Date: Seventeenth of March, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)

Morlen Daxana ran his hand across the glass-smooth outer wall of the cavern and shuddered. Only magic could have made so smooth a barrier for the molten lava to cool against. It would have taken a baker's dozen modern spell casters to make and hold that dome. Local legend attributed it to just one: Ololen Yinkian. The obsidianised remains of that elf stood where he had died; giving everything he had onto that spell. It was another sobering example of the kind of power that had been routinely unleashed back in the Seminal War.

Tracie Ethelberry squinted in the (to her human eyes) frightfully dim illumination and kept the other three Guild scholars close. The were the leading experts in the field of teleportation magic that the Guild had at its disposal (or at least the ones that the Guild felt it could spare) and they still treated this like it was a holiday. Tracie herself felt that way a bit, but then she remembered the entire fifty-strong platoon of Althiem Royal Scouts detailed to escort duty. So strong a force would not have been sent if the Althiem Crown didn't expect trouble, so caution was in order.

“Alright, Guild on me. There will be time for poking about later. For now, we need to get to the Guild Hall, set up camp there, and activate its Teleportation Circle. Then we can think about exploring further.”

Groans echoed from her colleges' throats, but they bowed to her field experience, and the ARS officer nodded his thanks.

“Princess Enra, that means you're up. We've gotten to Mevada, but your group is the only ones who have been here before, so point the way.”

Morlen Daxana winced at the Guilder's suggestion that the Princess lead the way into unknown ad presumably hostile territory. That was why the ARS platoon was here, to scout! It was in their name for Kuko's sake! And the thought of putting the princess in danger on purpose grated at his nerves. Yes, she was a dark elf now, not a high elf - a fact that was still unknown to most of the kingdom – and therefore less in the eyes of the old nobles. Nevertheless, Enra was still a princess of the blood, still third in line for the throne (at least until her elder sisters had children), and therefore not replaceable in the same way that his scouts were. But the Princess shared a glance with him, rolled her eyes, and raised a pointing hand.

“I'm surprised you can't see the ten foot tall faerie-fire illuminated sigil yourself lady Ethelberry. The Statue from my reports is about a block and a half down that large street. From there...”

Morlen tuned her out and nodded at Sergeant Oakheart to detail a section to take point. His Princess wasn't going to be lost if he could help it.

Ved'Qeth stood on the top floor of the noble house that he had claimed as his own as looked out at the parade of light making their way through the city. Intruders, the living daring to walk in his dark domain. They would need to be crushed for their insolence. Perhaps their spirits or bones would come to serve him in undeath.

His banshees drifted behind him. Loyal undead servants, drawn to his service through his devotion to his Goddess the Shadowed Heart, and willing to serve. In life they had been sisters bent on the same crown and had managed to poison each other at the same banquet. In undeath, with their goal permanently out of reach and unable to truly hurt each other anymore, they still maintained a spiteful competition. Ved'Qeth shook his head.

+Cease your snapping, there is killing to be done.+

“Yes Master.”

+Elves have invaded my domain. It is time we showed them the folly of doing so. Gather your Specters and begin the hunt. I will be watching, and positions in my court are still available to she who pleases me the most.+

“Yes Master~!”

They flowed out of the room, passing through the walls and floor, heading to their own lesser towers where their own minions waited. Ved'Qeth gave a mental snort of satisfaction. The common mortals would perish easily enough, but the Adventurers... They would prove harder prey, especially as the sisters refused to hunt together. He would need to take the field himself to crush the last embers of resistance personally.

Job Arseoth squinted his eyes against the enveloping cave darkness, “does anyone else hear that?”

A chorus of denials answered his question.

“Sounded like an elf maiden crying, except we should be the only living people in Mevada.”

The ARS troopers looked uneasy at this comment, glancing about worriedly. Job noticed the Guilder's frowning, trying to work out what he meant, and Morlen Daxana swallowing his fear.

“Baar'Miin, would blessing a weapon help against the incorporeal undead? And how long would such a blessing last?”

Baar'Miin shrugged, “They went down easily enough last time we fought them, or fled when Turned. They have to turn solid to hit you so you'll see them coming. But yes, a blessing wouldn't hurt, and it would last long enough. ”

“ So ashes from a fire and lantern oil would work instead? You'd need to consecrate the mixture of course...”

“That and time. When we make camp at end of day, I can begin.”

Morlen cleared his throat, “What sort of blessing, miss Baar'Miin? It is obvious that you don't follow Kuko.”

“I am a Cleric of Bahamut, but the two both use the domain of light, so that is what I would draw upon for this blessing.”

the ARS troopers eased at this announcement, though they kept careful watch as the whole group moved forwards.

