The campfire danced a brilliant amber in the dark, the only source of light in the eerie wilderness night. Consuming the fed twigs voraciously, the flames licked the wood, turning them to ash, leaving only a constant cackling sound as a reminder. Neither of us seated around the camp required the aid of the light. But the warmth from the fire was a gladly welcomed comfort.

Darkness was never a hindrance. For a drow, there is only a familiar embrace of comfort within darkness. Rodo, the only one of the group to pace restlessly, though hampered in vision by the surrounding darkness, his keen sense of smell and hearing undoubtedly compensated for his singular handicap. He shook himself. His shivering had more to do with a force of habit than the actual cold. As he turned, the campfire reflected in his eyes, an almost golden glow -- a rich yellow behind which the primal animalistic nature roamed.

Rodo rubbed his palms furiously. It was evident that the man wished that he were elsewhere, with his pack, leading them; not abandon them to the command of Maapu. They were his pack; his family, friends and lovers who now became siblings and mates. Pondering, if his actions were born from loyalty or from a sense of repaying a blood debt, I threw one more slender twig to the voracious flames. The flames flicked, and for a fleeting moment, bright light glistened on his sharp canines.

“I will gather more wood for the fire,” he said with a grimace.

“You just want to strip and run,” I replied playfully.

“Not in your presence, Commander. I have huge respect for your authority,” countered Rodo with a vibrant sporty twinkle in his eyes. An enchanting vivaciousness accompanied the careless flippant attitude on his face. Just the right amount, tethering dangerously close to the grey boundary between joviality and flirting.

Zeahran, sat behind the werewolf, legs folded below, straight-backed and open palms on his lap -- almost submerged in an ocean of tranquillity. Where Rodo relied on his sense of smell and hearing, the psionic abilities of the monk gave him an unerring edge over all of us; almost another sense that none of us felt. Like being painted into a lucid dream, is how the monk explained his psychic abilities when on one occasion I dared to engage him.

“Venerable Zaehran,” his eyes opened at my words, though a small scowl like the sort that parents reserved for their young children, marred his serene visage, “Are you certain you are up for the task?”

“Titles,” came his toneless words, despite our familiarity, his medium of communication impressed me every time, “even when uttered in respect, only serve to shackle my creed.”

“My abilities, humble as they come, could still expunge the blight and mend my bones,” assured Zaehran.

In the desperate gamble which some might reason as ignorant foolhardiness, the monk had a crucial role to play. The flesh, the bones, the strange blood through his vein, his very physical being -- a strange construct to this plane. If anyone could walk unscathed from the potent plague, immune to its effects, it would be him. My forlorn hope, placed in the fact that his alien physiology providing no grounds for the disease to fester.

“Yet, I am confronted by a moral dilemma,” said the monk, “On the wisdom of unleashing chaos to combat evil.”

At the monk’s observation, the last member, diminutive in physical size, easy to be missed at a first glance, stirred uncomfortably. Therrin Proudwick, my spymaster, and rogue extraordinaire bore a mean expression that did not set well with his young cherubic countenance. The purposefully squinted and slightly cocked eyebrows and the forced scowl on his lips as he twiddled his fingers hidden inside his waist pocket, did very little to project a mean frame.

“Just so you know,” he cleared his throat to complain, a constant facet of him that remained consistent, through the journey, “My skills and time could have been put to better use, gathering intelligence from our agents.”

“you mean, spending my coin in seedy taverns of questionable repute,” I replied sarcastically.

“I was coordinating with our spies,” defended Therrin.

For the halfling, who revelled in his ability to loosen tongues and smooth talk his way through people’s sentiments, the prospect of being delegated to grave robbing, a task below his dignity, did not bode well.

“What could you even gain from an old forgotten crypt?” scoffed Therrin barely in control of his contempt spilling out, “If it is a sickness you want to spread, send diseased whores and camp followers.”

“They have undead,” said Rodo. Unease laced with his words as he cautioned the halfling in a tone that dithered close to disgust.

“I know whores who can work with that too,” responded the rogue.

Even Zaehran, ascending the throne of stillness in the middle of a maelstrom, suspended in a sea of tranquillity and an anchor for serene calmness, threw up at the halfling's words.

Scoffing at Therrin’s indignant words, disgust unhidden on his face, Rodo slowly uttered, “Maybe we should abandon this whole plan. Let those in eternal rest be undisturbed.”

His voice dropped to a low whimper, begging for his thoughts to be heard. His massive barrel chest that growled arguments to resolution, now held a tiny pocket of air, enough for him to talk in low whispers.

“The dead are dead because they are not be allowed to roam again,” his eyes darted around, scanning for phantom listeners; his ears perked to high alert, “People die but their curses live and they have a strange manner of coming back to life when you least expect.”

