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

[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."