Father Elliot stepped lightly. The shifting plant life made him wince as the rustling of brush cut through the silence. Each step echoed more like a blacksmith striking their anvil than the subtle noise it should be.

The camp of his enemies was less than a stone's throw away and he smirked to himself in self-satisfaction, reveling in their foolishness.

A series of campfires had revealed their location. Perhaps they assumed only zombies were hunting them and deemed them an unworthy threat. Or maybe this subrace of humans was particularly vulnerable to the cold.

Whatever the case, it would be their undoing.

Elliot looked over his troops, twenty men in all. More of them were orcs than humans. They were his best warriors and well suited for attacking at night. Alongside them were three dozen zombies on loan from that snake Natzsa. This was both a fitting insult and a descriptive one, Elliot thought. He smiled at his own cleverness.

His men were arranged in four teams of five, with six zombies backing up each group. He would have liked them to encircle the enemy camp, but that would have certainly tipped them off, so they approached from the western side in a half-circle.

On his word, the zombies would charge, his clerics supporting them from range till they located the two Drakon and then bringing them down with Virion's holy blades. To his understanding, the two Drakon were the only actual threat amongst the group.

He scowled, those damn Drakon. He was close to a breakthrough into higher magics, Elliot just needed a little more of Virion's Favor and he'd have the power to weave more complex spells. Again, he wondered to himself if he would have been better off consolidating all of the Favor received from those that his acolytes had sacrificed to himself. Still, after glancing through his followers' surface thoughts, he assured himself the trade was worth it.

Even if he had all their power, numbers mattered. One could only chant and cast so quickly, and twenty holy blades working together, alongside more expendable pawns, was almost certainly worth the slowing down of his own gathering of power.

The last group moved into position, a fact he knew before they signaled him of it. By his command and training, their minds were open and easy to read while still in the range of his telepathic abilities.

He eyed the fires, and the shadows of at least half a dozen figures he couldn't quite see with the light behind them, counted down from five and then shouted out in a voice buffeted by both his doppelganger abilities as well as his divine Favor. "Now! Strike, these heathens down!"

The chanting of spells immediately answered him, coupled with the small swarm of undead that surged forward.

Then he felt it like it, like it was answering his cry. A wave of heat and weight. He'd thought it before, and experiencing it here confirmed his suspicions. It was those damnable Drakon who'd had him running through the forest in fear. His anger flared at the thought; he could have slain them and saved himself the trouble.

Then the fires flared. Elliot watched his orcish acolytes stumble as the light blinded them and he scowled. The undead persisted, unphased and unaffected. Elliot mentally thanked that filthy snake for her undead. Even if she'd only loaned him the most pathetic she could. Now their little trick would only slow their extermination. He'd feared that without Natsza's aid, there might be a chance or escape once more. Not this time.

He heard the whistle of an object streaking through the air and watched with squinted eyes as one of his human clerics was impacted by something. The force of it throwing him off his feet as the object tore through him and slammed into the ground, splintering.

An arrow? No, a javelin.

Another came, and then another, then two more, all in quick succession and traveling with incredible speed. And while the projectiles didn't survive the impact, they still tore through armor as if it wasn't there.

The barrage ended as quickly as it began. The undead reached the living that were standing in the glow of their fires. He scowled, seeing now that the red-skinned humans were in a defensive formation, albeit a clumsy one. And each of them was armed with a spear.

That filthy snake had said they were unarmed. Elliot had expected them to fight back with rocks, if at all.

But this thought was interrupted; yet another flying projectile's whistle sounded, this one distinctively different from the last. He watched as a rock the size of his palm smashed into one of his orcish warriors.

Perhaps they were going to fight with rocks.

Thankfully, it was an orc, and the stone failed to strike a vital spot as it smashed into his upper chest, where he had thick hides to guard himself. The force still made it stumble back a few steps, and he could tell there would be cracked ribs from the impact.

The undead harried at the formation arrayed against them, but the red-skinned folks were quickly retreating backward, not allowing the clumsy undead to get beneath their spears.