Looking at the fierce werewolf pack leader, misled by an unfounded primitive belief, it was an evident fact that superstition saturated his rationale. Fear enthralled his dominance, leading him to ignorance and blinding him to the bigger picture. Rodo, as ferocious and ruthless as a pack leader, would perform sub-optimally with fear shackling his spirits.

“Roderic,” I said loudly, his proper name extracting his undivided attention, “Three hundred thousand stands to butcher every single one of us. What would you do to protect the pack?”

“Run,” he uttered shaking his thick mane of hair in disbelief at words that he pushed strenuously out of his lips.

“And be hunted like a stray dog for the rest of your life?” A low snarl reverberated deep from Rodo’s throat. Perhaps it was the very idea of being prey instead of a predator or maybe the comparison to dogs, that ignited his dormant fervour. Stroking his smouldering sentiments, his latent desire to protect will bring forth the relentless beast in him.

“Remember how your pack suffered in the bog? Pursued mercilessly. Except, now, a hundredfold. Led not by a Lordling behind a mask but the Demon Lord himself,” I added with a sibilant hiss in my tone. Rodo scratched his neck, his claw-like fingernails dug deeper into his skin, drawing blood. The werewolf paid no heed to the crimson painting his fingertips, instead, his thoughts were an amalgam of fear, despair and apprehension.

“Defend the High-Crag Pass and we have a land to call our own. No more pariah status for your pack. A territory to patrol. Roderic,” I softly called his name again binding his attention to my words, “Become a pack lord, and as High-Crag Hold’s Countess, I will ensure the undisturbed howling for your pack.”

“She means to use you as unpaid patrol,” scoffed the rogue. His pudgy fingers scratched the smooth beardless chin, while his childish pouting lips held a scowl.

“Master Proudwick, would you rather have other guards secure the border while you successfully run your planned smuggling operation through my lands?”

The halfling recoiled in shock as my words stung deep to his core. Behind his pale eyes, his cunning mind worked frantically to decide either of the two paths that lay before him. Deny any plausible involvement or convince me of the benefits of his little enterprise.

“I am aware of your little schemes, Master Proudwick. The small budding profitable endeavour that you carried out while recruiting agents for me. I am not blind to believe that you would stop with the tiny morsels that you tasted along and neither will Dar idly sit by while you dissolve your profitable undertaking,” I revealed calmly.

“Ma’am, it is a far-fetched theory,” said Therrin. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, full of anticipation, innocence and expectation. Even the stoniest of heart would melt under that gaze.

“I, occasionally, rubbed shoulders with smugglers while seeking agents. Thanks to my meticulous advice some of them made a minor profit,” explained the halfling with sincerity seeping with his words.

“And I suppose, bound by the code of honour among thieves, your pockets were regularly filled, out of gratitude,” I scoffed playfully. Therrin is indeed a master at weaving stories. Considering the long night that lay ahead of us and no songs of bravery or bawdiness to wade the oncoming boredom, Therrin’s tale was the next best option against the oppressive stillness in the air.

“Ma’am, thief is a misnomer. They are all honest merchants and traders who were unjustly harassed by local lords, patrols and guilds. Can you imagine a simple farmer toils his lands through hard weather, living at the mercy of the elements, hoping the frost does not last long, or the locusts do not raid his labour? Then the local lord takes a cut; on his way to market, the patrols and guards rob them in daylight, and then there are the bigger guilds preying on them. Forcing them to sell their hard labour for substandard prices.” A clear pool welled in his hazel eyes, voice trembling with every word as he forced himself to live through their misery, partaking in them, sharing their pain and despair. Therrin Proudwick was undoubtedly a great thespian.

“I am not sure about your native lands, but where I used to live, the subterranean region, diamond miners and silversmiths are strictly not considered farmers,” I replied revealing tiny bits of information in my possession.

In all honesty, somehow I have latched myself to this little game, almost like a dance between two partners, leading the other with sudden unexpected movements, letting them adjust their flow to gain a semblance of control, only to throw their lucid motion with another surreptitious change, forcing them, watching them incorporate the change into their beautiful spin.

“Ma’am, farmer is a simple didactic person to outline the perils of hard-working peasants. Farmers, miners, and craftsmen, in the grand scheme of politics, it is all about helping the local communities. Putting the fruits of their labour in their own hands,” explained Therrin.

With an impossibly wide grin, that disappeared just as succinctly as it appeared, his shoulder slumped, making his small form furthermore diminutive, he asked, “Ma’am you would do the right thing, right? What is ethically correct even if it runs counter to legal values.”

“Therrin,” I said menacingly with a sharp edge to my voice, “I allow you to continue running your small project as long as the means overlap my own goals. In fact, I give the same promise I made to Rodo. We survive and I will turn to look the other way, from your profit-churning business.”

I expected Therrin to negotiate, push the boundaries of my patience, or add some small clause to gain an upper hand and he would have done the same were it not for the sublime voice of Zaehran, intercepting the conversation.

