. Zandros-turned-Harrowheart tries not to look too sour about the dandy comment. Fortunately, Ademar gives him something else to react to. The man begins unbuttoning his shirt, and in moments has exposed his bandaged stomach through which blood and blue light both leak. Ademar picks apart the wrapping until a gaping sword wound in his stomach has been exposed. With no hesitation at all he plunges his fingers into it. Elsewhere in the room, his runeblade flares to life.

Ademar's fingers come back slick with a sticky, black goo. Blue lich mist rises off of it like steam from an overworked horse in winter. He dispenses with pleasantries indeed when without warning he reaches under a seam in Isidor's armor and smears his own putrid essence there. He repeats this a few more times in various places, always mindful to keep the dark slime out of sight.

Zandros gets the same treatment next. As Ademar's hand approaches him he squirms in discomfort, and when the dead man touches him he yelps. In an instant Ademar's free hand grips his shoulder, forcing Zandros to hold still as he is marked with the powerful scent of necromancy. Zandros twice fails to fight the shiver that grips him, but eventually he grits his teeth and manages to bear it. If anything, his uncomfortable grimace enhances his illusion.

His work done, Ademar steps back to reconsider the two. His hands busy themselves fixing his bandaging and rebuttoning his shirt, but his eyes remain on the pair. Eventually, he nods.

"Bleed him, should you chose, to better mask his Light. When you are ready, I will conjure the deathgate. "

[heirtothedragonsfire]

That laugh... Isidor's eyes light up despite herself. And then he speaks and she actually flinches. As well as she knows Harrowheart, she's not sure she could do much better in mimicking him. Then again, maybe she'd still do better than Zandros.

Speaking of Harrowheart, the other death knight starts to undress and Isidor briefly wonders if all undead are predisposed to remove their shirts at the earliest opportunity. A thought that's quickly discarded when she realises what he's doing. She doesn't quite realise where that goo is going until he approaches her and she only has time to lean away before he's on her and the putrid liquid in marring her beautiful armour. She slams her eyes shut and bites her lips, planning how she's going to clean her armour step by step when they return.

When Ademar finally steps away, Isidor sags with relief, flexing her shoulders as she pushes the thought of the black liquid beneath her armour's crevices. The time it takes for the same to be done to Zandros gives her a minute to breathe. She steps into where the death knight had stood a moment ago and grips the edge of his breastplate, looking into Harrowheart's eyes.

"Trust me," she says, and then proceeds to undo the bracer of Zandros' remaining arm, removing his glove until she finds bare skin. She takes a moment to put rubber gloves awkwardly over her own gauntlets, takes her axe and cuts a neat little line along his arm. Axe set aside, it doesn't take long for the blood to start to pour. Isidor's focus is taken up entirely on this task. She alternates which glove catches the blood and which spreads it over Zandros. Just enough so that there are hand marks where grappling would be most likely, a few clawing marks and then, to finish it off, a generous splattering by his legs.

Once she's done, she focuses even harder on the cut, cupping a well gloved hand over it. The small wound burns and itches as flesh knits back together. When she removes her hand there's a scar visible, but no cut. Satisfied with her work, she relaxes, removes her gloves and lets them burn up in her hands, sending a stink of rubber and blood into the air.

With that done, she helps Zandros put his gauntlet back on, muttering, "Better they think you killed a paladin than realise you are one and do it themselves."

[westfallcorndog]

Trusting Isidor isn't always easy. Zandros can believe in her ability to make the right strategic choices, but he's not so sure she can make the right decisions on a human level. And, sure enough, when he gives her his wrist he's punished for it. A cut deep enough to draw sufficient blood is enough to hurt -- and, worse, enough to scare him. His heart races at the sight of his own wounded arm -- his only arm. He forces his eyes shut and turns his head away.

Then, before he knows it, suddenly his wrist is burning. The surprise and the pain push a shout out of him, and his instinct is to clap his hand over the terrible sting.

"I could have done it myself," he hisses through grit teeth.

Ademar bodies past him toward the door, stirring Zandros out of his bitterness. The death knight sets his stance wide and reaches for the ornate carving above the doorway. His fingers brush past the wood, then grip the air at the height of the entrance. He pulls at the inherent and unseen magic of passageways and conjures up a darkness which he draws down like a curtain. The dormant garden outside gives way to a different kind of blackness, rippling like water. A freezing fog rolls across the manor's wooden floors, and with it comes the stale stench of death.

"The way is made. I will maintain it until you return, or until the dawn."

Zandros approaches the gate, but before he can step through (or second guess himself) Ademar grips him tightly by the arm and pulls him close, shoulder to shoulder. The death knight leans in, lips against Lord Alter's ear, and begins to whisper something. Zandros-turned-Harrowheart tries to lean away, but Ademar clenches his fist around his arm and pulls him even closer. They exchange more words than possibly ever before, and when he's done he pushes Zandros away. 'Harrowheart' stumbles back, then turns a cowed expression to Isidor.

He lingers a moment before taking a deep, deep breath. He holds it in his chest as he's seen Harrowheart do before, and finally he sighs. He summons a sense of confidence, and in his best Westfallian voice says, "Let's get goin'."

One more breath, a clench of the fists, and he disappears into the darkness.

Ademar inclines his head toward Isidor. "Find what you need to find."

* * *

Though Ademar's manor may have been chill in the dark of night, the thin and frozen air of Acherus is a harsh new reality. Three things hit immediately upon stepping into the necropolis. The first, obviously, is the cold. Then comes the smell. And lastly, the silence. Silence, and the darkness of a tomb. And it is, in its own way, a tomb. A mausoleum for corpses that cannot rest, but roam the city's black halls for eternity.

'Harrowheart' stands nearby waiting for Isidor's arrival, his glowing eyes bright in this poorly-lit space. No torches are lit against the walls, but small, blue orbs hang like thuribles, letting off the softest of cyan light. It's hardly much for living eyes to see by, but it's just enough to see the space around them. They've arrived in a portal enclave, a vast hallway filled with niches inside which a deathgate fits perfectly.

From the right of the hallway something comes rattling. As it passes under a lantern its skeletal form is revealed, half clad in leather armor, its top half limply sagging from the hips even as its legs propel it forward. Chains rattle with its every step as it pulls a wooden cart filled with inert bodyparts. When it nears Zandros and Isidor it ambles on with a newfound speed, then slows to a stop beside them. Without muscles or tendons to hinder its movement the skeleton is free to spin its head on its neck at an unnatural angle so that it might stare at Isidor's legs.

Zandros presses himself against the wall and musters all of his focus to merely watch her without fear in his face. Are they caught already? What do they do now?!

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Healing isn't her strong suit, it's true, but Zandros' annoyance irks her. She was only helping... Maybe this is what it's like for people to try and help her, only to get pride and irritation in return. Sobered, she redirects her glare down to the floor and turns her focus to Ademar.

There's a moment where she forgets where she's going. Seeing the cold darkness appear in front of her with fog carrying an aroma that sets her stomach into a twisting mess. It's only the sudden movement of Zandros being pulled aside that reminds her she's not on Cyrodiil. Watching Ademar share a word with the paladin, she notes that she doesn't have Jim or Harrowheart or a steady mage by her side either. Zandros will have to do. At least his attempt to fit into his role makes her relax a little.

With a grateful nod to Ademar, she follows Zandros into the darkness.

At first she thinks there's something wrong with the portal. Her heart begins to race the moment she appears in this unfamiliar place. It's brighter than the Bruma ruins were, but it still reeks of death, and freezes her to the core. The sense that she does not belong is inescapable. How does she feel like she's being watched even when there's nothing here but cold stone and silence?

The sudden interruption of noise and movement pulls her from her thoughts to a more immediate thought. She ducks her head and shuffles out of its way, but then it stops by them? A glance to Zandros shows he doesn't know what to do, so it's up to her to make a guess. Maybe it's for replacement parts? Or food? That thought sends a shudder down her spine, which she has to resist. With her best go at being stiff, she decides to have a go at picking up one of the parts in the cart. Hopefully her hesitation comes across as scrutiny, rather than utter disgust.

[westfallcorndog]

Isidor's willingness to blindly take a severed body part nets her a pale, delicate hand. It probably belonged to a woman before, and now it belongs to a woman again. Enjoy that little souvenir.

But rooting through the skeleton's inventory isn't exactly what the creature had in mind (if indeed it has a mind at all.) When Isidor removes the part from its cart the thing parts its fleshless jaws and produces a creaking, rattling croak. The sickly sound grows louder and louder and begins to echo down the corridors.

The alarm rouses a soldier from farther down the hall. A dead elven man comes hastily stomping toward the source of the disturbance, all clanking armor and billowing cape, runeaxe in his hand, ready for battle.

Zandros presses himself closer to the wall, threatening at any moment to become a two-dimensional stain against it.

The gangrenous elf scrutinizes 'Harrowheart,' then lingers a while on Isidor and her hand. Finally, it deigns to consider the skeleton.

"Nass!" the death knight grunts, then leans forward to give the bent skeleton a brutal backhand to the skull. It staggers, but the cart it's attached to prevents it from falling over completely.

"You ill-formed dog toy. Keep on your rounds or I'll pull you apart and your bones will be in this cart."

Even after the beating Nass trudges off in no great hurry. The elf shakes his head and rolls his eyes at 'Harrowheart.'

"You were just going to let that thing scream?"

Zandros hesitates. He musters some courage but forgets his accent when he finally answers. "I was teaching my new recruit that you've got to be aggressive in this place. Isn't that right?" He stares at Isidor with pursed lips and wide eyes. A lesson they've both just learned, it seems.

The other death knight grunts. He eyes Isidor once more, then snorts a cloud of fog.

"Fucking newbies. No thirst for violence. Any other pointless, basic lessons you'd like me to teach you?"

[heirtothedragonsfire]

It's very clear very suddenly that she's done the wrong thing. Which is fine, because she didn't want to pick up some poor dead lady's hand anyway. She lets go and drops it the second that screech starts, partly so she can clap her hands over her ears. And as if that isn't bad enough, now suddenly they're joined by something more sentient and smarter and more likely to discover their disguises.