He realized that soon, the gap between the undead and his own half-blinded men would mean they'd be unable to support the zombies with their spells without charging across the open camp, where it was well lit and they'd be exposed to more projectiles.

He didn't even know where they were throwing the damn things from!

He sighed internally. He'd already lost five men in as many seconds and accepted they'd lose more to get rid of these infernal Drakon and their human pets.

"Go, charge!" He struggled to instill the proper gravitas he felt an order like that needed. He could already feel the divine Favor wafting away from the now cooling corpses of his thralls. Once again, second-guessing himself on whether or not consolidating would have been better.

He didn't need to be inspiring; they'd listen to his commands even if he gave them half-heartedly and insulted them while doing so, he'd put enough work into them for that.

His men charged, half-blind, some already wounded. He stared on with smug delight, watching the once captive humans fall into a full retreat as his men charged into the clearing.

The volley began again, a half dozen hand-sized stones peppering his men. A less accurate display than the first, but all at once this time. More were bruised, some gained broken bones.But a single, particularly precise stone slammed in the forehead of one of his orcs and they fell, like a puppet cut from its strings.

Another volley immediately followed, though his followers had conjured up shields and swords by now, sending the blades careening after the madly retreating caravaneers.

Three rays of heat and flame blasted from the tree line at the other end of the camp, finally revealing where all these projectiles had been coming from. But at the cost of tearing smoky holes through three of his orcs who'd summoned swords, as the shots avoided those who'd summoned shields.

He stomped his foot angrily. Very well then... He called out. "Call forth your shields!" then turned his attention inward as his followers who'd summoned Virion's holy blades switched to his shields.

He'd not just been standing by idly as his men were being slaughtered. He had been pooling together his own magical well and the divine Favor allotted to him. "Prepare a coffin, drive in the nail. Break them down and make them frail."

The fleeing humans slowed, growing weaker, and slower as vitality was sapped from them. It was, unfortunately, not permanent, but unless dispelled. It would last long enough to swing the fight in his favor.

—-

Singard cursed as he watched his charges slow, even if they weren't technically his charges anymore, as they had certainly not paid him for all of this nonsense. Mages, damned mages, were the bane of any formation, even a retreating one.

Along with most of his men, he had been hiding at the other end of camp from where they knew the assault would begin. They'd spotted signs of being followed by a mixed force of the living and dead and had prepared accordingly

The plan had been simple. The folks from Goldhome would act as bait- something they were less than happy about but still preferred to sitting in the treeline covered in leaves and mud.

They knew enough spear work now that they could keep back the zombies that their enemies would almost certainly use as shock troops. While they tied the zombies down, he and his keen-eyed kin would throw javelins and stones at the enemy clerics, relying on Asgar's Aura of strength to give their attacks the needed punch to bring down the armored humans and orcs. After ruining their night vision with his Oath's odd fire controlling abilities, that is.

Thankfully none of them were in anything as expensive or terrifying as plate armor, as even one of them in such equipment meant they'd be better off just continually running. But all that the enemy had was chainmail and hide, which was still deadly, but manageable.

Though he'd seen the terrifying spell one of his enemies- likely their leader had managed to create, he grew concerned that maybe they'd have been better off running anyway.

He hissed, feeling like his brain was pulsing as the fight went into slow motion, trying to find a solution.

If he rallied his men and charged out there to save his allies, the mage would just throw out the same spell to hit them again, while either brother's auras might help counteract it, they'd still be losing their most significant advantage. Then they'd be a crowd of almost entirely unarmored 'warriors' against well-armed and armored spell casters.

Even a fool could see those were terrible odds.

He was just preparing to give his men the order to spread out, so the area of effect of the spell wouldn't hit them all if it was cast again. However, that command turned into a curse when two of said fools charged in helping the caravaners.

Asgar and Argus looped out from their hiding places, moving in a visibly painful sprint, with Asgar's hampered all the more by his limp.

Cursed again when their only mage, Sol, promptly stood and charged after them with nothing but a handaxe and stupidity.