The ghost of Arara Bera, called Mya by her sisters long after her naming ceremony and banshee by her master, drifted through the streets of the city that she had once called home. She still hated her sisters, but not for the same reasons that they hated her. She had been the eldest, the first in line for their parent's throne, and thus a threat that had needed removed. She hated her sisters because they wanted that throne and crown for their own betterment, not the benefit of the citizens of Bera. Arara had sworn an oath on Kuko's holy name that she would not rest until the threat of her sisters to the Kingdom of Bera had ended. She had though that it had, when all four of them had managed to spike the punch bowl at that last fateful social gathering. But when she had risen from her tomb to see the wall of fire consuming her city, she knew that her sisters also lived after a fashion.

Now she drifted down a street that she used to know, seven specters at her back and a master watching over her. She knew his eyes couldn't track her everywhere, but the specters cold. And they would attack the living in unthinking rage the first chance that they got. Arara had to get them killed early so that she could vanish down hidden streets and try to communicate with these 'invaders'. If they had a Cleric, or any Adventurers worth mentioning, then they would have the strength to unmake her sisters and complete her vow. With that done, she could rest, content that the living could deal with the machinations of the living. Deep in her heart, Arara felt that something was wrong, that her oath couldn't be fulfilled for some reason.

The first wave of purple ghosts surprised Tracie Ethelberry, but not the ARS troopers. They had their swords out and ready in time to meet the oncoming charge. She shrieked in surprise and fumbled for her knife. In the next heartbeat she was almost blinded by the sudden brightness as Light cantrips lit up the whole area. Wails and cries answered the light as well as the sound of steel slicing into flesh. Tracie shut her eyes and offered up a prayer to whatever gods might be listening. Nothing answered her silent plea.

Morlen Daxana swore viciously ad he looked over the battlefield. Three of his elves lay dead, their lives siphoned away by the ghosts of Mevada. In exchange, seven of the ghosts had been reduced to smoke on an invisible wind. The rate of exchange was in his favor, but he didn't know how many of the ghosts still lingered. Nor how often Princess Enra and her party could put out such a volume of spells.

“How often can you do... whatever that was?”

Job cracked his neck, “the Lights? As often as needed. The other spells... not so much. Perhaps once more this day.”

Morlen grimaced.

She drifted upwards, feeling the tramp tramp tramp of hobnailed boots on bare stone above. Her sisters were close, though the eldest was hanging back for some reason. It didn't matter. The Master wanted the intruders dead. The more intruders she made dead, the more Beautiful things The Master would give her, perhaps even the most beautiful crown that The Master kept locked away. She rose up out of the stone into the magelights.

“Sector clear.” the gruff voice of a male elf.

She grinned and pushed herself clear of the street. Her sisters drifted through the walls of houses nearby.

“NOT CLEAR! NOT...” a panicked shout, alerting others to her presence. Too late. She threw back her head in concert with her sisters and let out the Wail.

Arara Bera heard the first echoes of the Wail and panicked. All havoc was about to break loose, and she would need to openly defy The Master if she wanted to complete her sworn oath. As the soldiers dropped like flies, she forced herself to die forward, into the Wail, into the flesh of the human girl. Arara needed a body and the human girl looked like some sort of wizard, just the tool she could use to slay her sisters.

Index felt something brush against her mind like another presence trying to force its way into her body. But only briefly before there was a twisting, sucking feeling. A small corner of her consciousness went 'dark' and she stumbled forwards towards one of the banshees.

+Don't worry Index, just seeing if this old ghost wants to work for me or if she wants to pass on.+

+Black Cloak?+

+Banshees now, explanations later, ok? Thanks!+

Index shook her head and lashed out at the nearest banshee. They needed to die and quickly. She could hear the fading heartbeats of the collapsed ARS troopers all around her and the cackling of specters moving in the finish off the kills.

Tracie Ethelberry dropped to the ground next to the bodies of her Guildmates and whimpered. This whole expedition was going to end poorly and it was going to be her fault again. Her fault for not... one of her companion's packs had fallen open when he collapsed, revealing a handful of spell scrolls. Tracie dug furiously, searching for the Teleportation Circle Scroll. It would be the work of moments to activate it and call for aid. A cold hand grasped the back of her neck. Tracie’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head as her life-force was drained away.

Baar'Miin threw back her hood and let the burning light inside her body surge forth. “Radiant Consumption! Feel the Light and the Wrath of Bahamut vile undead!” The Banshee in front of her recoiled backwards in the harsh light, then doubled over when Baar'Miin's fist connected with her stomach. To her surprise, the Banshee gave a mournful cry before turning to so much smoke on a non-existent wind.

Job Areoth was on his feet, hurling Fire Bolts at the specters closing in on the party from behind. Each hit chipped away at one of the undead, but they kept piling forwards almost heedless of the punishment that they were taking. “Baar'Miin! Turn them! We can't take them all on like this!”