Isidor winces at the sound of the backhand, but lets her hands drop while she tries to keep her head down. She almost snorts at the reprimand the skeleton gets except next the death knight's attention turns to Zandros, who in turn puts it back onto Isidor. She does a poor job of hiding her scowl while she shrugs, rolling her shoulders as she lets them go slack again.

Only Ademar's warning to keep her eyes down ensures her glare is firmly at the death knight's knees as she snaps at her. Her hands curl into tight fists as she resists the urge to show her just how much of a thirst for violence she has.

Then something hits her and she lifts an arm to point at his axe. "Where do I get one of those?"

[westfallcorndog]

Isidor's apparent deference is enough to keep the elf from delivering another backhand just for the fun of it all. He looks at his weapon when she points to it, then snorts again.

"A runeblade? You must be fresh after all. The runeforges are that way," he says with a dismissive gesture down the hall, opposite the way he had come. "Past the heart and through the halls of fleshcrafting. If you get lost again, waste the Converter's time."

Zandros affects a serious face and nods once. The elf scrutinizes him a moment, shakes his head, and trudges off. Only when he's gone does Zandros exhale swiftly. He dabs away a bead of sweat from his forehead, then bothers to look worried about that. Harrowheart wouldn't sweat. His living body is going to give him away if he isn't careful.

"I hope you don't take it personally, what I said back there," he whispers. "I'm afraid there may be more of that in future. The dead are a cruel sort. I swear, I take no joy in what I say or do here."

But guilty or not, it wouldn't do to tarry. Through one of the deathgate alcoves a few yards off a whirling axe goes flying. It bounces off the wall opposite and is followed shortly by a bloodied knight who crashes loudly to the stone floor. The death knight swiftly dispels the gate to cut off whatever had been chasing it, and with that it begins to rise to its feet. The longer Isidor and Zandros linger in the hall of portals, the more likely they are to be caught. Zandros puts a hand on Isidor's shoulder and nods in the right direction.

The walls of Acherus curve ever-so-slightly, preventing them from seeing much before them as they go. As soon as a powerful light ahead becomes visible they find themselves quite suddenly at the mouth of one of many halls leading to an absolutely massive, circular greatroom. Every one of a dozen pathways flowing into it inclines downward, forcing the dead to pass each other in the recess of this sprawling central hub. It is unmistakably the center of the necropolis -- a forum, as it were, for all manner of the walking-departed. Unlike a forum, however, there are no vendor stalls or hollered announcements. In fact, despite the size of the crowd the room is eerily voiceless. Only the smallest buzzing of conversation rises past the noise of hundreds of metal boots scraping stone and horses' hooves clapping as their riders path around like clockwork soldiers set on tracks.

It isn't only death knights here, either. Two hundred sets of glowing blue eyes contribute to the brightness of the room, certainly, but other once-living things pass among them. Skeletons like poor Nass and naked or half-clothed zombies shamble mindlessly about -- some severely misshapen, warped by too much magical power flowing through their fragile frames. Their jaws and limbs and jutting bones are sometimes too long, or too sharp, or bulbous with tumors. These unfortunate things haul packages and pull carts, and not a one is given a second glance by any of the knights. Carcasses of animals, too, stumble like marionettes, but none of these are ever without an accompanying owner or rider. Not all of the creatures are quite like what might be seen on Earth, and many familiar things are fused with parts from other beasts.

Even from far off, one unique figure in particular stands out: an elegantly-draped lich that floats effortlessly through the crow which parts to make room for its ostentatious, trailing robe. It dictates to a thin-framed undead woman following close behind, quill ablaze as she writes. Halfway through the room it stops abruptly and looks behind itself, then touches one of its long fingerbones to its throat. A voice like a plucked harp, sharp and lyrical and inescapably noticeable commands the knights around it, "Make way for Abragosa's skull!

And the knights obey. The throng of the dead parts further, leaving a path through which two carriages could ride. Every corpse in the greatroom keeps its boots on the ground and its words to itself as a team of two dozen skeletons rattle through the forum, and behind them a massive dragon's skull on a wheeled bed. The dragon must have been larger than Mym when it died, and perhaps of a different sort if the crystal shards growing in place of horns are any indication. As it passes, all is silent. The only sounds are the grinding of the wheels, the creaking of the wood, and the thrumming swarm of carrion flies that thickens the air just above the heads of the crowd of corpses.

Soon enough lich and her scribe disappear into a wide hallway, and in time the skeletons follow. The very second that crystal snout disappears into the darkness the death knights return to their places. Now conversation begins in earnest. The heart of Acherus is alive with the droning gossip of the dead.

And Zandros stands motionless through it all. Only when the corpses are speaking again does he feel he has cover enough to turn to Isidor and do the same.

"I see so many halls, but none are labeled! The elf said the forges are past the halls of--" he hesitates to say, "fleshcrafting. Do you think that's where they're taking the dragon skull? Or should we follow one of the carts with the corpse parts? O-or... Light, do we ask? Again? If you do ask one, just... Please pick a little one? I don't want to be backhanded."

'Harrowheart' wrings his little hands with worry as he waits for Isidor's wisdom.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

"It's fine," she mumbles, still staring down the hall the way the death knight had left. Once she's sure he's gone, she turns back to Zandros. "Remember the accent. And..." So many conversations shift into place, like sand filling in a gap. "Enjoy being superior to me more." She looks up to meet his eyes. "I won't take any of it personally. We need to do whatever it takes to survive this, ok?"

With that, they head down the corridor, both eager to get this over and done with. The dark corridors, eerie silence and the sensation of death were all to be expected. The giant hall full of dead beings of all grotesque shapes and sizes? Less so. Isidor stops in her tracks and sways back as if physically pushed, until she manages to bring herself forward again. Statue still, she inwardly screeches at her heart to stop its pounding, her jaw to stop its clenching, and her stomach from trying to send its contents up the way it came. Isidor isn't scared of the dead. But the shambling creatures before her make her skin feel slick with mouldy dampness and her lungs prickle with the stench of decay. For a moment she thinks she might have to reach out to a wall, and risk breaking her cover, just to stay upright.

That's when a voice carries through the forum and commands her attention. The focus that the procession demands of her brings her out of herself, away from the boils and rotting flesh of one creature of another. Instead she sees the place as a whole, and a skull that sends an unexpected deep pang of sadness straight to her heart. And then, like a broken spell, the procession vanishes and Isidor shakes herself out of all other thoughts. The mission. She has to focus on the mission.

When she turns to Zandros she blinks at him and then snaps without thinking, "Stop wringing your hands. You command me, remember?" In the act, at least.

That said, Isidor is the one considering the options before her, and no doubt the one to make the decision. None of the choices sound all that appealing, but she'd rather avoid asking anyone anything if she can help it. The more people they interact with, the more they risk blowing their cover.

"Ok, here's what we're going to do," she says, turning to face him fully. "I'm going to go down after the dragon skull. Give me a short head start and then follow me. That way, if I get stopped you can come in and tell me off while you whisk me away. Act like I'm the clueless new recruit wandering around. Any questions?"

[westfallcorndog]

Zandros stands bolt upright at Isidor's reprimands, and after a few seconds of steeling his nerves he even affects a proper undead glower. She makes her decision for their next move, and he gives a curt nod.

When she leaves, he scress his face up into an even more bitter glare. It's easier to look angry than to admit his growing fear at being left alone in the rotting heart of Acherus.

The hallway down which the skull is being dragged has been cleared of counter-traffic -- largely because the dragon skull takes up a bulk of the hallway on its own. The procession isn't especially quick, but Isidor doesn't have to slow her pace tremendously in order to trail the skull.

Abragosa's skull is just another dead thing in this citadel of corpses, and yet there's something decidedly different about it. It isn't moving. It hasn't been befouled by dark magics. In fact, to the magically sensitive, it may as well be bursting with life. The arcane aura that radiates from the bones is unmistakable. Its power lingers in the air like the fragrant smell of wildflowers on a spring breeze. Trapped in one facet of its crystalline nose horn, Isidor's dark and distant reflection bounces as a tiny speck.

Then, just as when she and Zandros spilled into the heart chamber, suddenly the dingy hall gives way to a blindingly bright room. Sunlight. Sunlight and fresh air and the sound of crashing waves all come blasting in through a wide-open hole in the wall of the ziggurat. Rather than a great hall Isidor finds herself on a massive terrace, a mix of landing pad and hangar.

All around, necromancers like Harrowheart are defiling the bodies of dragonkind. At a table near the entrance two armored death knights hold down a squealing whelp while a third deftly flays it -- alive, it seems at first, but the blue-scaled dragon doesn't bleed even as its skin is peeled from muscle. When the work of skinning it is done, blood is poured on its wounds, and the necromancers heal its flesh to begin the process anew. The skin is folded on a pile of a dozen others. Nearby, undead fleshcrafters cut and sew the skins onto tomes.

Dragon bones lay strewn about the area. Death knights, ghosts, and ghouls riddle out how to reassemble them. From the ceiling, dead dragons with their flesh still on hang from impossibly large hooks on chains with links larger than Isidor's torso.

In the center of the room the lich and her scribe guide the skeletons toward a precisely-arranged dragon skeleton missing only its skull. Abragosa's remains -- or maybe the remains of a handful of dragons soon to be fused into one new, tortured being.

Moments later, just as Isidor ordered, Zandros arrives. His face is still tense with a bitter look. His fists are clenched. He's doing everything to look the part of a very angry corpse.

At his arrival, one of the death knights holding down the whelp laughs. She lets go of the baby dragon and heads for 'Harrowheart,' at which point her companions decide it's time for a break. They chain the creature to the table and wander off toward the bookbinders.

"Converter!" she shouts and throws her arms wide. "I didn't know they had you on Abragosa! Must be like a dream come true, eh? I know how badly you've wanted a dragon."

A dream come true? More like a nightmare. Zandros, wide-eyed, clutches a hand to his chest as he stares vacantly into the middle distance.

The woman laughs again and slaps him hard on the back. With a flourish of her arm she gestures to Abragosa's bones.

"Go get 'em, Tiger. Before Kali'naj shouts your name and we all get the chills."