Singard almost childishly stomped his foot, before scooping up his spear, and running after them while calling out. "C'mon!" to his fellows.

—-

His leg hurt so much.

Asgar panted as he ran forward, chastising himself for letting Singard talk him into sitting back so his 'Aura could be used more effectively.'

His leg would have hurt either way. He'd been lying down in tree cover, and the sudden spring of movement caused it to be painful enough to distract even him.

Argus was getting ahead of him, so he pushed himself harder to keep up.

He knew his leg wouldn't ever heal right at this rate; if it healed at all. He'd have to relearn proper footwork with the limp.

It wasn't just his leg that was a concern. He could already feel his old wounds tugging, threatening to reopen from the burst of speed and Argus was likely even worse off than him on that front.

To make it worse, both had significant gaps where their scales had yet to heal back from the battering. They were vulnerable.

Suddenly the few spectral swords still out, as well as some of the shields came rocketing towards him and his brother, diverting away from the stumbling humans.

He sighed in relief, muttering a "Thank Tavig." Then, he leaped backward as a saber slashed at where his throat had been a millisecond before.

He was slower, he hadn't recovered the full range of movement. That was too close.

Another two swords darted at him, one slashing low, and the other flying point first at his head.

He ducked low, receiving a slash across the front of his already wounded leg for the trouble. And then grunting as the rim of a shield smashed into his own, throwing him off-balance.

The saber twisted mid-air, speeding down at him from on high as he stumbled, and it may have all ended right there and then.

Argus threw his shield over his brother's head, repelling the attack. He gritted his teeth and stifled a pained roar as another sword rammed into Argus's thigh, all the way to the hilt.

The sword was still moving, struggling to shear through scales without momentum, as it was slowly being pulled up his leg.

Asgar shouted out in anger, before lunging down and pulling at his Mantle, commanding the powerful strength it gave. He clutched the spectral swords handle and pulled it free from his brother's leg, before twisting and slashing at another blade flying towards his kin.

The two swords met with a roar and sound of metal clashing, and then shattering, as the blade Asgar struck broke, its pieces flying off before they vanished as if they'd never been.

He heard a shout as an orc clutched his head and stumbled, before rising to stand. But it did not get to its feet before a trio of smoking holes were blasted into its face, neck and torso. A sign that Sol had joined the fray.

Another orc charged Asgar, slashing down with a polearm. The Drakon interjected its trajectory with his newly acquired blade.

The orc grinned, and the spectral blade disappeared from Asgar's hand. The orcs weapon slammed into his shoulder, rupturing scales and sinking into flesh as it passed through where the blade had been.

Asgar shouted in agony but grabbed the heft of the polearm, yanking it out of him, and then forward. The orc kept its grip with one hand and sent the other to grab at a dagger at his side.

He didn't get a chance to retrieve it, as Reece's spear pierced the orcs' side. It grunted, looked down at the mortal wound, releasing its hold of the poleaxe and striking out with its fist at Reece's head.

He didn't have enough time to dodge, and Asgar's stomach sank when he heard a crack and watched Reece's body tumble back, unmoving.

—-

Dore breathed.

She didn't actually need too, she was dead.

But she could, because she wanted to.

Somehow, it hadn't come back. She felt it still, but where it had once felt like an intruder in her home. Now it was waiting at the door.

The door to Dore.She laughed.

It was stupid, so stupid, but she felt... free in a way that she hadn't in a long time.

Her body was a mess. The dead didn't heal, not without magic, at least. But she was a mage, wasn't she? She could heal herself. And slowly, she was convincing herself to do it.

She could live like this, couldn't she? Well, not live, unlive, she supposed. But she could continue on as this dead thing, she didn't have to go. She had the skill to twist the dead flesh and make it act like the living.

She'd been so ready to die, to make a heroic sacrifice for those two silly Drakon and their little cleric friend- who wasn't that small- and was much taller than her actually, but everyone was. He just seemed to be shorter when compared to them.

She'd wanted to, she'd missed her friends, her family, but more then that, she'd been willing to die because being kept a prisoner in her body was torture.

