“Faengil! Incinerate it!” Dovhran shouted before the armored figure could speak further. “It’s undead, kill it!”

Selian wasted no time in pulling out her short bow and firing off a quick flurry of three arrows. The first two were aimed at the head, the third at the figure’s center mass. The first one dinged off the temple of the helmet, the second sank into the left eye hole with a hollow reverberating thunk, the third scraped along the breastplate and clattered to the floor after leaving a deep gash in the soft ornamental metal that wrapped around the exterior of the plate.

It was the hollow impact in the eye that brought Flip to attention. It hadn’t sounded like it impacted metal at all. But it wasn’t flesh either, there was no blood. It had stuck into something as well, and wobbled as the figure continued to hobble forward, something hard but plastic enough to be gouged as the arrow head had embedded itself. Given Dovhran’s shouting, Flip suspect bone or mummified remains.

“I’m not a priest!” Flip shouted back.

That didn’t stop him from trying, of course. Selian let fly three more arrows and Dovhran stood at the ready with his shortsword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Meanwhile, Flip began to incant. The spell was not entirely familiar to either Selian or Dovhran, but the ray of arcane energy that leaped from Flip’s hand as he held the weighted stone out in the direction of the slowly approaching figure looked dangerous. But the ray of disintegration did not behave as anticipated. The joints of the armored figure creaked as it held a hand up to intercept the magic, and as if it could drink the energy the spell seemed to melt as it made contact with the armor and then flow up into the helm. The figure stopped as it took the blast, as did Flip’s companions.

The armor stood nearly in the middle of the room, the three intruders were nearly on the outside perimeter. As the energy of the spell faded from sight, the armor seemed to shine brightly in the well lit but dim cavern. It had transformed, as if touched with a polishing wheel, from a muddy dingy mess into a truly magnificent work of smith-craft. But the restoration seemed to come at a price, as the three intruders witnessed the right armored boot clank off to the side as though its joints and rivets had crumbled from age. What was left behind was the limp skeletal foot of whatever creature the armor was being worn by.

“So it has come to blows.” The cold hollow voice rang out deeply through the cavern. “If you are intruders that will not depart, then so be it. Perish.”

The undead creature reached into a rotted mangle of fabric that had perhaps been a cloak at one point and drew a greatsword to bear in its right hand. The other hand plucked a smaller metal implement from a sheath at its hip. The drawing of weapons took only a moment, and it looked both natural and comfortable. The greatsword seemed to be held without effort in a single hand, while the long dagger was held point down in a confident and practiced fighters grasp.

Flip had no response for the drawing of weapons, as he carried none. But Selian and Dovhran took a more ready defensive stance. All three knew there was no escaping. Though perhaps there was a way to leave if the creature had been genuine in its offer to allow them to retreat. But that offer had clearly expired, as the creature dashed forward with near lightning speed. In a single leap that looked as if it was hovering off the ground, the creature was upon the intruders.

The elf and changeling leap in opposite directions to the side when a tremendous cleaving strike from the greatsword arced towards the whole group. Both dodged successfully. Flip, however, tumbled back into the water, just barely avoiding the strike. Flip was lucky. The followup movement was not another physical attack, but a magical barrage of force that sputtered from the hilt of the dagger like water from a fountain. The magic formed two dozen small darts of smoky white energy that wove through the air, half directing themselves towards Selian and the other half to Dovhran. The elf managed to pierce the first three with a quick volley of arrows, dissipating them as they collided, though the nine that came after battered her to the ground and smashed her light form into the sandy gravel floor. The twelve that came for Dovhran were handled in like manner. The changeling swatted two with his shortsword as they swarmed around him, and another was deflected by his dagger—Dovhran even managed to toss his dagger through the cloud of magic and strike the armored creature, though to little effect—while the rest made quick work of the mercenary as they knocked him off his feet and managed to jolt his sword from his hand. He too was crushed into the ground, or more the wall in his case, but still mostly out of commission.

“I wish I could spare you, but you have come too far.” The voice of the creature, hollow and sad, echoed through the room.