Zandros stumbles forward, pausing only to cast a terrified look at Isidor. What have you gotten us into?

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Following the skull isn't hard. If she were aware of herself she might wonder if she were literally enchanted by the remains of the great dragon as she trails behind it. The seemingly blessed presence of a dragon's remains is only reinforced by the relief of a fresh breeze and bright light.

Isidor has to squint, blinking and raising a hand to give her eyes time to adjust. This pleasant change is short lived once she finally manages to look around. Her eyes dart to the corpses of dragons and then one flailing in terror as corpses brutalise it. In that moment she forgets herself. Her eyes are wide in horror, and her fingers slam into fists that become hotter and hotter as her heart pounds in a rising fury.

A voice pulls her from the frenzied fog building in her mind and she ducks her head again, glimpsing Zandros at her side. It's just as well. It hides the way she grits her teeth. Zandros glances at her for direction and she knows exactly what she's going to do.

She nods her chin towards the skull and slinks off to the side. She can't burn this place to the ground. Even if she and Zandros both survived it, there would be no guarantee she would be able to salvage Harrowheart's runeblade. Would she want to, if he helps with this?

It doesn't matter. If anyone's going to decide his fate it's her.

Doing her best to stick to the shadows and stay out of the way of any death knights, Isidor shuffles as close as she can get to the dragon that's still breathing. She finds a nice little position where she guesses she's just out of the periphery of the death knights and finally uncurls her fingers again. Those close to her might notice the air get warmer around her, but she's hoping they're more distracted by whatever 'Harrowheart' is meant to be doing. While they gawk, she stares fiercely at the key chains holding the dragon down. It's harder at a distance, but if anyone has rage enough to melt those shackles it's her. How dare they. How DARE they! Without thinking, her will twists and arcane energy presses in one sharp, sudden motion against the weakened links so that they snap with a distinctive ring.

Surprised by her slip of control it takes Isidor a second of blinking before she steps backwards, out of the way, and tries desperately to catch Zandros' eye to signal for them both to get the hell out of here! At least she's not in the limelight, so it should be easy for her to head back out the way they came.

[westfallcorndog]

The little whelp tenses at the arrival of another wicked, dead thing come to prolong its torture. It screws its eyes shut and blocks out the sight of what comes next... But, much to its surprise, there isn't any pain. There is only the sensation of magic, and a sudden slackness to the chains that bind it. In complete disbelief at what's just been done, the tiny dragon is hesitant to open its eyes. Just the thought of being teased with freedom has it trembling. Because what if it isn't freedom? What if they're taking it elsewhere, for worse torment? Or, maybe, they're going to finally put it out of its misery. A scary thought, to be sure, and yet...

With a final breath the little whelp settles into a motionless calm. Then, finally it opens its eyes.

There's only a woman. A furious-looking woman who smells of herbs and oil, and, beneath it all, of arcane magic. The kind of magic the dead cannot possess. She isn't one of them. Not in soul, and not in body.

The whelp can't take its eyes off of Isidor, even as it spreads its battered wings and shakes free of its broken chains. It struggles to its feet, but once it's up there's no time to waste. It has one window to exact revenge and make its escape. It can't miss this opportunity.

Elsewhere, Zandros is laying his hands on Abragosa's massive skull. He mumbles to himself while the lich, her scribe, and another death knight watch with inscrutable stares. Impatience sets in and the lich begins to drift closer. She raises her skeletal arm to grip his shoulder, but just as her unnaturally long fingerbones touch his armor a young girl's broken voice cries out and she wheels to meet it.

The whelp shrieks, "You'll be destroyed for what you've done!"

With that she leaps into the air and takes flight. In an instant she's out of the reach of the runeblades that are drawn all around, and with a few frantic flaps she's successfully out of reach of the shards of ice one death knight casts her way.

The dragon fills her lungs with chill sea air. The lich's ornate sleeves flow like pennants with the motion of a growing spell. Death knights abandon their posts and rush about the room, shoving and bodying each other as they jostle for positions from which they might throw their weapons like javelins at the young dragon.

And then the whelp lets loose her magic breath. Purple fire -- pure magic -- streams from her tiny jaws, arcing and growing as it fans out from her mouth. One thrown runeblade is caught in the blast and explodes in a rain of violent blue sparks. The death knight that threw it howls, then crashes to the ground, dead on the spot.

The violet flame consumes the air in the hangar, shortly threatening to burn every corpse in the room -- moving or otherwise. Now the death knights scramble again, and finally the lich releases her own shadowflame. Fire clashes against fire, each force pushing against the opposite with equal intensity.

Zandros ducks out of the way of a lashing arcane tendril, but he refuses to move from Abragosa's skull. Not just yet. He's still speaking, muttering words as quickly as he can. And then, barely noticeable against the violent waves of magic dueling just above him, a light. The Light. A spark that travels in delicate golden rivulets down the dragon's skull only to disappear in seconds.

"Let's go!" he shouts, his voice barely audible above the commotion. He rolls under the dueling flames and sprints for Isidor, shoving frantic undead as he goes. When he reaches her he spares no time grabbing her by the wrist and tugging her in the direction of the door.

"Back to the forum!" he says above the noise. "We'll hide in the crowd!"

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Seeing the dragon rise above the vicious crowd is exhilarating and terrifying. Isidor watches with deep, shuddering breaths that nearly give out when the young dragon cries out. Yes! she wants to yell, but she has to stop that sound dead in her throat. When she glances around, fearing the undead might somehow know of her hand in this, she finds instead that they push her aside as they rally to try and kill the poor creature they were torturing.

What happens next is... chaos. Weapons she's only seen as one of a kind, true dragon fire and so much unfamiliar magic that she can't keep track of it all. She keeps a shielding spell at the edge of her mind, but with all that unfolds before her it's difficult to focus. Somehow she manages to avoid getting walloped by any of the creatures jostling to take on the dragon. Next thing she knows there's a firm hand on her wrist and a completely different spell in her mind when she sees it's Zandros. With a nod she sprints with him to the door, closing it quickly behind them and doing her best to make for the forum as fast as they can without looking conspicious.

"What did you do?" Isidor mutters, glancing frantically between Zandros, the path ahead and the corridor behind them. "I saw... something. What did you do?"

[westfallcorndog]

"I consecrated her," Zandros says breathlessly as he scrambles down the hall. "It will protect her from being risen. She will rest, as she should."

The sound of fighting chases them through the hallway, quieting only when they pour out into the heart of Acherus once more. But Isidor and Zandros aren't the only two fleeing the chaos. As they arrive in the center of the necropolis other knights push past them, eager to escape a swift death by dragonfire.

Zandros holds tight to Isidor as they navigate the crowd. All around, mutterings turn to louder conversations. Gossip spreads quickly through the throng of corpses -- more quickly than Zandros can weave between their bodies, at any rate.

Then, from nearby in the crowd, a young man calls out in an accent not unlike Isidor's, "Converter!"

Zandros attempts to power walk past, but rather suddenly he (and Isidor by extension) are pulled backwards by an unseen magical force. Zandros' heels skid to a stop and he's quickly spun around to face the knight that tugged him in.

All right, so maybe 'knight' is being generous. He's a thinly-built young man no more than 20 years of age, dressed blood-splattered clothes without a single piece of armor. But his eye does glow blue, and there is what appears to be a rune knife on his belt -- along with a few vials of blood. He grins crookedly, showing off his sharp, grey teeth.

"You," Zandros stresses through grit teeth. "I haven't -- I ain't got time for you, little worm man."

But the one-eyed dead boy only laughs. "Is that any way to thank me for saving what little mind you've got, Harrowheart? After all, I see my tincture worked. And I see that bitch Benetha was lying about you croaking at Lordaeron. I've got to stop listening to her. Swear all she does is make shit up..."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

There are certain moments when the world seems to forget that time has to pass, and everything has to move on from a single instant. This is exactly what Isidor experiences when she looks at 'Harrowheart' and is glad to hear Zandros. She opens her mouth, but just as a 'thank you' forms in her throat, she's shoved out of the way of someone scrambling to get as far from the dragon as they can.

So she's grateful he secured the eternal rest of a sacred beast, and she's thankful to have a larger, stronger force at the helm to cut a path through the crowd. And she's completely focused on the mission and not distracted by her appreciative feelings in the slightest. She does hear the voice calling out to them and quickens her pace to match. None of which does any good when that strong guiding hand is being dragged backwards.

When Zandros is spun round and Isidor stumbles a little to catch up with him she's already got her other hand on the axe at her hip, a scowl firmly on her face. Being annoyed is only helped when she sees the person who forcefully dragged Zandros backwards. What she doesn't expect is the paladin's reaction.

Isidor blinks in surprise when Zandros not only verbalises his annoyance, but does a perfect Harrowheart impression. It suddenly becomes difficult to stifle a smile.

Encouraged by their success with the dragon and Zandros' sudden ability to act as Harrowheart, Isidor pipes up, trying to mask her voice with a husky mumbling. "Who're you anyway?"

[westfallcorndog]

The boy-corpse scoffs at Isidor's question. "Who are you?" he counters as he takes note of her for the first time. His lonely eye looks her over from hair to boots and on the way back up comes to rest at her axe. An axe which is, as it turns out, just an axe. He squints at that, but in seconds it's justified. She's with Harrowheart the Converter, after all. She must be a new recruit.

He stands straight and tall and folds his hands behind his back, as if he's someone of note. And who knows, perhaps he is?

"You may call me Apprentice Grauenvoll, and for the record I've been serving since the Third War, so don't come at me with that attitude. I'm older than you, as a corpse and as an entity. I command your respect."

"You'll command my knuckles across your teeth, Grauenvoll," Zandros hisses.

Apprentice Grauenvoll bares his filthy fangs in a mocking smile. "Which reminds me, send my regards to your little lady friend. She gives a good slap for such a sweet gir--"

Suddenly Harrowheart's hand is at the Apprentice's throat. He grips Zandros' forearms and writhes in the grip, wheezing all the while until he can croak out a few feeble words.

"I can-- gkk!-- tell you're grateful-- nngh-- Not as rough as usual!"