But, she wasn't a prisoner now, it hadn't tried to take back control any time during her fight with the townspeople, which were clerics one and all, she'd discovered.

The hard way, they'd torn at her body, ripping it apart, and she'd discovered she was afraid of dying, so she ran.

She looked down at it again, her body, and she really could fix it. But what would she do when she did? Find the three people who helped her inadvertently? Start all over again with new friends? Maybe a new family in time.

She found herself grinning, Lorkris would have wanted that for her, she knew. Foci and Sulhazar too.

She heard leaves crunch, and her head, barely held to the rest of her, snapped to look toward the noise.

She almost sighed in relief, a Drakon. Had Asgar or Argus come back for her? Then the Drakon came into sight, and disappointment reigned.

This one was white and bigger than either brother. He- if it was a he, it was hard to tell with Drakon. It seemed deadlier than either of the twins had been, and she felt a shiver up her spine as it regarded her cooly. Picking Dore out in the darkness despite her dark skin, and being slumped against a tree, in the middle of nowhere.

She tried for charm like Sulhazar would have done. "Well, good evening."

He turned his head, like a dog, and seemed to be struggling to find words to reply to that.

"You were waiting for me?" he finally asked.

Waiting for him? Who was he? "No, I was hoping you were a different Drakon."

He nodded. "The green one with wings."

She froze. "Lorkris is alive?"

He started walking forward, slowly shaking his head as he did. "Only in the way that you are, undead."

She'd expected it, known it, but it still hurt to have the faint hope crushed as soon as it was spoken. "No, I wasn't expecting him." she paused a beat, the Drakon took two more steps forward in the silence. She continued. "Who are you?"

He shook his head. "No one, anymore. I'm here to clean up." He gestured to her with a club she only now focused on.

"You're here to kill me." It wasn't a question.

He shook his head. "You are already dead."

Another two steps, he was standing over her now.

"I'll fight you." And when she said it, she knew she'd lose.

For the first time, he showed some emotion, a smile, a mouth full of bared teeth, a predator's smile. "Good, it will be more fun that way."

The club swung down.

—-

Singard staggered backward. The orc's club made a small crater where he once stood, with its spectral blade striking down at him from above.

He held up his spear, the blade finding purchase in it instead of his body, as it buried itself halfway into the wood.

The orc swung wide at him, aiming for his head, a strike he ducked under as he threw a kick out at the orc, aiming for a knee.

Even with his strength enhanced by his Drakon comrades' Oath, all he succeeded in doing was pushing himself away from the orc and making it grunt. His body just didn't have the weight for any form of unarmed combat that he knew to be viable against the giant green creature.

He shuffled to the side, using the orc as a shield against its own spell.

The orc lashed out at him with the club again, spitting out a curse as he did. He'd been too focused on defending himself with the blade, and he watched himself in slow motion as he threw his spear up to block the strike.

Mistake.

The club smashed into the spear, slowing the weapon enough for him to shift his torso out of the way, but the spear...

Singard heard it snap.

The orc went to grin, and Singard smiled back as the overswing caused the orc to leave himself open.

He ducked in close, wielding his now half spear like a fencing sword, its spearhead glowing red with the heat of Argus's Oath.

He ran the orc through, adrenaline coursing through him as it howled through its exaggerated tusks.

That wouldn't be enough to bring the orc down quickly, he attacked with the other half, relying on speed to launch a barrage at the orc's head.

The impromptu baton struck in a quartet, before the orc, hurt and dazed as he swung a painfully telegraphed strike at him again.

He danced out of the way, then back inside its reach, whacking the creature's wrist and grimacing when it kept hold of its weapon. He grabbed the half of the spear buried in the orc's abdomen, and with a squelch, pulled it free.

The club came on again, faster and low this time, as the orc started to panic.

Singard's stomach lurched as he leaped, stepped the swinging weapon, and attempted to jump once more off it to strike at the creature's head.

Instead, he found that the sideways momentum of the club threw him off, and he fell and ate dirt.