Or, at least, that was the voice of one creature. That same second voice followed it. “Draw closer, jailer. Let me see. Who are they. They that delve. For me, perhaps?”

It was ragged, breathy, hardly forming words, and spoken with a giddiness that was not fitting the cave where it now rang out at high volume. The request was met with a groan or resentment from the first one that had spoken. Then, for no apparent reason, the armored creature turned away so that it could not look upon neither the elf nor the changeling. And as happenstance would have it, That was the same moment that Flip, gasping for air, scrambled up out of the pool of water once again.

Flip wasted no time. He knew two things. The first was that he was growing tired and his magic would not be potent for very long, not if hes stayed drenched as he was; and there was no fixing that for the time being. The second was that magic had to be more carefully thought out. The creature seemed to have had some kind of absorbing reaction to a direct spell. But there were not many direct spells that Flip could bring to the forefront of his mind that would not be absorbed directly by the creature. Even a blast like he had attempted to kill Theihdow with might fail. And what was worse, whatever creature was within that armor had the same voice as the nightmare that had accompanied his own personal tormenting demon. They were connected, and so that made a third thing… Flip expected any of the spells he had practiced to be known.

He had to improvise. And he did so with haste.

Waves like razors bent

And cut quick through rime

Be thou rain heaven-sent

Or pool from ancient time.

Two problems could be dealt with simultaneously. That was Flip’s desire, at least. The dampness of his person and the the armored creature with it’s back still turned not but ten feet before him. But it was untested magic, a manipulation of an existing spell, and so required unusual levels of focus. Flip raised his arms out in front of him and positioned his palms out with a flick of his wrists, and, channeling what he estimated to be half of all the magical strength he had left, the wizard commanded the water from the pool to do his bidding. First to gather around him and draw the water from his clothes as well, and then to crash down on his foe in an unnatural vortex that would beat down and ground the creature.

The result was rapid.

The water moved as instructed. It enveloped the creature, twisting around and thrusting down upon its form in ways that would keep it locked at the center of the vortex. But Flip was losing strength fast and the water was seeming back into the floor as it splattered around its target.

“Do something!” Flip screamed at his floored companions. “This is far more complicated than it looks!”

“I can’t get through the armor!” Dovhran shouted back. “Tear the armor off it if you can’t do anything else!”

“Whatever is inside isn’t exactly weak either!” Selian groaned loudly from the floor. “It took an arrow to the eye as if it was nothing.”

The three companions regrouped as Flip held their opponent at bay. And while the wizard struggled to move the water more precisely to tear off pieces of armor, the elf and changeling began to mutter quick strategy suggestions between them. Flip heard very little of the conversation; both because of the low volume at which it was held and because of the loud reverberating screech that had begun to bellow out of the armored figure. Even through torrents of water, it was an audible roar of gleeful discordant laughter. But there was a second sound at the same time, a shout of frustration. A pleading to stop, as the other previously more determined voice from within the armor warbled just ever so subtly through the chaos.

But the pleading figure’s words came too late. Flip had already torn free the majority of the armor plates covering the creature. Bits of exposed chain mail were whipping in the forceful flow of water, occasionally being torn free and tinkling against the rock walls as they struck solid surfaces. The whole processed revealed more of the creature beneath, though the intruders already expected what they now saw; an emaciated corpse, not much more than literal skin and bone and hardly even that in some places. And as the last piece of armor was flung out of the water, the helmet, and landed at the wizard’s feet they saw the face of their adversary.

The spell ended as Flip gasped from exhaustion. His body felt just ever so limp from the taxing effect of the spell. There was more to fear than exhaustion though, as the skeletal form of the once armored figure began to shamble away from the group. The figure had been tossed about the room as the water had pushed them, but even still it stood upright and was closer to the far wall of the room than the pool that Flip and his companions stood in front of once again. The strategizing had ceased as both the mercenary and the navigator fell silent at the sight of the humanoid skeletal monstrosity.

One voice did fill the silence however. A deep hollow metallic voice that spoke from the ground at Flip’s feet. “You fool of a Finnigan. What have you done.”

The voice came from the helmet itself, as though it still had a head in it. But the sound rag out like the reverberations of a bell.