Zandros releases the boy and trains a finger on him. Apprentice Grauenvoll shrinks away at the unspoken threat of more violence, but the longer he watches Harrowheart the less fearful he looks, until finally his lips twitch to fight a grin.

Armored corpses all around are in motion now, stirred to life by the increasingly dramatic tales of dragons wreaking havoc in the halls of Acherus. Some draw their blades and head for the Drachenhall, while others suddenly recall overdue work in other wings of the citadel. Apprentice Grauenvoll expects when someone will pass behind him and deftly dodges sharp pauldrons and sharper runeblades, but Zandros takes a few hard shoves to the back and is nearly thrown off balance both times.

"I heard someone say there's a bookwyrm loose in the Drachenhall," Apprentice Grauenvoll says. "Good for it. But a scary one for both of you, eh? I'd hate to meet it without my runeblade."

Apprentice Grauenvoll smiles crookedly and pulls an exaggerated shrug. Oh well!

And yet he hasn't fucked off like he ought to have. Almost as if he expects something...

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Isidor is all set to sneer about him still being an apprentice despite being so old, but Zandros has this well covered. Any thought that his reaction to Grauenvoll might have been a once-off is swiftly banished. Being able to stand back and watch someone else handle a situation makes for a nice change. It leaves Isidor free to stand back and put two and two together as she realises where Zandros must know this undead pest from. Judging by the death knight's reaction, this is perfectly in-character for Harrowheart, too, which makes for an added bonus. Whether he realises it or not, Zandros is doing everything right.

Just not right enough to get Grauenvoll to leave them alone.

Narrowing her eyes, Isidor fixes a stare on the apprentice. "You know where his runeblade is, don't you?"

[westfallcorndog]

The Apprentice’s lips peel back a little farther and he gives the slightest nod.

“And I’ll take you there, too. But not for free. I want something good.”

He scrapes his claw against Zandros’ armor to peel away a congealed glob of the paladin’s blood. Without delay he licks the blood from off his nail. As one does, apparently. Almost immediately he shivers all over and screws his eye shut, then pulls a face and gnashes his teeth.

“Too spicy for me. No, get me some more of your little gal pal’s blood. I’m sure you can trick her out of it. Or, er, trick it out of her.”

He crosses his arms over his chest as he waits for their decision.

From the path to the Drachenhall there comes a sudden, reverberating call — the voice of the lich. “Someone has released a prisoner from the Drachenhall! A hundred souls to the one that finds the traitor!”

That proclamation freezes every knight in place, but only for the silent span of a breath. And then it’s chaos all over again. Blades and armor clash all around as the unscrupulous dead turn immediately on each other, each willing to slice their companions’ throats for a chance at the bounty.

The Apprentice hops out of the way of an axe that comes slicing down beside him. Fortunately for him its wielder is swiftly distracted by a true combatant.

Colin shouts above the raucous banging, ”WHAT DO YOU SAY?”

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Grauenvoll smiles and Isidor's eyes narrow even more. It's bad enough he drew blood from Runa, but to enjoy it so openly without regard for who provides it makes her blood boil. He's just as nasty as she remembers him the first time they met. Right now she wishes she was the one who could strangle him.

A guide directly to the runeblade, though. No guessing, no more risk than necessary. That's certainly valuable, and it becomes invaluable when a second later the lich's voice issues a message that sends the entire place into open combat.

Isidor darts out of the way of someone, and grabs Zandros' arm to keep from getting separated from him. "Yes! Fine! Let's get out of here!"

[westfallcorndog]

Oh? She really agreed? Colin’s surprise is evident, but he’s not going to question it or gloat. He’ll take his win and run with it — literally, in this case.

Zandros, on the other hand, isn’t fully pleased with Isidor’s answer. Would she really betray Runa for a chance to find Harrowheart’s weapon? All thoughts of objecting are pushed from his mind when Isidor grips his arm. Suddenly there’s a heat in his cheeks unbecoming of a dead man.

Unfortunately there’s no time to dwell on thoughts of Isidor leaning on him, as Colin grabs him by the other arm and yanks. Zandros is pulled along by the deceptively strong boy, and he pulls Isidor in turn. Together they weave past flying fists and the flashing lights of swinging runeblades.

Colin leads them to a wall at the edge of the forum, pauses only to ensure nobody is watching him, and with a powerful kick knocks loose a metal grate in the floor. For the two in armor it’s going to be an exceptionally tight fit, but the Apprentice slips into the darkness with ease.

Zandros helps Isidor in before entering himself. It’s a short drop into a pipe system beneath the floor, but the details of the place are obscured by an all-encompassing darkness. Three glowing undead eyes between them makes for poor lighting for living eyes, and when Colin turns away it becomes even darker. The motion of him removing his eye patch is vaguely visible in the dim glow, but once it’s off the claustrophobic stone tunnel is ablaze with the blue flame that bursts to light from his empty eye socket.

He turns to face the two once more, and for a lingering while he’s got nothing to say. The muted sounds of conflict from above echo around and quickly fade into obscurity.

“You’re the ones who let the dragon loose, aren’t you? Good for you. I’ve always hated what they do there.”

He turns away once more and, hunkered over in the small space, leads them through the increasingly quiet tunnel. Something soupy squelches beneath their feet, but at least nothing crunches underfoot, and nothing moves.

“You’re lucky you ran into me,” he says as he goes. “Anyone with spectral sight would have seen you’re still alive, Not-Harrowheart. If you had run into a banshee, or even the wrong skeleton... Well. Someone would have a hundred souls right now. Surprised about you though, lady. Did Harrowheart kill you when he was out of his mind? Are you after his weapon for revenge?”

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Dropping into some pipes in the floor isn't exactly appealing, but when the alternative is staying up where the fighting is there's not much choice. Isidor steels herself before lowering herself into the drop, casting a tiny smile up at Zandros for his help. Once she's in, however, she hesitates. There it is again, that hammering of her heart. Dark, wet tunnels thick with the smell of death and rot. It's only when she's reminded that Zandros also needs to get in that she forces herself further down the tunnel.

She's so busy focusing on keeping her breathing steady and following Grauenvoll that the sudden burst of light takes her by surprise, one hand reaching as she steps back so that she can grab Zandros. The revelation that the light comes from Grauenvoll's eye is met with a sigh of relief. No Evil Eye spells here just yet.

The silence is perfectly fine for her, which is why she frowns when Grauenvoll starts talking again. Starting off with something easy enough to deny and continuing on to a true and then false observation. It's enough to make her head spin.

Isidor glances back to Zandros and then looks forward to Grauenvoll again. "Something like that... Why aren't you handing us in for the bounty? Your runeblade must like souls as much as you like blood."

[westfallcorndog]

Zandros is blinking. No, winking. Winking quite a lot, really. Honestly, a person might be forgiven for thinking he's almost having fun closing one eye and watching how the light in the tunnel shifts. Maybe the illusion is starting to affect his brain... Either way, it seems he and Isidor have different opinions about being trapped in slimy little tunnels. At least he has the courtesy to stop it when Isidor looks his way... Though a few seconds after she turns forward he's right back at it again.

"I've got a good gig," Colin says as he slushes through thickening slime. It's really starting to cling to the boots now. And is it... Rising? "All the other knights have to go out to hunt for souls and pain, but my patients make appointments. I do a little surgery with my knife, cut some tumors out of a peasant or two, get a few soul fragments as payment -- not even enough to miss -- and everyone goes home happy. I don't really need one hundred souls. I'm satisfied with my lot in unlife."

Oh yes, the slime is definitely rising, but being waist-deep in putrid, green sludge that bubbles, froths, and burps around their movements doesn't particularly faze Colin. Above them, soft blue light and what passes for fresh air falls in from a grate above. After the Apprentice passes by a heavy hoof slams down against the metal. A horse and knight trudge dutifully through Acherus, trailed by an ethereal woman floating noiselessly through the air. Fortunately, neither of them notice the trio below. In the back, Zandros nervously hums choral music to keep himself together.

"Besides," Colin says, casual as perhaps he's ever been, "I know that everybody calls me 'rat man, weasel man, worm man,' but I'd like to think I do the right thing from time to time. Suppose I've developed a soft heart. Comes with the job, eh?"

He lifts his hands out of the gunk and gives them a shake. "Light. Even if the job is currently ferryman. My trousers are going to be ten types of fucked after this, but... You do what you're asked when you're paid, is that not right, ladies and gentlemen?"

He stops abruptly and points down the tunnel. Ten yards off a glimmer of light bounces off the slime which, at that particular point, has risen just below the level of the next grate.

"I'll go ahead. Don't follow until you hear me pop the cover off. Close your eyes and nose when the sludge is up that high, and..." He looks between the grate and his companions. "Suppose that's the best advice there is, really."

With a final nod he attempts to hurry through the muck. The bright light of his eye fades as he trudges through. The slime slows him considerably when he's up to his chest, but there are still a few yards to go after that. Fortunately for him, he hasn't got to hold his breath when he's fully submerged in sludge. A few seconds after his eye flame is snuffed out by the goo, leaving Isidor with only the soft light of Zandros' illusory glow, there comes a quiet creaking and the dull sound of metal on stone. In the inch or so of visible space above the slime Colin can be seen haul himself up to disappear into the halls of the necropolis.

Zandros fumbles through the slime until he finds Isidor's hand and squeezes tightly. "Holy Light, how horrifying," he whispers. "It is my duty to go before you and fight off any evil we might face, and I will gladly do so... But if you prefer, I can boost you up to get you through it faster. I only await your guidance."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

The higher the sludge gets the harder Isidor's heart pounds until it's hammering, desperate to get out of this soupy death trap. It's hard not to focus on his dangerous this is, or how she swears she can hear groaning through the bubbling mixture, or feel fingers on her legs as she tries to tread carefully. Whatever happens, she can't slip and fall into this, she decides.

Colin's unexpected expression of compassion will have to do as a distraction. Not that it's a particularly good one. She doesn't trust him, despite following him through these accursed pipes, but right now fighting one small death knight is preferable to a whole forum full.

It might not have been a good idea to leave them behind while he goes up through the grate. With their momentum stalled to a halt, Isidor can feel her manic heartbeat in full force. She rests a hand on her chest as if that might slow it and, for a rare moment, looks at the sludge ahead with dismay. She can't do this. She doesn't have a choice.

