Worried, Iscaron and his men flew over the razed town. The flames and smoke casting an eerie oranglow across the land and into the night sky. Eagerly the twenty-one warriors flew, seeking any sign of their lord. Hearing the howls of the wolves, and the screams of battle, the warriors steeled themselves, their light mythril lances glimmering in the firelight.

Circling over the town, they looked for Silverwolfe, but found it difficult to see through the smoke and haze. After a few minutes, Iscaron's captain, Tolar pointed out the battle taking place at the Fortress. Seeing his fathers twirling blades, Iscaron screamed with Joy.

"He lives!" Diving closer to the scene, Iscaron observed the situation on the battlefield and issued orders. "Tolar, take fifteen of the warriors and bolster the gate! Die before you allow those creatures through!"

Quickly racing away, Tolar and his fifteen warriors dove to the gate, lances held ready in the pocket in their armor, each picking a target near the gate. Upon impact, the lances tore through the wolves, and shattered with the force of the blows, quickly clearing an area in front of the gate. Hastily forming up under the awning, they turned their back to the Dragonguard. Tolar, one of the original twelve Icharii who escaped the isle of Maxim called back over his shoulder.

"Warriors, We are the Icharii Cthyllvistha, and have come to assist you. Form up behind us and our shields. Watch the openings and turn any creature that could get by us into a pincushion. Let none through."

Facing the enemy again, Tolar cried out in Icharii, "Shasos! Shi shor byr koli saeri taeresaer eil ail! Shi cyr sor kari, os pai shaelaer air!"

When the Dragonguard took their positions, he repeated his orders in a language they could understand. "Warriors! We will not give these creatures an inch. We hold this gate, or die beneath it!" Returning his gaze to the enemy, he lowered his visor and raised his shield. His heart was pounding as he saw the wolves slink closer. Then they charged.

Iscaron nodded as he saw his men engage in battle. Turning to the remaining four warriors, he gestured to the Fortress. "We go to assist our Lord!"


Swooping low, the five Cthyllvistha drove their lances into the Undead, scattering those surrounding Silverwolfe and the woman with him. Quickly forming a protective ring around teh two, their swords flashed as tehy felled the undead as they advanced, blocking their strikes with their golden shields.

Silverwolfe looked on in awe and relief as assistance arrived. "Iscaron, my Son?" He lowered his blades, allowing his arms a brief respite. "What are you doing here?"

Bashing one of the undead in the head with his shield, Iscaron listened to the sounds of the battle at the gate, and heard a familiar voice scream in pain before it was abruptly cut off. He shook his head in regret before he answered. "Mother sent us to help you. She sensed that you had shifted to the wolf." Turning around to briefly look, he finally noticed Seska. "Who's the lady?"

The undead were an unholy tide sweeping across the scarred courtyard of the Fortress, the citadel stood dark and haunted as the growing forces hewed a path through enemies that outnumbered them vastly. The Sidhe flew through the stances she had learned with her staff, nameless forms picked up from experience. She parried swords, turned aside axes and crushed skulls - skulls were the only sure way to bring down the reanimated townsfolk and soldiers. The only way. Their clotted blood stained the pristine wood of her stave, marred the clean armor, simple as it was, that she wore. The stench of death surrounded them as they cut a path, warriors to the rear taking care of the Wolves as they came from the surrounding countryside, warriors and herself facing the undead that swarmed the fortress.

"A Greater Werewolf." She managed, between splitting the skull of a child that had been no more than nine or ten, but nevertheless whose sightless eyes were intent on killing her, them, everything. The kitchen knife in his pale, cold fingers was no less deadly for being wielded by a child, and the strength of those beyond the grave made even him dangerous. Something whizzed by her head, and she felt a pinprick of pain at her ear. Her gaze fell upon the walk around the inside of the keep, and her eyes narrowed. Men with gaping rents in their throats or holes in their middles hurried along the walkway, bows in pale hands, arrows already knocked. A deadly hail began to rain down from those archers. The Sidhe cast out, feeling the land. With so much death, so much of what gave the land power dying around her, its power quavered and quaked, threatening to vanish. The Lord thrives on the power of death. He who walks in Darkness embraces death for its power. No! He mustn't...