He rolled to the side as the club smashed into the ground where he'd been, rolled back, gripped the club and struck forward with the spear at the orcs face.

It shifted, taking the spear in the shoulder for its trouble and leaving the club behind as it did.

Singard picked the heavy weapon up, grateful for his presently enhanced strength, and went to swing it at the brute.

He was then reminded that the 'brute' was also a spellcaster.

The sword weaved at him, and he caught the ethereal blade with the club, the more substantial than otherwise blade sinking into the wood.

He eyed the sword, and shook the club lamely, unsure of what to do with it now with the sword stuck in it.

For its part, the orc pulled the half spear free from its right shoulder with its left hand, reversed its grip on it, and charged forward.

The sword tugged itself free of the club, slashing at him mid-air as the orc attempted to skewer him. He threw himself to the side, escaping both attacks. Then rolled back up onto his feet, gripping the club with two hands.

He chased after the orc, and swung the club low, smashing into its knee.

The orc grunted, its knee-buckling, but caught itself. Then it slashed out with it's stolen half-a-spear. Singard stepped into its range, the shaft of the weapon striking him, but it's deadlier spearhead too far past him to be a danger.

He swung the club into its knee once more, and with a yelp, the orc fell to the other. It bodily punched him with its right fist, a strike which was thankfully minimized by both the poor positioning, and the damage to the orc's shoulder. The force of it still knocked the wind from Singard, and he stumbled back as the orc slashed again.

This time the point of the spear dragged across his chest, even as awkwardly as the orc was using its new weapon, it could still be deadly due to its strength.

He grabbed the spear, using his temporarily enhanced strength to wrench it to the side in a move that he'd never be able to mimic without it. And after having done so, he swung the club with one hand behind him, then back over his head, bringing it down on the orc's skull.

A crack sounded out, and the orc looked dazed, he swung the club up and brought it down again.

Five more iterations later of this later and the orc was on the ground, still alive despite it dented and bleeding head, but thankfully not getting up.

Singard picked up his half-a-spear, jogged over the orcs head, and drove the weapon's point into its damaged frontal lobe.

He threw his head back and panted, surveying the battlefield.

Three of his kinsmen were dead, though it appeared they'd done equal damage to the enemy. But the flying blades were tearing them apart, seemingly to be the cause for most of the deaths.

The caravaners from Goldhome were holding. They'd turned around when Singard and his people charged and thankfully seemed to be making progress against the swarm of undead.

He looked to the two Drakon and cringed as he saw a sword vanish, and then a polearm smashed into Asgar's shoulder.

Everything started to slow down for Singard. He could see it all going wrong in slow motion.

Five orcs were moving in on Asgar and Argus, he saw Reece and Cooper rush forward, and then one of the flying spectral swords slammed into Cooper just as he ran up to help the two idiots whose Aura's were the only thing keeping them in the fight.

Singard started to run to help himself, but Reece reached the fight before him, and pierced the orc with his spear, who turned, struck out, slamming into Reece's neck with its fist.

Singard heard it snap.

Asgar struggled to stand, and the orc pulled the spear free and began to bear down on him, around the two Drakon, four more enemies- two orcs and two humans, nearly half of the remaining enemy spell casters began to move toward the two Drakon. Their leader, wherever they were, must have marked the Drakon as priority targets.

A sound echoed out through the camp-turned-battlefield, and Singard head turned back to its source.

Asgar was on his knees, weakly holding a polearm, a gaping wound in his shoulder. Beside him was Reece, unmoving, his neck turned at an impossible angle. Time slowed down for Singard, he watched Asgar continue to slump, the orc raising the spear that had given it a mortal wound above its head.

And then he saw Argus, his teeth were bared, not unlike his terrifying smile. But his eyes were dilated, and he was roaring in a fury.

Singard heard him snap.

Singard cursed again and watched as the Drakon threw him at the orc approaching his brother.

—-

The Drakon threw itself at Dore, and she turned on her heel and blasted it in the chest. "Sceenn, sceenn, sceenn!"