When Zandros reaches for her and speaks, she looks back at him with just a hint of surprise. She'd almost forgotten she isn't alone. Exhaling, she glances to their goal and then back to him. "I just want to get out of here as fast as possible. A boost would be nice."

"Here... Put your hand on my shoulder. We'll go together." She pulls her hand out of his and hooks it around the back of his head as best she can. "Come on."

In this awkward position she pulls them forward. Only once the sludge starts to rise dangerously close to their faces does its purpose come into effect. With one hand by her own head and another by his Isidor can better control a sphere that encompasses their heads, or at least their faces to keep the potentially toxic liquid out of their mouths or eyes.

"Hold your breath," she calls back, and then pushes forward through the last stretch. Even with her face kept clear, she closes her eyes. It's too easy to expect a half-rotted corpse to appear right in front of her. No, better to focus on the spell and open her eyes only when the telltale flash of light hits her eyelids. Relieved, she stops, pulling Zandros close so that he knows they've reached their destination. That said, Isidor doesn't waste any time in getting his help to get out of that wretched place. She heaves herself out feeling like a waterlogged rag. Somehow she forces herself to turn back and see if she can't help Zandros out before she properly catches her breath.

Sitting there, heavy and exhausted, she sincerely hopes they're not in any danger. At this point she's ready to just burn everything down and be done with it. She can pick Harrowheart's runeblade out of its ashes.

[westfallcorndog]

Zandros sighs in gratitude at the shielding spell she conjures. He closes his eyes before she closes hers and mutters a prayer to himself. He hastens to get his words out before he has to fill his lungs with air. Then comes the unavoidable. The reverse plunge into the unknown.

With each other's help they're swiftly through the grate. Zandros-as-Harrowheart wastes no time stripping off his gloves to pour the slime from his gauntlets. And, despite it all, when he looks at Isidor he laughs under his breath. They've done it! They've avoided knights and banshees and escaped that unholy tunnel and come out the other side alive -- if slime-logged.

Nearby, the Apprentice's grating voice is hard at work distracting another knight from noticing two people emerging from the sewer. It's bad enough he clearly just emerged from it himself, green and dripping as he is.

The room they've emerged into is spacious, and like the Drachenhall is filled with tables on which battered bodies are being pieced together into new, whole creations. The knights and necromancers at work are busy at their stations. Word of invaders and bounties must not have reached them yet -- or, like the Apprentice, they simply don't care.

From down a nearby hallway comes the unmistakable beating of hammers on metal. Zandros holds tightly to Isidor's arm and nods in that direction. He wastes no time following the sound.

When they're alone in the hallway he whispers, "We're nearly out of this cursed place. When we get home I shall run you a bath of holy water and we will both of us have a stiff drink."

The rhythm of the forge grows louder as they go, until eventually they round a corner and are confronted by the entrance. The spacious doorway has been carved with skulls of men and animals, and at the top an even larger skull, jawless, as if the entryway were its gaping maw.

But the way into the forgeworks -- bright with the blue flames of the forges beyond -- is blocked. A line of armed and armored skeletons stand guard, shoulder to shoulder. One of them is being argued with by a death knight whose face has been completely skeletonized. Her raspy voice croaks out through a gaping hole in her throat. Across her back a runed polearm is strapped.

Zandros pulls Isidor aside and presses them both flat against the nearest stone wall. They're out of sight, for now.

"That's the woman who saved me. At Lordaeron. She'll rec--" Ah. No, he looks like Harrowheart now, doesn't he? He falls silent quickly, but doubt and worry are still heavy on his face.

"Isidor," he whispers. "This may be one woman we will not be able to fool, but your confidence has brought us this far. I trust your judgement in whatever comes next."

[heirtothedragonsfire]

It's an unmistakable relief when they emerge, but it quickly becomes apparent that they can't revel in their success too long. They're not out of danger yet. Moving quickly on provides some relief. A little breather before they reach their final goal.

She's even relaxed enough to meet Zandros' talk of a bath with a crooked grin. "Remind me to introduce you to a shower when we get back."

Perhaps it's just as well they raise their spirits while they can. Once they reach the corner they're met with yet another challenge. Isidor frowns at the vaguely familiar woman, who is almost as big a problem as the many guards blocking their path.

"Her name is Belinda, or Benetha, or something," Isidor mutters. "Harrowheart..." She glances at Zandros. "You gave her that gash across her throat." Looking back to the death knight arguing with the soldiers she mumbles, "Probably resurrected her, too."

Their options are limited, especially now that they're being hunted. With a slow breath she turns to him again and looks him in the eye. "We've got to try. Your runeblade is in there. It's urgent and important that you get it. Try to be commanding. I'll back you up however I can."

She pats his arm and then remembers she's still covered in a disgusting slush, and shakes it off with a wrinkling of her nose. "Come on. Let's get through this."

[westfallcorndog]

Zandros nods once. He spends a few seconds breathing deeply with his eyes closed. All he has to do to make it through this is act. And how hard could that be? In one way or another, he's been an actor all his life. Now he needs only to play dead -- with confidence.

Without warning he hurries off, walking as quickly and confidently as his longer-than-usual legs will carry him. In short order he's shoulder to shoulder with the dead woman and toe to toe with the skeletal guards.

"My runeblade's in there. Let me past or you'll regret it."

Benetha and the skeleton that had been taking the brunt of her offenses both turn their faceless skulls to meet him, but only one of them audibly gasps at the sight.

In an uncharacteristically soft motion Benetha reaches for Zandros' cheek. He doesn't hesitate to give her hand a brutal slap and fix her with a cold and hateful gaze. She stares him in the face, her own skeletal visage inscrutable.

"How?..." she whispers.

"How indeed," the skeleton's ethereal voice drones. "Harrowheart the Converter, whose damaged blade awaits the forgemasters' talents... Blightcaster Benetha informed me in full confidence that you had been stricken with true death. She was attempting to procure the remnants of your blade for herself. I see now that this was a falsehood..."

"No!" she shouts.

"For which she shall be punished."

Two skeletons reach out for Benetha and grab her about the arms and chest. She thrashes, but her undead strength is no match against two of her own kind.

The guard captain steps aside and ushers Harrowheart through, but here Zandros does hesitate. He's expected to enter the forge room alone, isn't he? If Benetha couldn't get in, will Isidor be allowed past the guards? Still, if he is to maintain his illusion, he must move forward with the same confidence he had mustered minutes ago. Without casting a backwards glance he steps through the threshold into the glowing forgeroom beyond.

Benetha, still writhing in a futile attempt to break free from her captors, finally catches a glimpse of Isidor.

"YOU!" she shrieks.

"S-stop him!" she shouts at the skeletons. "Whoever that is! Harrowheart is dead! That isn't him! He can't be here! He's not an Ebon Knight anymore!"

One of the skeletons presses her jaws shut, but that doesn't stop her ghostly voice echoing out her throat wound.

"You won't know what to do with that blade! Bring it to me!"

[heirtothedragonsfire]

From the corner Isidor watches, tense and ready for everything to go wrong. When they set out on this mission she was sure that Zandros would be the weak link, unable to mimic the man he's had his unusual rivalry with. Watching him from afar, she's glad she was wrong. He's able to wear that form well enough not to be cut down immediately. And for Isidor's fingers to curl into the wall while she glares at Benetha's attempt to touch him. The slap the death knight gets in return is enough to satisfy her and she relaxes again.

The skeletons make to get rid of Benetha themselves, which is a welcome surprise. One less obstacle to deal with. Her shout startles Isidor at first but, realising that no one else is paying her any heed, Isidor grins and raises her hand to waggle her fingers in an indulgent moment of superiority.

Pushing her grin aside, Isidor turns and walks up to the line of guards. It's back to keeping her head down and shuffling along in her imitation of death.

Once she reaches the guards she stops, trying to get a glimpse of Zandros, before nodding past them. "The Converter's here? He told me to meet him through there."

[westfallcorndog]

‘Through there,’ as Isidor put it, is a bright hall blue with flame and alive with the heartbeat of the forgemasters' tools. Most of the workers are fully skeletonized, but even without flesh to melt they are protected by heavy leathers and, for some, even faceplates. They are small in number and unceasingly busy at their posts. Some reshape blades against anvils, releasing pained howls from the cursed weapons with every strike of the hammer. Others shovel glittering blue gems into hungry forges shaped like gaping, toothy maws. With each new mouthful of fuel cyan flames lash out like tongues, infinitely greedy for more. They produce no heat, but the oppressive pressure of the magical inferno hits the chest and the senses like a fist.

And Zandros is alone in it. He wanders aimlessly down the center of the hall, narrowly dodging the skeletons who are, fortunately for him, too busy to cease in their labors to take note of his growing reluctance — or, perhaps, even his presence. But as he steps farther into the room he inevitably becomes impossible to avoid, until finally a scribe not unlike the lich’s minion strides across the room to meet him. They begin a conversation that’s impossible to hear at this distance.

Nearer, Benetha utterly seethes at the mockery. She growls like a beast and thrashes her shoulders. Another one of the skeletal guards begins conjuring chains of ice, link by link.

Isidor’s bold order causes the skeletons that aren’t binding a prisoner to instantly close ranks. The captain tilts his skull up to stare down a nonexistent nose at this new unwelcome guest.

“The forgemasters have much to tend to in the aftermath of Lordaeron. Their work cannot be impaired by the presence of unnecessary visitors. Harrowheart the Converter does not have the authority to grant you passage. If you do not have business with the forgemasters, you may await his return here... Or join the Blightcaster in her punishment.”

It seems Isidor will need a better excuse than that! And she’s going to have to come up with one fast. Zandros is being led to a distant corner of the hall and even farther out of reach.

Benetha croaks a wet and bitter laugh. It’s a good thing she hasn’t got a face, or she might be able to look smug about Isidor’s failure.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

The nasty laughter has Isidor snap round to pin Benetha with a glare before the mage takes a deep breath and turns back to the captain. Behind the barrier of skeletons Zandros is slipping away, and these bags of bones are telling her no? Her fingers ball into fists and then flex as she wrestles with a flush of nerves and a rising annoyance.