The ground heaved beneath their feet. A section of the wall heaved with it, then erupted into a fountain of dirt and stone, burning brightly at its heart as flames roared to life. Zombie archers didn't even slow in their loosing as they were ripped into pieces, clotted blood pouring from their lifeless veins as their limbs were torn off. Another space along the wall seemed to implode, fire springing into existence to be sucked into some unseen hole, then bursting out again with enough power to shred thirty or forty of the archers where they stood. Seska stood, her head down in deep concentration while the ground bucked under her feet. For all the effect her magic had on everyone else, it did not touch her. She remained upright even when the ground moved; when searing flame shot directly overhead, close enough to touch, she gave no notice. Sweat stood out on her forehead, dripped from her chin and her color seemed to pale with each passing second. Abruptly everything quieted, the low bass rumble of the earth ceasing. Only the crackling of fires and tumbling stone dislodged from the wall remained. The undead were either in defeat, else fled. The Werewolves had retreated for the moment.

Seska sagged on her staff, her face pale and drawn. She looked around her wearily, looked for Silverwolf and was glad to see that he still survived. The dead lay everywhere - truely dead, now, not walking and killing. But something of this was wrong; rarely did the Lord give up on an objective so easily.

"This....this isn't right..." She panted, almost too low to hear. The surviving Dragonguard looked around warily, those not so seriously wounded they could not stand. Silence lay across the land like a blanket. Nothing except the men here made any sound at all.

"I...I don't like this. Perhaps we should go...." The feeling of unease heightened steadily, growing with each passing second. She got to her feet, and nearly stumbled, nearly fell as she turned to look around her wildly. She knew this feeling, knew it in her bones and despised it.

Out in the plaza surrounding the fortress and its moat, a single figure moved. A man, dressed in a black coat with silver embroidery, black slacks with the same symbols and designs embroidered down the legs to boots of black leather, turned down at the top. Hair the color of burnished silver flowed down his back to his knees, framing in a face that was painfully handsome. The Sidhe didn't need to see his eyes to know they were a mismatched silver and gold, and they burned with an inner, crimson light.

"....not him....not now...." Her grip on the staff in her hands turned her knuckles white, and all the color seemed to drain from her face. The Power stored within her staff over time was nearly dry, and if she drew overmuch from the land, she could kill it. And doing so would make the Lord that much stronger. "We need to go. Now."

That lone figure continued at a sedate, determined pace. It was clear he did not care whether they rushed to attack, or fled. His gait said there was no escape. Could never be any escape. And behind him, resolving from the woodsmoke and a slowly gathering fog, hundreds of shapes began to emerge, slowly resolving into more of the shambling dead, more of his precious Wolves. More Mah'riel, their wicked broadsword held ready, staves in the Weavers hands gleaming black in the pale twilight.

"I claim this land. It is Mine, and has always been Mine." A smooth voice, confident and powerful, easily heard even from the distance. "Your days of meddling in things that neither concern you, and taking My possessions from Me, are at an end, Sidhe. Soon the usurper will be taken care of too." He stopped, little more than a hundred feet from the Icharii and the Dragonguard in their serpentine helmets that gleamed somewhat less for the ichor staining them.

I have to get back to the Tower. I have to warn Aeyliea! Seska thought to herself, furiously, as the Lord's cruel laughter echoed across the otherwise empty square. His forces gathered behind him. If we survive. If we can survive...

Silverwolfe stared at the figure at the head of the newly arrived army. Although he was elegant, he carried himself with utter confidence, with an air of absolute power. As he stopped, his voice sent a shiver down his spine, and Seska's reaction to the man worried him greatly. Looking about at the remaining forces, then at his son, Silverwolfe set his jaw with grim determination. "Tolar, protect my son. Take him home. The rest of you, my precious people. I would ask you to stay, and stand with me, however, I have a feeling that if you do, that perhaps none of us will return. I leave the choice to you"

Immediately, the thirteen Icharii still standing gripped their shields and retrieved spears from fallen Dragonguard. The head among them speaking for the group. "My lord, if we are to die, then we die with you."

Pricking his arm, Silverwolfe used the blood to draw a rune on Tolars chest plate. "My friend, If I should fall here, then Iscaron is king among you. He is still young, so I ask that should the worst happen, you teach him our ways, and assist him with anything he needs. What we face here... Is an evil that I have heard about many many ages ago. It cannot be allowed to survive. Should I die, build an army of Icharii, and continue to battle this fiend. Now go. The rune I placed upon you will burn black should I fall here."