The three teardrop-shaped orbs rent scales and tore holes into the Drakon, and she watched with horror as the wounds began to close before her very eyes.

He lunged at her, sinking his talons into her stomach before she could retreat, then lifting her up and biting down at her.

She cried out before his jaws could snap shut around her "Cúis eagla!" A fear spell.

The Drakon froze, and she quickly pulled herself free and started running back as he shook the effect off, snarling and moving to chase her.

She poured half of her remaining well of power into the next spell, pointing her finger at him and calling out. "Níos Mó Mallacht!"

It was a curse, taught to Dore by a mistress she now hardly remembered. It sapped the speed and vitality of its target and rotted its flesh when the caster struck them with weapon or magic.

Dore stumbled, feeling light-headed, the sudden explosion of mana through her had an effect, even undead as she was, though it was noticeably lesser than it would have been if she still needed to breathe.

She pulled her dagger from its sheath at her side as the Drakon stumbled toward her, holding incredible power in his frame even with her magic trying to drag him back. With that amount she poured into that curse, she had a minute a better before the effects vanished, and she had to focus feeding the curse her magic while it lasted.

She lashed out at the Drakon and cursed her height that she wasn't tall enough to hit anything more vulnerable, like its eyes. Instead, she attempted to drive the dagger into its side.

tink

She wasn't strong enough, she couldn't pierce its scales with the weapon. But she didn't need to, the curse would do the hard work, she just needed to touch him. She could see the flesh rotting beneath the scales even now.

She continued to relentlessly strike at the same spot, and scales started to fall away as the flesh beneath rotted.

She had just driven the dagger into now exposed flesh when she was suddenly weightless. She looked to the side and discovered she was falling upward somehow, and then like the gods had only just noticed something was wrong, gravity returned, and she fell and crashed back into the earth.

She pulled herself up and saw the Drakon stumbling, and his arm retreating back to his side.

He'd hit her and sent her flying. She then looked to his side and saw scales regrowing over now healed flesh.

She stood up and ran. She couldn't kill this thing, she didn't have the power, and so she ran. Weaving through the forest as she did.

—-

Sol panted, calling out spell after spell.

The enemy clerics had long since gotten wise to his attacks, and he was continually being hemmed in and harassed by an array of flying shields, absorbing any spell he threw out.

He was floundering, unsure of what to do. Every few seconds, a shield would break their circling formation around him and rush him, and he'd either dodge it by the skin of his teeth or be struck by it.

He could already feel the bruises forming from where he'd been too slow, and he was starting to run out of steam from continually being put on the defensive.

Thankfully, none of the enemy clerics had sent any swords after him, or come after him themselves. They'd all been tied down by the elven-kin guards and the two Drakon.

He looked to the Drakon now and struggled to fight back a surge of panic.

Asgar was limping even worse than he'd been before, his sword arm hanging uselessly by his side. A pair of human and orc clerics were harassing him. The orc tied him down, it struck at his shield arm with its club, while the human speared the Drakon. Sol could see the blood pooling down his friends back and side from the strikes.

A shield swung by Sol, and he tried to duck only for the shield to shift mid-air and slam him in the chin. He stumbled back, only to have another shield slam into his back. He heard and felt his spine creak and toppled forward.

He caught a flash of silver running past him, and seconds later, one of the four shields accosting him began to vanish.

He looked up to see a terrifying scene, Argus was ripping one of the human clerics to shreds. The chain mail armor the human had been wearing was glowing red with heat, and Argus's sword was presently buried to the hilt in the cleric's stomach.

They were winning, he could see it now. Six enemies died in the opening salvo, another three from the first clash, and at least two more down by one or the other of his Drakon companions' hands.

Then he saw a figure, slowly entering the battle at a walking pace. A tall man, with long hair, who appeared both beautiful and humble. He spoke in a voice both loud and somehow soft and endearing, it echoed through the forest, as it had once before. With it followed the feeling of warmth and the smell of morning dew.