"It's a bit hard for a new recruit to get a runeblade without the forgemasters' skills," she points out while trying (and failing) not to sound snarky. It takes some effort to attempt to cool her tone again. "Harrowheart was eager to bring back someone to fill the ranks up again. And here I am. Now, can I get through so he and the forgemasters can sort me out so that I can actually start my duties properly?"

[westfallcorndog]

The guard captain's skull tips ever so slightly to glance at the axe at Isidor's hip. It is an ordinary weapon after all. He hadn't expected this woman's arrival... And yet he can't argue with her logic. He steps aside, and without needing to be ordered the other guards follow suit. She is free to enter, while Benetha is forced to remain -- and be bound about the wrists by the skeletons' chains.

In the forge hall the bustling masters ignore Isidor, just as they had ignored Zandros. They refuse to stray from their desired paths to avoid her, leaving her to bear the burden of dodging them and their loads of ore, weapons, and magical shards. Navigating past them them makes it difficult to catch up with Zandros, but there's something else, too. Something intrusive, something distracting, and yet it neither crosses her path nor makes a single sound. It isn't the percussive blasts of magic from the forges, it isn't nerves, it's simply...

A thought.

A thought that she might instead step closer to a falchion that would fit so well in the hand. An urge to inspect a double-bladed axe that she thinks must be deceptively lightweight. The only way to know, though, would be to hold it. To take it up. To take up any one of them. To have one for her own. A weapon to protect her. Only until she escaped this place, of course. Only for cover. Only to fit in. Only to be one of them, but only for a moment.

That is what she's here for, isn't she? That is what she said.

Just one weapon.

Her new weapon.








A few yards off the scribe has departed Zandros' side after leading him to their quarry. Half of Harrowheart's sword sleeps atop an anvil. Its blade has been badly damaged. Its darkened runes are cracked and much of the blade's metal has been deeply pitted by some caustic liquid. It lies dormant, motionless and voiceless, the only weapon in this room unable to cry out for Isidor's attention. And yet, when she looks its way -- if she can tear her eyes from a hundred other deadly temptations -- its final rune attempts a feeble light that flickers dimly only to die in the span of a breath.

Zandros' hand trembles over the hilt of the blade. In this place, he is Harrowheart, and he will wield Harrowheart's weapon, if he must. But the thought of doing so sets his whole body to quaking. Or perhaps he is being undone by the unthinkable notion that he might not hold one of this room's treasures this day...

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Getting past the guards is a stroke of victory that lifts Isidor's chin, though she hurries past as quickly as she can while remaining inconspicuous. Besides, as soon as she's no longer their problem, she has to dash to try and keep so much as a glimpse of Zandros. At some point she loses him and has to make an educated guess about which direction to take. The moment she does, however, she has to slow down to keep a keen eye out.

It's the first time she's properly looked around. Tia would love this place. The ores, the enchanted metals, the roaring furnaces... and the weapons, of course. Even she has to appreciate the weapons. Freshly forged, gleaming, sharp and strong. A gallery of artisanal metalwork proudly on display. Isidor, not noticing how much she's slowed to a crawl, stops beside the double-bladed axe. There's something about it. Something on the edge of her mind, straining to be remembered as it tugs harshly on a memory. She eyes it, wondering just how heavy it is, how it would feel in her hand, how it would swing... Her hand reaches for it, fingers curling around the handle just enough to get a taste for its weight while her mind reaches back. What does it remind her of? Has she seen something like this before? She feels like she has, but...

Harrowheart. Harrowheart's blades used to be axes. They're not anymore, though, and she's meant to be looking for them. For Zandros. She has to drop this axe and get back to her mission!

[westfallcorndog]

Isidor's fingers only touch the blade for a moment, but a moment is all the magic needs. A rush of magic flows from her fingertips to her core, invigorating her. It isn't the weight of the metal she feels in her grip, but the weight of the power behind the cursed blade. Power that could be hers. Is hers by right. And just think of all she could do with this blade in her hand. She need only keep it. Hold it. Make it part of her.

But she doesn't.

When she drops the axe she sheds that raw and wild power with a single beat of her heart. She is, once more, merely a mage who calls herself patron.

That slight hesitation, though, that short delay on her part, is all it takes for Zandros' hand to finally grip the hilt of Harrowheart's damaged blade. Like Isidor, his body is flooded with a rush of power and his mind is buffeted by a thousand possibilities of what he might accomplish.

No.

Not might.

What he can and will do!

Quaking with the enormity of it all, Zandros holds the blade aloft and spits out words as if they were bitter poison in his mouth.

"This place must be destroyed! I— I— I’ll do it myself!”

His shouting draws the attention of the three nearest forgemasters and the scribe, all of whom look up from their work, their skeletal expressions inscrutable — apart from the scribe, whose still-fleshy face goes taut with fear.

Zandros braces the sword against his arms and charges toward her with an unhinged howl. She doesn’t have time to scramble away from him before the runeblade has pierced her middle. The weapon tears straight through her armor and breaches her back with an audible splatter of gore. Zandros — Harrowheart — grits his teeth and locks his wild eyes with hers. He strains and growls and with a final, ferocious strike he drags the weapon upward through her body. The undead woman screeches until the blade finally reaches her skull, silencing her forever. Her dull-eyed body collapses to the floor, but before it clatters against the stone Zandros is already rushing toward his next victim.

The forgemasters saw fit to ignore these intruders before, but they no longer have that luxury. No, now they flee in fear, desperate to preserve their talents and themselves. One, overburdened by a pack of ore, is unable to escape the wrath of Zandros’ sword, and in one clean slice is dispatched without a chance to beg or wail.

With the bodycount climbing, Zandros is emboldened. He laughs triumphantly at the destruction of the forgemaster and raises a Light-imbued fist to the sky.

”I’ll purge you all!”

Behind Isidor, something heavy and metallic scrapes against the floor. The runeblade she had touched has found itself, by some magic, directly at her heels. The dead are not immune to their own weaponry, it seems. Perhaps, if she were to take it up once more…

But there’s not much time to consider her next moves. At the maw of the forge hall the skeletal guards are abandoning their posts with haste. They rush to defend the forgemasters from the mad Lightcaster in their midst. Behind them, bound by chains of ice, Benetha the Blightcaster cackles. Her grating voice echoes above the stampede of metal boots.

“I told you! You wouldn’t know what to do with it!”

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Like a flash of lightning, Isidor can see herself in all her glory, enemies at her feet and family behind her. More than a scholar, more than an Archon... And then it's gone, the memory of power and success curling in her mind like twists of smoke.

She doesn't have time to process it, however, before Zandros calls her attention. Suddenly he's shouting and attacking people. The fool! There isn't even time to stop him! He's ruining my plan! He's ruining everything!

Zandros needs to be stopped. This whole mess needs to be fixed. And as usual, she's the only one who can do it.

Isidor looks down at the clattering at her feet. She narrows her eyes. "Fine. But we're doing things my way."

Without another word, she scoops up the axe and charges into the fray. Zandros has already given them away with his Light magic. The best they can hope for is to stop anyone from raising the alarm and blocking their exit. So when Isidor sees the last of the guards flood in, she draws on what Harroheart taught her, and with a wave of her hand she closes off the doorway in a flaming barrier. They're in now. They're in and they have to face Zandros and Isidor.

Hefting the unfamiliar weight in her hand, Isidor adjusts her grip and swings at the first guard who comes in reach. She's going to have to keep close to keep in range, but with a bit of strategic magic she can take these guys. At least, if she can't she hopes her armour can.

[westfallcorndog]

Isidor's swing is helped along its path by the supernatural guidance of the axe, eager as it is to finally sew chaos. The blade buries itself in the chestpiece of the skeleton, piercing through the armor with a jarring squeal of metal-on-metal, stopping only when it comes into contact with the sternum below. The bone shatters, the skeleton wails, and a new magic flows into Isidor. As the lights in the skeleton's eyes dim, the power of its stolen soul travels through the blade, through the hilt, and finally through Isidor's living veins. When the weapon's magic is done, the fire in the skull is extinguished, and the spent corpse clatters to the floor.

The forgeworkers, whose flight is cut off by the wall of flame at the entrance of the forge, all scramble for the farthest walls of the hall. They aren't fighters. And now both of these intruders are turning the blades they themselves crafted against the guards of Acherus? They want nothing to do with this! This isn't their fight!

Fortunately for them, Zandros finally turns his wild eyes from them and looks instead to worthy combatants. There are only five skeletal guards left now, and as far as he reckons he and Isidor are worth more than twice that many. Emboldened by his shattered sanity, Zandros braces Harrowheart's runeblade and charges forward, shouting all the way.

One of the guards takes a swing for Isidor, but its runeblade falls from its hand when Harrowheart's hook-tipped sword comes bursting through its middle. With a sideways swipe Zandros cuts the skeleton in half, and its weapon -- rather than slicing into Isidor's shoulder -- falls blade-first against the stone floor.

Four of them left. Four coordinated, armored, armored skeletal soldiers. This time they aren't taking any chances. They form a square around Zandros and Isidor, and as if they were of one mind they raise their swords together. Each of them cuts the air with their weapons, bringing their hungry blades down on the mage and the paladin.

Zandros shouts. Blood splatters to the floor. But there's no time to assess the damage. This is a fight for their lives.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

The weight of the axe when she first lifted it didn't give away how easy it would be to swing, or how deep it would cut. This pleasant revelation is only magnified by the rush of power flowing through her.

Can she... use this? Will her magic be stronger? Or will she never exhaust herself? It's these questions that distract her until she spots the guard getting cut down mid-swing. She doesn't quite manage to thank Zandros: He started this mess, after all. Instead Isidor looks a little chastened and reasserts her focus to the fight at hand... Which has gotten them surrounded.

The moment those blades flash to come down on her, Isidor throws up a full body shield. It does, however, have to come down for her retaliation. To even the odds she sends one of guards flying with a powerful push of magic with a flick of her wrist. That, however, gives the other a chance to take another shot at her. When she turns to deal with it, her weapon comes just short of blocking the blow entirely. The other runeblade falls heavily onto her arm, but she can't tell if it got through, or if the pain is from more than the whack. She has to concentrate on taking the chance in front of her.