Iscaron, bloodied and tired from the fighting opened his mouth to protest, then nodded. Taking flight the two Icharii left the field of battle. Looking at Seska, Silverwolfe grinned, it was bitter and apologetic. "I apologize that we were not able to be of much help here. As brief as our meeting was, I have to say that It was an honor fighting beside one of old." Gazing out at the hundreds of dark warriors gathered on the field, Silverwolfe shook his head. "Two of my flightworthy men will stay here to protect you. The others will bolster what forces we have left. I personally will face that creature out there. Be warned, I must tap into darkness if we are to have any chance of survival."

Leaping out of the fortress, Silverwolfe landed and rolled. Standing, outside what remained of the walls. Standing, He faced the Dark Lord, still quite a distance away. Closing his eyes, Silverwolfe released the magic holding his rage in check. Immediately there was an explosion of dust around him followed by a loud bass boom, much like thunder. When the dust settled, Silverwolfe was changed. Although still the same in form, his body appeared to be ablaze with the magics flowing about him. His hair flowed and rustled in non existent wind, his eyes glowing a bright green. Cracking his neck, He merged his two blades together, forming pandemonium and slowly strode towards the Man.

Five wolves charged him as he Advanced, and a small arrogant smiled formed on Silverwolfe's face. Stopping, he waited for them. As their distance closed, Silverwolfe raised a hand, and a glowing rune appeared in front of it. Earth was ripped from the ground and formed into flat panels infront of Silverwolfe and melting into glass. With a flick of his wrist, the razor sharp discs of glass spun away, slamming into four of the wolves, slicing them in two and continued into the ranks of dark warriors. Cocking his head to the side as the fifth wolf neared, He grasped it by the muzzle, and squeezed, crushing it. Releasing the beast, He thrust his hand forward, into the creature's chest, and tore its heart from its body.

Stepping over the fallen wolf, Silverwolfe continued on until he was twenty paces from the Dark Lord, looking at him with a friendly, arrogant grin. Speaking, his voice was harsh and cold, devoid of all emotion."I am Juriel Khael Dlorian, Lord of the Icharii. I have come to kill you."

Go north for a bit, away from the main cities. Some warmer weather while he gets away from the mess of a life he'd left himself with recently. That last job in particular had ended up one giant farce. So north he says to himself, somewhere quiet where they don't know your face.

Ha, fracking ha!

He'd heard of new cities and towns out in the wilderness springing into prosperity and had kinda hoped some of them might hold a lucrative future. So he'd caught the various supply wagons and mercantile caravans on the few roads and routes that wound out through the dull terrain that made up this neck of the world. After paying his way of passage on a supply wagon he had stopped at this northern outpost town with the hopes of bunking down for a night or two before carrying on somewhere bigger and brighter.

And that's when everything went a little pear shaped.

Some strange creatures and magical wielding freaks had laid siege to the whole place ransacking and carving a bloody path through whatever took their fancy. During the initial attack the flow of survivors had headed towards the keep in the middle, the soldiers on guard doing their best to slow the attackers for what little good it did them. So it was he'd found himself fighting alongside the various defenders as they backed themselves into the keep and tried to survive as best they could. It wasn't the messiest situation he'd ever found himself in. As a mercenary life tended to hand you your fair share of crap quite often. Hell, he'd even volunteer for it if the price was right. But this was supposed to be like a sort of career break for him and here he was dumped in the arse end of nowhere up to neck in the sort of business he'd charge premium rate for.

After the first attack there hadn't been much left in the way of defenders and things had gone fairly quickly from bad to worse. It was at moments like that he'd had to stop and take check of his life. Look at the facts and decide what he was going to do next. Was this any of his business? No. Were any of these people in anyway anything to do with him? No. Was he getting paid for this? No. And that as they say was that. So he'd left the defenders to get butchered and found himself a nice little lockable room in the depths of the keep where he could hold up with a few supplies till the whole thing blew over and the attackers packed up and left.

He'd been doing this well enough for now but to be quite honest he was tired, irritated, frustrated and running low on food and supplies. Quite frankly he was pissed. It was just about that time that things had started getting loud outside. The chance of their still being any defenders left to put up a struggle was slim. Most didn't seem to have his knack for getting out of things alive. The enemy getting over excitable from boredom? Unlikely. They didn't look like they even understood the notion of being bored. Or happy. Or pretty much anything. The beast like creatures had mostly been just beasts. Which left the more likely option of some sort of relief force. With this idea in mind he had taken his leave of his hiding place and made his way into the corridors beyond.

