[WP] After a night of heavy drinking and messy partying, the students of a magic school draw a transmutation circle to summon a janitor.

...

"There's no hope left."

The tallest Mage of the group spoke quietly from his stool, reddened cheeks hidden behind a thick mug of ale as the night finally died down to quiet. "The Dark Lord plans to use us up, just like the group before us, and the others before that."

"Aye." Murmurs of agreement came from those few still conscious and aware of their surroundings. Of that in the Mage's quarters, there weren't many- most many of their peers lay in quiet drunken stupor. Most were well past the journey towards mental oblivion, bodies flopped like ragdolls about the spire's room. Those still few with theit wits about them patiently ignoring the shameless moans that echoed from the more private rooms across the hall.

When there was little hope of living longer than a fortnight, a rare sum of their number chose to enjoy the present experiences, rather than dwell on them.

Others practiced, plotted and planned to the bitter end. Survival over everything else. Such was the Mage's creed in the Blackened Spire.

"I should have known better than to admit to the village elder I could see the magics!" The red-faced man shouted, tossing back his mug to pitch it towards the wall with a loud crack before it burst into flames. "They tricked me, fooled us all into thinking that the arts were a way out of the spit and toil- the fear! This is worse than before!"

Almost no one responded to the outburst, not that many were truly sober enough to consider it. Quiet snores were the only direct response from the many laying loosely along the cold black floor, and gnarled wooden benches.

"We could try and run, Eron." A quiet voice spoke up. A young woman clothed in black stared over a much smaller glass of crystal. Its contents were still all but untouched, amber color of the ale sitting still beside the rim. "I hear some have done it, escaped to the East. With our magic, together we might..." She let her words trail off, unwilling to speak the comforting lie aloud.

"No, we'd never make it." Eron set his anger replace itself with the traces of sorrow. "We're not some long-forgotten servants of the lower levels Sandra." Hand running over a shaved head beneath his cloak, Eron let out a heavy sigh. "The Dark Lord probably even knows our faces by now. He's invested too much time in each of our number to simply let us go."

"I've heard rumors though," The witch leaned in towards the glowing imitation of fire between their number, shadows lifting on her calm face with strange swirls. "There has been talk among the goblins-"

"I'd sooner trust Rodrick of the Black than a Goblin." Eron interrupted, tired eyes watching the hunched form of the only other recognizably awake member of the gathering slip slowly from their stool into a ragged hunch. "They're as vile as the Orcs, and much less predictable."

"Normally I'd agree, but this is different." Sandra leaned in further, eyes alight in the unholy flame: Excitement catching a deep blue that transfixed Eron's own brown with ease. "The Gravekeepers are gone. Rumor has it, Rodrick of the Black watched the last one walk off- didn't even raise a finger to stop them."

"Go on..." Eron stared as the brew spun in his head, unable to look away.

Four years ago they had met with all the others, cheerful and full of hope. After years of hardship and death at every turn, now she was the only one who ever showed the slightest interest in his thoughts of resisting; the rest had accepted their fates like cattle for slaughter. In different circumstances, in another life unburdened by the foreseen inevitable, she would be the type of girl he'd hope to marry.

Maybe it was the brew speaking, but gods only knew they'd both been together between the sheets enough to justify it. Not all nights were as grim as this one though. A dozen of their number dead, in one day. How was a Mage to survive in such pitiful service? That Maddened Immortal Soul-Drinker would crush them all on the slightest notion of passing curiosity. Their lives meant nothing to the man.

"The Gravekeepers are really gone, Eron." Sandra continued quietly, voice hushed for whatever drunks about them might still be listening. "I went to look myself: They're all gone."

"You left the tower?" He looked at her in astonishment. "Don't you realize how dangerous that is Sandra? What if you had been caught? What if some orcs had stumbled upon you out in the open?" His flet his hands rub at his scalp once more, eyes wide with disbelief. She met his gaze with seriousness.

"I don't want to die here, Eron." Her voice was quiet, but powerful; alight just like her eyes in the magic's glow. "If I die, it won't be as that man's plaything in sick experiments. It will be as I'm heading towards the east."

He stared at her, letting his hands drop slowly to either side of the stool. She was serious: Deathly serious.

"I have a plan, if you'll help me Eron." She set her glass on the floor, stepping off her stool to move towards him until their faces were the merest inches from one another.

To the far window of the room, the faintest hint of light was reaching the dark clouds of the blackened lands beyond the spire. It caught her left eye in its glow, just as the unholy fire did her right. Eron stared back, wondering if perhaps his held even a tenth of the wonder her own possessed.

"Two nights from tomorrow, we'll ready ourselves. Should we survive that long, we can leave this place. Together Eron."

"But how?" He could taste her breath, like fruit and dew. She seemed so sure, so certain of the impossible. "He'll kill us Sandra."

"I told you, I have a plan- and He'll kill us either way!" Her stare was unrelenting, fierce as a Sphinx, angry as a Griffon, confident as a Mad-woman. "I'd rather die trying, wouldn't you?"

The clouds outside the window seemed made of silver, sun's reach now peaking out from the distance. The great Eastern wall of Dotera seemed a line of dull red against the black earth- just barely visible in the farthest reaches of their sight. Together they watched it rise, quietly staring at the scene until murmurs of their fellows began to sound from the floor and hall.

"Oh gods have mercy, inspection is today isn't it?"

"Someone draw a summon." A hoarse voice groaned. "Just snatch one of those damned cleaners from the lower levels."

"Get the new one, if you grab one of the undead it'll take bloody years." Another voice mumbled. "And go get the others before they start fucking again, this room is a gods-damned disaster." It paused unsure for a moment. "Eron, for Orc's shit's sake man- if you're sober enough to stand you're sober enough to cast something."

A quiet clink of chalk on the black floor scoffed and slid behind him as mutters continued, and Sandra turned back to Eron with a grim nod. Two nights from tomorrow it was then:

They would survive.