Isidor slams her palm onto the guard's chestplate. A split second later, a pillar of fire stands in the spot of her opponent, and she doesn't let it drop until she hears no more screaming. That, she thinks to herself as she stares at the remnants, Is what you get for touching me.

Turning to her next opponent, she hefts the blade in her hand and mutters to it, "This one is yours." Her strides turn into a jog and she lifts the axe at the top of her bound, but then drops low when she swings to get to the weapon-free torso.

[westfallcorndog]

Fire, as Harrowheart has mentioned so many times before, is a fool-proof method for destroying the dead. A column of it, magically conjured at the feet, is more than potent enough to reduce a skeleton to charred, inert bones that disassemble the moment the mage has worked her magic. It's a spectacle, too, for the guards that remain.

Each of the three remaining skeletons are caught off guard, none quite expecting magic of that breed or caliber. The one to find its courage first is the one she sets her sights on. It recollects itself and moves in for the kill, but Isidor and her newly-acquired ally have other plans.

The runeblade hears what is in Isidor's heart before the words roll past her pale, painted lips. It knows what she wants of it. What it wants.

Carnage.

Shattering armor and bone will never be as satisfying as slicing into flesh and sending arcs of blood across, but Isidor will taste the pleasure of that in time. For now she will have to satisfy herself watching the blue flames recede from the skeleton's eyes as the magic of its soul funnels into the greedy blade in her hand.

Zandros, too, gets his moment to revel in the destruction he wreaks. Inspired by Isidor's firey show he extends a flat palm and shouts an incantation that calls on the Light to form a cage of sharp spikes around one of the soldiers. With a toss of his arm the magical iron maiden collapses on the skeleton, drilling through its bones and leaving only ash in its wake.

Then, as Isidor had, he chases the fourth and final guard with a raised weapon and a set of wild eyes. It attempts to flee but doesn't get far before Harrowheart's sword dismembers one of its legs. Zandros' thoughts flood with the drive to kill. With his enemy incapacitated he takes out his blade-fueled psychosis by smashing the pommel of the sword into its skull. Long after the thing has gone still he his mindless aggression persists. He continues to hack at its bones, lost in the motion of killing.

But they're free now, aren't they? Nearly free, anyway. The skeletal guards are defeated, and the forgemasters that remain are huddled desperately in a corner. They have no quarrel with Isidor and Zandros, but killing them would be so simple, wouldn't it? Simplistic, yet satisfying. To destroy something that truly fears your power... Wouldn't that be a treat, Isidor?

It wouldn't put Isidor any closer to escape, though. In fact, it might give backup more time to arrive. As it is, when Isidor dispels the flaming gate she'll find there are no enemies yet waiting for her. Could it be that simple?

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Isidor wrinkles her nose up in disgust at Zandros' brutish display of barbarism until a motion catches her attention and the forgemasters catch her eye again. Her fingers curl tighter around the axe handle in her hand. How nice it would be to bottle up that fear of theirs so she could admire it. Set it on a mantle and savour it like fine art.

She doesn't even notice herself take a step closer, let alone realise how the fear of trembling figures and home brings a thought crashing over her like so much ice water over a hot iron. She has to get home. She's got what she came here for, now she has to return to her brother.

Turning on her heel, she starts to the door, pulling the wall of fire back down and yanking Zandros along as she passes him. "Come on. Let's go."

The last thing she wants to do is encounter creepy, crawling zombies in a sewer. They're clearly done hiding. The next best thing is to run. Towards the danger. A charge, really. Maybe if they run with a purpose they won't be found out.

Tugging Zandros close she mutters, "We're going to the portal as fast as we can. Let's pretend we're looking for the traitors. Cut them down only if they get in our way." Without waiting for him to show he understands, she grabs his arm and starts to run down the corridor, only slowing to a jog around corners.

[westfallcorndog]

Zandros is caught completely off-guard by an outside force tearing him away from his depravity. He's forced back to reality with a hand around his arm, and before he can entirely grasp what's going on he's running down the dank halls of Acherus, following in Isidor's shadow as all around them commotion grows. He listens to her guidance with wide and desperate eyes. She's got a plan. She's always got a plan. There's comfort and anchoring sanity in that, at least!

The quickest way back to the portal room is through the halls of fleshcrafting, where they'd last seen their little sewer guide. He's gone now, though, as are most of the other crafters who had been toiling away in that foul room. The few fleshcrafters who remain are the unlucky ones currently being pinned against walls or bent over their own bloodied tables by larger soldiers in full plate. There’s an inquisition underway in Acherus now. The guards who haven’t gotten the memo about the forge room are searching for the traitors and have no qualms about making their fellows bleed to test their right to exist here.

Zandros grips Harrowheart’s runeblade as tightly as he can and through gritted teeth hisses into Isidor’s ear even as they sprint through the room, “We’ve got to end them!”

The sight and sound of a pair fleeing through the hall catches the attention of the guards in an instant. A bull-man on the far side of the room shouts, “Stop them!” but his order isn’t necessary. An elf and a human peel off from opposite sides of the hall and weave their way around the operating tables, both intent on catching the pair as they run.

Isidor and Zandros break free from the hall of fleshcrafting with a few yards’ head start on the knights. The corridor they flee down is just wide enough for the both of them. Ahead of them, the sounds of clanking armor. As they round the curving corridor a second pair of death knights appear, but before they have a chance to process who or what is running at them Zandros uppercuts the air, summoning a flash of Light that slices like a knife. The knight on the left explodes in a shower of black blood, white the one to the right falls down, wounded and howling.

Zandros leaps over what’s left of them and keeps on sprinting. He’s wheezing heavily, struggling to breathe through his Blight-burned lungs, but there’s no time to waste and no opportunity for rest.

“Isidor,” he wheezes as he hurries down the stone corridors, “Th-there’s something wrong—“

But he has no chance to finish his thought. Suddenly they spill into the heart of Acherus, that spacious forum at the center of this twisting, haunted maze. The raucous brawl has ceased and the room has fallen silent, but the bloody evidence of the mass clash remains. Unclaimed limbs lie strewn across the stone, bones are scattered about, and the floor is slick with pools of dead blood. Most of the undead who remain in the forum are preoccupied with their own wounds. The sound of four boots stampeding in raises the glowing, blue eyes of every knight in the necropolis.

Whatever was wrong with Zandros, he’s going to have to keep it to himself. He bolts through the center of the forum for the corridor where the portal room is even as the dead rise up around them. They’re just moments away! They’re going to escape! All they’ve got to do is run!

From behind, the pair of knights in pursuit shout, “CATCH THEM!”

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Things go from bad to worse. Snowballing so fast it's hard to keep track and, honestly, Isidor doesn't really try to. Her worry that Zandros will blow their cover is dispelled by the shout of the guard. This time when they run Isidor feels the urgency rising through her veins. They need to get back. She barely has time to appreciate how quickly Zandros dispatches the death knights about to block them. There is, however, a twinge of irritation at his gasping warning. Of course there's something wrong, she thinks furiously. EVERYTHING'S wrong!

A moment later she finds out just how right she is. They're surrounded by corpses, and gods know how many of those on the ground will be roused by the order echoing through the forum. Zandros runs and Isidor's heart slams in panic. There are too many, too close. He'll get caught. They'll both get caught.

Isidor's hand grips Zandros by the wrist and brings him close with a sharp tug. She thanks the gods they like to use stone here as she feels the floor beneath her and brings it up, rising and twisting in an imitation of her gestures until it forms a shelter of sorts. It's enough to give them a moment of peace and that's all she needs.

The runeblade is tucked into her belt before the mage takes Zandros by the shoulders. She can barely see him, but she looks him in the eye anyway.

"We don't have much time, or much choice. I'm going to use pure magic, but you have to do as I say." Beneath the firm order there's a desperate pleading. There's no time to explain just how important it is that he listens. She has to trust that he'll do as she says. "Follow me, and don't get in my way. Don't run off. Stay right by me. Don't talk to me unless you're warning me of an attack. Follow me, don't try to stop me, don't try to talk to me, and we'll be ok." Finally, insistently, she asks, "Do you understand?"

[westfallcorndog]

Stone moving up around Zandros and sealing him in with Isidor doesn’t do much for his fragile state of mind. His breaths come shallow and quick, frantic, and his enchanted eyes dart all around. He grips the runeblade close to his chest, and its few undamaged runes blink erratically.

“P-pure magic,” he repeats.

A shiver overtakes him and he screws his eyes shut.

“F-follow you, keep — keep my mouth shut. Follow you, don’t stop, keep my mouth shut.”

His grip tightens around the jolt of the blade.

Follow her. Keep his mouth shut. Don’t stop. He’s meant to stay quiet, but he has to repeat it to himself to keep himself grounded. Something in his mind is wrong, and he doesn’t know quite what, but he knows that if he says it enough he’ll stay grounded. Keep those words in his head, keep his thoughts on his lips, and keep his hand on the blade. That last above everything else.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Glimpsing Zandros' strained and terrified face in flashes of the runeblade's light strikes a chord of regret through her. One which she lets fade into the back of her mind. This is no time to feel bad about dragging him into this. Getting them both out of here in one piece will have to suffice in soothing her guilt.

She lifts the axe in her hand and feels a little foolish when she speaks to it. "The same goes for you. Kill anyone in our way if you like, but don't touch either of us, and don't get in my way." With that she lets it go and finds herself relieved to watch it hover in place.

The walls around them shudder, reminding her that they're still surrounded and their pursuers are likely trying to do everything they can to get them. Which reminds her to summon an orb of light which splits and moves to light up their little hideaway. If they try to use shadow magic she's not going to make it easy on them.

Finally she straightens, the walls shifting ever so slight to accommodate her. Slow breaths in, slow breaths out. Her hands held lax in front of her, palms up, her eyes closed. The hardest time to focus is always the time you need it the most. Thank goodness her uncle knew this. Thank goodness her practice makes it so that the pounding on the walls help put her in the right frame of mind. Help her let go of all magic but one. Pure magic. The heart of all magic.