“Greed is like a dormant magma, silently moving under the still calm surface, but eventually will erupt spilling the lava of ambition, petrifying all other emotions, no matter how noble they are,” said Zaehran.

Amusement, a strange emotion for the ascetic monk, flowed in waves with his words. Raising his arm upwards, toward the corner of his face, he slowly unhooked the veil covering his face. His slit for a nostrils nose would have, without doubt, invoked fear and disgust were it not for the soothing tranquillity radiating from his eyes and the infectious smile holding both sides of his face.

“Yet, there is another emotion petrifying your ambition, submerged in an ocean of far more profound sentiment. Eros is what I thought it was, but now I realise, my own senses deceived me,” spoke Zaehran. His words rolled like a humble confession.

“When we first met, you were encased in an ash of apprehension and at Arlond, an aura of despair hung around you, but lately, ripples of eros emanate from you, almost too strong, even the uninitiated could sense its palpitations,” continued Zaehran.

His sensible words, carefully thought as they might be, especially considering the nature of the topic, still were daunting. I was aware that thoughts of Lyria frequently occupied my mind. Almost, invariably, all of them were lewd. Despite his obvious claim of abandoning tangible pleasures and pursuits, the fact that the psion could sense my arousal was extremely disturbing, churning bile in my stomach. What else could he have sensed? Perhaps, seen through the individual acts in my fantasies?

“I can only sense colour, I assure you,” replied Zaehran, almost as if reading my thoughts, “I cannot see the images.”

The temporary respite from his words soon evaporated like fresh snow under the first rays of the sun, with his next word. A single word, froze me in place, and a creeping cold spiked through my spines.

“Storge,” he said victoriously.

And with that Zaehran lingered dangerously close to the precipice of truth.

*****

A strong gust of wind flew, changing its direction, in a futile attempt to change the oppressive stillness that suddenly invaded itself into our midst. Rodo’s ears perked. He sniffed the air. He turned and made a circle, restlessly and sniffed the air again. He bared his fangs, bellowing a deep rumbling growl.

“Put the fire down,” his voice, a hiss between his fiery breath, commanded.

Aided by a lupine sprint, Rodo leapt behind the thickets but his return was faster than his departure.

“Moist scales,” he growled.

My eyes flicked past the stony expression of Zaehran and met Therrin’s questioning face. The same unspoken bewilderment danced between us. Why would an elite mercenary company, composed of bipedal reptilian races, be stalking us?

“Your old friend Merrick has new friends,” said Rodo, “I am certain, it was his distinct scent that I caught.”

Like a forbidden pleasure, maliciousness enthralled me, extracting a feral grin.

“Stalking a dark-elf at a pitch black night is a mission for stupid and the dead,” I said while strapping my longsword to my back.

Only the fiery palm and the cold gaze of Zaehran, who stood blocking my path, held my steps, arresting my movement.

“Caution is a commendable virtue,” he added in his typical mystic style of making statements that are open to multiple interpretations.

“I will cautiously deliver death,” I replied in a I-flick-my-beans-to-it voice.

“The man, despite his mortal wounds, summoned the courage to drag the unconscious high-elf to safety. He does not deserve the cold steel,” replied Zaehran.

Of course, he would come in defense of Merrick. Witnessing his actions at Asterlund, many would have deemed his actions noble, hailing him a hero. There was no surprise in why Zaehran would try to protect Merrick since he is unaware of the vicious sly serpent lurking in Merrick.

“You should stop protecting him. He is not the hero he projects. His true motivations are shrouded in layers of subterfuge,” I spat with caustic venom lacing my words.

“People are judged by their actions but motivations dictate actions. To know, to see beyond the veil of action and gaze upon the beacon of motivation is absolute truth. That is the only path to the right decision,” responded Zaehran.

Irrespective of his iron-clad arguments, it was evident that Zaehran will not compensate for his stance, nor can I hope to overpower the adamantine-skinned monk and successfully eliminate Merrick.

“Why not lose them in the tomb?” suggested Therrin. Holding different sentiments, all three pairs of eyes settled, on the tiny halfling. Therrin himself, stood proud and puffed with smugness as he darted his eyes towards Rodo.

“We know the location from T’orrac but not the entrance. How long do you reckon, Master Proudwick?” I asked.

“You schmucks,” said the rogue, in a manner of belittling our rudimentary intelligence, “we just walk through.”

Seeing our puzzled looks, he huffed with mild bearing, a long sigh escaping his lips, he uttered, “Most tombs are built to keep looters from getting in. This one was made to prevent whatever inside from getting out.”

Covertly under the gaze of darkness, we promptly moved in the direction of Maugrym’s tomb. In a charged situation, with unspoken discord setting stygian sparks between us, none of us bothered to openly state the burning question that etched itself in our minds.

Once we are in, how do we get out?