"My friends, must we fight? We have only come for the Drakon, who have slain fellow servants of my lord, I care not for the rest of your captures or deaths." He spoke the words as if he'd asked them to converse about the weather, before turning to look at the battle raging Argus and wrinkling his nose.

"My patience thins, make this quick. Strike now and make them sick." While these wounds did not contain the enchanting property of the first ones he'd spoken, power was still in them. And a blast of green energy launched out at Argus.

Sol watched the Drakon hold up his shield, catching the energy with it. But the spell washed over the shield like it was water, running up his arm and forcefully entering his nose and mouth.

The Drakon shook his head, and stumbled, then retched while the battle raged. He seemed weak as if struck with fever.

He walked forward to the Drakon and spoke again. "Grant my rage, may they be doomed. By your will, inflict a wound!"

Argus slowly stood and lashed out with his claws at the figure.

Then he yelped as he felt pain blossom across his chest as he dragged his talons across Father Elliot's.

A wound had formed across his torso, the streaks of talons running across Argus's chest, as divine magic forced physics to bow.

How could they kill him if they couldn't hurt him?

—-

Dore stumbled through the overgrowth. How much time did she have left till the curse ran its course, and the Drakon came after her? Seconds?

"Tine! Tine! Tine! Tine! Tine!" Like a chant, she conjured small spheres of flame, hoping that if she started a fire, it would either slow the monster down or dissuade it from coming after her entirely.

How much time now? She ran as hard as she could, but Dore was wounded, her body was damaged, even if she didn't feel the pain. It was barely functional.

How was she going to escape?

She heard a cry of fury from behind her and could hear the Drakon coming after her now.

She wanted to cry, to weep. She didn't want to die! This wasn't fair. Why was nothing ever fair?

She heard the whistle of an arrow traveling through the air and ducked.

Thunk

She looked up and saw the arrow embedded in the tree, and her series of thoughts stood still.

An arrow with carved symbols along the shaft, to better function as arcane ammunition, fletched with two red feathers and a black one.

That was Sulhazar's arrow.

She turned, looking back the way she'd come as the Drakon charged through the now growing fire.

He had Sulhazar's bow.

Fury and grief ran through her. He'd killed Sulhazar- the archer had likely been dead already, but the Drakon had killed him still. And now he wanted to kill her, with Sulhazars bow?

She turned her on her heel, she wasn't going to escape anyway.

"Sceenn, Sceenn, Sceenn! Tine! Sceenn, Sceenn, Sceenn! Tine! Tine! Tine!" She threw the weight of her power at the Drakon, a barrage of teardrop-shaped force projectiles, mixed with orbs of spiraling fire.

The Drakon took the first portion of the barrage head-on, then dodged out of the way of the rest, he hadn't expected her to suddenly turn and fight.

She ran forward, screaming. She couldn't outrun the Drakon, it was doubtful she'd survive by doing so. But if she could kill it? Then she could live and have some vengeance for Sulhazar.

He fired a pair of arrows at her, one rocketing into her torso and the second through her throat.

She gargled and tried to chant and spell, but it came through as wheezing air. Her heart sank as she realized she couldn't cast spells any longer, not that she would have been able to for much longer in any case. Her well was practically dry.

The Drakon slowly straightened, and with a pang, she felt the urge to try running again. Instead, she reversed the grip on her dagger.

If she could get its eye, she could fix all the damage he'd caused later, but if she could just get this dagger through its eye and into its brain, it couldn't heal that off, she hoped.

She stumbled forward, then broke out into a run at the Drakon, who notched an arrow and shot her again.

The arrow tore all the way through her, and she kept running.

The Drakon almost gingerly put the bow aside and drew axes hanging from its side.

She wanted to scream; those were Foci's. But she couldn't, so she kept charging.

The Drakon met her halfway, and she leaped up, hoping against hope that luck would be with her.

It kicked her torso mid-air, sent her sprawling into the ground, and placed his knee in her chest.

The monster's weight alone broke her ribs, and he turned his head, regarding her cooly.

The last thing Dore saw was one of Foci's axe swinging down on her head.