We need to get out of here safely. I need to protect us as we go. I will protect us. We will leave. Protect and leave. Protect. And leave. Protect. Leave.

Isidor's eyes open. The stone around them shudders once, her palms flip and then flick outwards, sending the stone flying with such force that they don't stop until they hit the walls with a slam or a crunch. The small orbs of light vanish, but an invisible shield rises around them. The mage's eyes turn to their exit and remain locked onto it as she approaches, calmly stepping over the remains of those who lost the last fight here. The shield moves with her, and while its border is unseen, it's clearly marked by the sudden stop of death knights slamming into the barrier and suddenly becoming aware of its existence. The knights behind her don't concern her. It's the ones in front of the door she's headed for that are an issue.

For a split second she considers her options. In the end it's pretty easy. In order for them to get out in a safe and efficient manner, they need to reduce their time spent here. They need to be fast, safe and efficient. No sooner has she stopped then the front of the shield drops at the same time she switches stance, stepping forward, twisting her arms and contorting her fingers.

It looks like fire In a superficial sense. A purple flame with a black core and a white edge that rushes upwards even as it snaps, splintering to the sides and dripping at its base. A magic that burns like molten acid, shocking through the system like lightning with the heat of sun. That's how it was described, at least, and how the death knights' screeches make it sound. Pillars of burning death wails. And then the fire vanishes in the blink of an eye, like an illusion that left smouldering piles of bone and metal.

Satisfied with her work, Isidor raises the shield and this time steps over corpses of her own making.

[westfallcorndog]

Flying stone is deadly enough, even to the already-deceased. Rough, sharp, high-speed projectiles tear through exposed flesh and embed themselves into armor elsewhere. Some of the monsters are pinned about the limbs and torso as the stone goes shooting through them. Others aren't lucky enough to be merely trapped against the wall and floor. Skulls cave, blades crack. There's already howling, moaning , and Isidor hasn't even taken her first step.

Her shield drops and the death knights think to close the gap, press the advantage, go in for the kill. One runeblade whizzes past her head. It might have found a mark in Zandros' head, but Harrowheart's runeblade rises of its own volition and parries the blade to the ground. Zandros stomps a foot onto it and shocks it with a lash of the Light. Souls steam out of the runes, screaming as they go. When the blade goes inert one death knight in the crowd falls to its face, struck down on the spot with the death of its phylactery-blade.

The magic that comes next, though... There's nothing that could have prepared the knights of Acherus for that. Magic like Isidor's simply doesn't exist on Azeroth -- not in the hands of mortals, at any rate. The sundering of the world, leylines laid bare, the unbridled rage of a dragon Aspect -- perhaps those once-an-eon events could bring forth a magical fire like this. But a mage? A living, human mage?

Most of the knights don't have the chance to ponder it. The furious conjuration rips through them and in an instant they are unmade. Their ghostly screams persist longer than their bodies as their bodies are disenchanted by the molten magic. They turn to dust, to ash, to mana in the air. Armor clatters, weapons drop, bodies halved by the stream of flame fall flat against the stone.

And behind them, flame with fury and vengeance, is the lich. Isidor's magic, still raging, cuts a clear path between herself and the intruders. There's no time to order, no time to shout -- only a split second in which she can twist up her bony fingers, roll her wrists and throw her arms, and reflect the magic back at its conjurer.

Isidor raises her shield once more. Zandros pulls at her, frantically tugging her down the pathway to the portal. Behind them her own dragonfire rages forward, roiling, howling like a banshee wronged. It twists itself into the shape of a dragon's maw, gaping and hungry, and rushes through the narrow corridor after them.

At the portal Zandros holds Isidor tight. He dives through, pulling her across space to a dimly-lit manor halfway across the world. The air is dry, hot. A man begins to shout and is cut off by the roar of the ravenous magic that blasts through the portal after them.

Isidor's own spell, reflected and corrupted, comes barreling through the portal into Ademar's home. The fire clings to the walls, consuming wood and stone with equal ferocity. The whole entrance of the home is soon ablaze in violet flame.

"Put it out!" Ademar commands, fear cracking his otherwise impassive voice. His instinct is to conjure any icy gust of frost magic against the flame.

[heirtothedragonsfire]

There is a moment, a split second, after Zandros touches Isidor where she grabs him in return, fingers wrapped too tightly, her palm hot and her touch vibrating with energy. In that instant Zandros is met with the same glassy eyes that turned on the death knights moment ago, a gaze that burns right through him.

And then she releases his arm and heads to the portal with wide, hastened strides. Only Zandros' hold encourages her through their escape any faster and she seems unconcerned even when Ademar's fear shows through his stoicism. The reflected spell, however, threatens her first mandate to protect.

Pulling herself from Zandros' grasp, she turns to the raging fire and twists her hands and arms, reshaping the spell that threatens to devour Ademar's home. The fire pulls inwards, curled into a sphere that becomes brighter even as the room becomes cooler. The brightness intensifies until suddenly it's gone. The flames are gone, the burning is gone. All that remains is the crisp aroma of the destroyed room and the chokingly dense magical energy hanging in the air like the ozone from a storm.

Finally, with the portal gone and the magic dispelled, Isidor lets the shield down again. It takes a minute for her to claw her way back to her right mind, but once she does she turns to look at Zandros, at Ademar. She turns to look for Harrowheart's runeblade.

[westfallcorndog]

As thick smoke snakes throughout the room Ademar scowls down at both of the living. He stands stiff and tall with his fists at his sides and fights the way they tremble.

“I take it,” he hisses through grit teeth, “That you were incapable of completing your mission with stealth. I am not looking forward to any potential consequences I will be facing for this.”

Zandros hangs his head and begins to mutter some manner of excuse. Harrowheart’s damages runeblade beside him catches Ademar’s eye and the death knight snatches it up. He holds it in his open palms and considers the shape of it.

“The sword is badly damaged. It will need careful attention, blood, and the hand of a skilled swordsmith to mend it. And—“

He stops himself mid-sentence as something more pressing strikes him.

“What is that?” he asks pointedly as he stares at Isidor. “That weapon you have. It is not meant for you.” He holds his open palm out expectantly. “Give it to me. I will see that it is returned to the necropolis.”

[heirtothedragonsfire]

The death knight's frustration rouses Isidor from her stupor and she focuses again, swaying on the spot once before she steadies herself. Before she can offer some suggestion Ademar grabs Harrowheart's blade and she tenses. There's no need to interrupt however as he quickly turns his attention to her.

One foot slides back. It appears casual, she thinks. Though in reality it betrays her preparing herself. "Oh no. You're not going to grab his blade and take it away to give to gods know who. If you're telling the truth, if you think his blade needs your help so badly, I'm keeping a hold of this one until you're done."

[westfallcorndog]

Ademar stares flatly, unimpressed with Isidor’s show. He watches her for a long while until his stern gaze begins to wander across the snaking pattern that the magic fire carved into his walls.

“You are not as sly as you believe, my dear,” he drones. “I’ve no intention of keeping the Converter’s weapon. I was merely advising you as to your best next steps. But the both of you would do well not to touch it.”

He looks down to vacant-eyed Zandros on his hands and knees on the floor. Zandros stares through him, still addled by the magic that warped his mind in Acherus.

“I can sense that each of you has already been overly exposed to these weapons’ magics.”

His eyes drift back to Isidor and he narrows them thoughtfully.

“As I told you before. Perhaps you would make a proper one of us after all. Keep that axe and we surely will find out.”

As a show of good will he extends the hilt of Harrowheart’s blade to her.

“If you insist on corrupting yourself with a runeblade, it may as well be this one. Take it. Do as you want with it. And leave my home. I believe you’ve caused enough destruction this day. I do not wish to be the victim of more of it.”

[heirtothedragonsfire]

Being called out only makes her hackles rise even more as she prepares herself for whatever argument Ademar might provide. Instead, he relents, though who knows how long his graciousness might last. Isidor takes Harrowheart's runeblade with one hand and with the other she pulls at Zandros' shoulder.

"Come on," she mutters, keeping her eyes fixed on Ademar. Tugging at the paladin until she can hook her arm through his. Fumbling around she finally gets to her PINpoint and hits the button to send them back to her apartment.

In the familiar surroundings of her home, she allows herself to take Zandros' lead, finding a wall to lean against as she lowers herself to the ground. Everything aches. Her mind feels fractured, her veins burn with magic, and now that she's safe her body lets her know just how many knocks she took.

Only after a minute or two has passed does she look to Zandros. "Are you ok?"

[lionofthelight]

The moment they touched down in Isidor's apartment Zandros hastened to tear off his locket. The illusion fades from him in an instant and he is, finally, only himself again. Sweating, red-faced, anxious, wild-eyed, but (nearly-)wholly Zandros once more.

"I -- I do not know," he admits, his voice cracking under the weight of everything they've seen and experienced that night.

He looks down at his right arm to see that when the illusion was dispelled, it too disappeared. Overwhelmed, he collapsed onto her sofa. He sat up, hand on his knee, and stared at the floor.

"Horrid place," he muttered. "I never would have -- Light, I'm so sorry for what I did in the forge room. We ought to have escaped unnoticed. But I took the blade in my hand and I--"

He considers his quaking palm. With great difficulty he drags his attention away from it and up to Isidor.

"Do you not feel it? When you hold it? When you held the other?"

[heirtothedragonsfire]

The fury with which he tears off the locket makes Isidor flinch and she settles back to being on guard. Just a little. Just as much as she could muster despite the pitiful cracking of his voice.

Only at his question does she realise she still has Harrowheart's runeblade, some part of her insisting that it and the blade are the same, insisting she mustn't let go of him again. But reason kicks in and she drops the handle where it rests on the floor. Is that why her arm feels like it's throbbing? Was that why she chose to fight instead of try diplomacy? Or instead of knocking Zandros out and dragging them both to freedom? It wasn't like she raised the dead. It wasn't like she made wretched abominations and puppeted them around. It wasn't like she was the same as Felix.

When she looks up at Zandros again, she shakes her head and then shrugs to offer some weak consolation. "Maybe it doesn't affect people who aren't from Azeroth."