Enra Thallia coldly put her last Ice Knife spell into the oncoming clump of specters and was satisfied to see the last of them torn to soul-mist by the icy shards. “Job! Twist your spells! Ice and Light work better then fire on these undead!”

“I can't do that Enra, and this lot just keeps getting closer!”

Enra spun about and hurled a Ray of Frost over Job's shoulder, “then keep firing! We need to kill these things before they can finish off the ARS troopers!”

Morlen Daxana hauled Sgt. Oakheart to his feet, “Don't suppose you've an enchanted blade?”

“No luck Sir.”

“Damn. See if you can wake any of the others up.”

“Don't think many will sir, those Banshees hit us hard.”

“Shit.”

Ved'Qeth strutted down the street towards the sounds of fighting. He could feel the specters and banshees being extinguished one by one, pounded to nothingness beneath a barrage of spells. It didn't matter to him in the slightest. They were ultimately expendable, replaceable. Ved'Qeth knew that it had always been up to him to finish the job, to dominate and crush these intruders and prove his worth to She of the Shadowed Heart.

Baar’Miin pulled the energies of her Radiant Consumption back within the cage of her flesh as the last of the specters crumbled into purple smoke. “ARS! Triage station on me! Get the wounded over here ASAP!”

The three ARS soldiers still on their feet staggered into action, gathering the wounded as best they could. Baar’Miin moved to help, letting the coiled dragon Bahamut icon hang openly on her chest. She ignored the sting of singed clothes rubbing on raw, near-burnt flesh. Self-damage was the cost of Radiant Consumption, though she could and would heal herself at the same time as the ARS troopers and the Guild scholars.

“Oakheart, we have a headcount?”

“ARS all present and accounted for, but none of the downed are breathing. Guild Scholars are in the same state.”

Baar’Miin glanced about. Everyone was within thirty feet of where she stood: within range of the one are-of-effect healing power at her command. “Good work Oakheart. Healing starts now.

Tracie Ethelberry gasped in a breath. It stank of singed flesh and smokey air. It clawed at her lungs and sent daggers of agony into her chest and about her bruised throat. She welcomed the pain because it meant that she was alive. Tracie forced herself to roll over onto her side and lay against her pack coughing.

Tracie may not understand draconic, bust she was familiar with is unique rolling cadence as well as the structured formality of a prayer. Tracie dragged her gaze to the silver-haired Cleric standing in the middle of the wounded. The sunlight glow of a cupped and cradled holy icon illuminated Baar’Miin’s pale face and sent fire-gold highlights racing across her brow.

“Aasimar…”

Ved’Qeth felt the pulse of healing energy wash out from the battleground. He dropped into a crouch beside a house, then slung his sword and scrambled to the roof for a better look. Cleric of Life channeling divinity for a mass healing. His banshees had done some damage, but not enough to destroy the foe. Ved’Qeth looked out over the battleground, listened to the rolling invocation to Bahamut, and judged his opponents. The soldiers looked battered, shaken, and awestruck as they picked themselves up from death-poses on the ground. Freshly healed, but low on morale. They would break if pushed hard enough. A quartet of scholars murmured quietly, pouring over scrolls. Civilians, support specialists at best, not a threat in the coming fight. The cleric was down to simple healing prayers, not proper spells, so she was spent for the time being. Two spellcasters slouched to the side, drinking from waterskins, their posture that of raw exhaustion. Also spent and out of spells for the moment. One Monk walking a drifting, erratic patrol about the edges of the illuminated area. Ved’Qeth judged her to be the only threat left standing.

Then Ved’Qeth caught sight of the Monk’s wooden arms. He remembered a time when he had been flesh, weak and failing. The kiss of cold stone against his back, the sensation of wooden hands about his neck, the crack of bone as his neck had been broken. Ved’Qeth remembered Hatred.

+ Monk! We have unfinished business, you and I! Stand and face me! +

The Monk stopped her patrol and looked to where Ved’Qeth stood at the edge of the light.

“Dead thing walking…”

+ You ended my life-in-flesh, but not my hatred. You and I Monk, here and now. +

The monk rolled up her sleeves, “Draw the circle then, thing-that-was-once-kobold, here at the edge of the light. One Shall Stand.”

+ Unto death and beyond. +

Ved’Qeth dropped the point of his sword to the cold stone and let the shadow-light of the Shadowed Heart leave a burning trial in its wake as he walked a large circle in the center of the street. It was a minor working of Thaumaturgy, but it served its purpose. He looked up and found the Monk standing at the edge of the circle with the Cleric, both spellcasters, and a fifth that he did not recognise.

+ One at a time or all at once, it makes no difference to me. +

Index looked about at her friends, “this challenge in mine to face.”

Job nodded back, “but not alone. Black Cloak sends his regards.”

Baar’Miin rolled her shoulders and readied her mace, “as does Bahamut.”