“Living armor.” Flip whispered in awe as he reached down to pick up the ornate helmet from the ground. “And the remains of a man inside it.”

“It’s Velsaffe.” Dovhran muttered, taking a step closer to the skeletal figure as he did.

The changlineg’s movement was largely ignored by his companions. They were both transfixed with the helmet that had spoken on its own.

“The heretic,” the helmet growled. “You’ve set him free.”

“Heretic?” Dovhran murmured.

The changeling turned to look back at the helmet in Flip’s hands, bewildered by the exclamation. And that was the moment were events took the worst turn they could have.

The skeletal form of Helbrin Velsaffe turned and ran with lightning speed towards Dovhran. It reached out to grab the changeling by the neck but settled for his wrist as the mercenary also turned to run. Though he had his sword in hand, and though he had never showed cowardice before, Dovhran had never felt such a deep rooted instinct to flee. Not even when faced with a flaming demon. It was overwhelming to the point where he found it hard to look at the creature pursuing him. It was as if, the moment that Velsaffe had turned his wretched empty eye sockets in Dovhran’s direction, an unholy malice and contempt had been released and it centered on Dovhran. There was no escape, only pain.

The last thing that Flip saw on Dovhran’s face, was a look of pain and fear. The mercenary had shouted for help, but the sound was quickly swallowed up in a gleeful shriek of triumph from Velsaffe. And that was the last sound that Dovhran Sommar ever made. He couldn’t have said anything else if he had wanted to, as the flesh from his body slowly peeled back and merged with the skeletal form of Velsaffe. In a matter of moments, all that was left of the mercenary that had hired the expedition group was bones; dry and barren before they even hit the floor.

“A fool, he was, to call me a heretic.” Velsaffe muttered with a giggle. “And fools, the rest rest of you, for delving so deep. Or, perhaps, fearful children bidden by her voice.”

Flip and Selian exchanged a silent look of dread, and for a moment not even the helmet spoke. The partially reformed body of Helbrin Velsaffe stood there before them with a diabolical grin stretching nearly from ear to ear. Still emaciated, Dovhran’s flesh had renewed some aspects of humanity; it had unshriveled the skin, covered all the bone, returned the eyes, and given the heretical archpriest a silvery sheen across his body. He was a changeling by birth, or so records had said, which seemed to make an iota of sense out of what the trespassers had just witnessed.

“But do not fear me, little children.” Velsaffe said, louder now, his voice still a horrifying mix of mirth and rage. “You have nothing to fear from me. I have no need for a human or an elf. But hand me that helmet, and I will destroy it.”

“Put me on your head.” The helmet ordered.

All eyes were on Flip as he struggled. On the one hand, terror and fear as he had never felt seemed to press down on his very soul. His body was old and tired from the use of magic, and it had little resistance in it. But on the other, he had just witnessed this undead horror absorb a companion, perhaps even a friend, leaving nothing behind but bone.

It was the whisper of quiet voice in his mind that pushed him to his decision. “Heed my bidding. Destroy the construct.”

In sheer defiance of the demon’s whispers, Flip pulled the helmet down over his head in a hasty movement that left his brow scraped and bleeding slightly. And as soon as he could see through the visor of the helmet the room began to look more clear. Flip could see as though he were in broad daylight and with a level of detail at all ranges that only spectacles could normally convey. And it was with clarity that Flip saw the lunging form of Velsaffe approaching.

A pathway of red translucent light appeared in Flip’s vision, showing what he could only intuit as the direction he needed to move. And as he began to follow this path, he felt the muscles in his body move more readily as though the strain of the years held less sway over them. The motion was quick and simple, and it brought Flip just out of the way of a swiping hand from the attacking undead priest. And as Velsaffe continued to lunge and swipe, and Flip continued to dodge and evade the strikes of the priest’s unusually clawed hands, the helmet spoke again.

“ I have felt the magic in your body and seen the spells you can use in your mind.” The helmet’s voice was quiet, a meager vibration that only Flip could hear. “You have seen my father’s work, and we will use it now. We will end this.”