Enra cracked her knuckles one by one, “Kuko frowens upon the walking dead, and I probably owe her for this elven body.”

Sly spat on the ground, “If you think I’m letting you fight this battle alone, you are sorely mistaken Princess.”

Ved’Qeth took a fighting stance and readied his longsword as the five all stepped into the dueling circle together. His bony knuckles cracked audibly about the sword hilt. This would be a challenge, but not an insurmountable one. These five would be out of spells for the day, had expended all of their healing resources keeping the soldiers alive, and had been battered by his erstwhile minions. A Princess would make an excellent hostage, and an excellent slave. Better still, she appeared to be a spellcaster of some sort, and with no spells left she would be vulnerable…

A quickly chanted recitation of his Oath of Conquest called forth the grave-chilled strength of She of the Shadowed Heart. Preparations complete, he lunged forwards to begin the duel.

Job Arseoth blinked. Even paranoid and expecting an attack as soon as he stepped into the ring, he still missed the moment in which the skeleton charged forwards and lunged at Index, who deflected the blow by the slimmest of margins.

Sly Malon lunged forwards, her rapier and dagger striking chips of bone off of the skeleton’s ribs. She winced as her hands frosted over, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out at the cold.

Enra flung out a Ray of Frost, but missed and only managed to ice over an innocent patch of stonework.

Index slammed her wooden fists into the skeleton’s skull and sent great cracks racing across the bone. But the strike came at a cost, her wooden fingers being rimmed with ice as she brought them back on-guard.

Baar’miin swung her mace in a tight arc, but the skeleton easily avoided the strike.

Job pulled the Wand of Webs from his belt and uttered the triggering command word. He aimed to snare the skeleton but avoid his friends, but all he accomplished was turning a portion of the dueling circle into a sticky mess. “Shit!”

The skeleton lunged forwards again, its blade finding purchase in Index’s flesh. It surged with black fire, causing Index to let out a scream of pure agony. She crumples to her knees as the skeleton lets out a harsh bark of voictory.

Sly rakes the skeleton’s spine with her dagger, wincing at the graveyard chill as it claws up her ams. The skeleton staggered, but stayed on its clawed feet.

Enra took up her staff in both hands, stood protectively over Index’s fallen body, and swung an a great overhead arc. All she managed to accomplish was bashing her staff against the paved street and chipping the wood.

Index moaned in pain, curling tighter into a foetal ball.

Baar’Miin made another swipe with her mace, but missed the skeleton’s ribcage.

“Fire Bolt!” job spat the spell out at the Webbed section of ground, furious with himself for missing the chance to hurt the skeleton, but needing to clear the area so that his friends could surround the skeleton. The Web caught instantly and burned away in a flashing sear of heat.

The skeleton tuned and cut at Baar’Miin, forcing her to flinch back out of the blade’s path, but inflicting no injury.

Sly slammed her rapier to the hit through the skeleton’s skull, its point merging from its eye socket and extinguishing the un-light in its path. The skeleton shuddered once, dropped it’s longsword, then collapsed into a pile of bones on the floor. Sly followed it to the ground as one last deathly chill ripped up her arms and into her chest.

The circle of black flames flickered out, the duel concluded with the death of one faction in its entirety.

Job instantly rushed over to Sly’s side, stretched out his hands, and started using Prestidigitation to try and warm some of that deathly chill out of her body. “Baar’Miin, help, I don’t think she’s breathing.”

“...I don’t think she’s breathing.”

Those words all but froze Enra Thallia’s heart. She vaulted to her Fiance's side and frantically added her own head to Job’s efforts.

Baar’Miin spat a curse almost too vile for the ears of the living, “keep her warm and they to get her breathing! Index is cut bad. I’m seeing intestines here, and I’m all out of healing spells. Nothing seems to be ruptured, very little bleeding. Smite must have cauterized…”

Enra looked over to see Baar’Miin shredding her tunic to make bandages for Index, binding the wound shut. She reached down and felt Sly’s neck for a pulse. All she felt was soft flesh.

“Hurry if you can, Sly isn’t moving at all. I don’t think her heart is beating either.”

Baar’Miin all but dropped the bandages when she heard that Sly’s heart wasn’t beating. She recovered, yanked the last knot tight, and ignored Enra’s yep of protest as she was very unceremoniously shoved aside. Her strong hands found the needed places on Sly’s small chest and pushed hard. Baar’Miin ignored Enra’s yelp and the crunch of snapping ribs, pushing again, counting to thirty before breathing deeply into Sly’s open mouth.

Her efforts were rewarded by a gasp of pain, a weak heartbeat, and Enra breaking down in tears. Baar’Miin threw out her arm to intercept Enra before she could tackle-hug the patient.

“Easy! She’ll live, but she’s in pain until I can pray to Bahamut for more healing spells to fix her ribs. For now we need to find a place to rest for the night.”