He was a tall man at six feet plus but even so he knew how to creep about. In his trusty leathers and chaimail he made his way through the dark corridors which had till recently been prowelling with the unrestful dead. His greatsword was slung across his back, too big to wield in such narrow corridors. Instead he had his shortblade drawn in his right hand. His right eyesocket was itching under the leather patch and had been doing so since the attacks had begun. His old wounds always played merry hell when there was wild magic in the air.

The place seemed empty, which meant that whoever was in charge of the attackers had redirected his forces elsewhere. Likely the courtyard, the only real space for anything to happen in this keep was packed to the brim with frothing monstrosities, walking corpses and crazy witches. Getting out to the rescue force if any there was would be more than difficult. With this in mind he took a detour to one of the storage rooms on the way to the main entrance. It wasn't hard to find what he was looking for. A barrel full of oil for the lanterns and torches the guards would use for their rounds. Dragging the heavy load with him Ulfman finally made his way to smashed doorway, keeping out of sight.

It wasn't quite the rescue force he'd expected.

The leader of monsters was some sort of crazy lord in black. Ulfman couldn't see his face but he didn't need to. He could tell from here that if you looked in those eyes all you'd see looking back would be a world of cruelness. All around were arrayed a horde of the attackers, all focused on the meagre force in the middle. A handful of soldiers in matching armour clearly out of their depths, a few winged warriors looking too enthusiastic and some sort of witch or sorceress. It was a one sided fight by a huge margin and the only possibility was fleeing.

Ah crap.... the winged warrior at the front was squaring up for a fight. Great. The hero type. Much as he'd love to oblige a man his suicidal tendencies this might be the only chance for escape any time soon.

With a deep breath he reached into one of the pouches at his pocked and removed a small grape sized orange stone. On its side was carved a strange flowing rune. Pulling the cork from the barrel of oil he threw the stone inside before resealing the container and shoving it sideways on the floor. At the moment all attention was elsewhere and he'd only get one shot at this. If he got out of here alive the first thing he'd do is find a beautiful woman and an ample supply of alcohol.

With a mighty kick he sent the barrel rolling full force into the centre of the yard right amongst the enemy forces arrayed there. As it reached the centre he whispered quietly under his breath.

"Uduithunethuu."

And then dawn came early.

The barrel detonated, showering fire in every direction and setting flame to the centre of the enemy forces as well as what remained of the scenery.

Sprinting at his fastest through the flaming confusion, leaping over falling enemies and burning bodies he homed in on the female sorceress with the defenders and grabbed her arm. She seeming like the only one who might have some sense of control over the situation.

"We leave, now! Not a choice."

As things so often did in the heat of battle, time seemed to....slow. Thing moved with a pained grace, as if the mind had played the trick so that every detail could be caught and recorded, every nuance never to be missed, or forgotten.

Even before Silverwolf had begun his forward march, his graceful leap something to marvel at in other times, the Dark Lord already smirked. The words of the Lord of the Icharii almost seemed to split his face in a vile sneer, outwardly contemptuous. The Lord glanced at the glass discs, flying death with a razors edge. There was the sound of shattering glass - it went on forever, it seemed, one crash of the break followed by enough. A razor sharp cloud of shards swarmed above the heads of the now roiling warriors of the Lord, Wolves and Mah'riel, undead and nameless men following the Lord for their own profit. They poured out of side streets, boiling into the central square before Juriel had even managed three steps. As they roared forward, the Lord of the Icharii met them blade to claw, magic to hide, and Wolves and Mah'riel alike fell dead.

Seska's eyes were drawn sharply to the glass cloud. It formed into a snake-like beast glittering in the firelight with a hideous light of its own. It sped towards Silverwolf, gleaming malevolently with a life all its own. A Wolf, standing in front of Juriel, splashed violently as the cloud passed through him, smearing the pavement with diced flecks of flesh. Her eyes sharpened, hardened as she drew the power of the wind from the air, as the air shimmered and the sharp, tin taste - somehow slightly greasy and charged all at once - filled that very air. The column of glass broke itself on something unseen, and the force of it caused Seska to stagger as if she herself had taken the blow. Once down, the glass lost its life, its inner light and simply became broken bits of melted silica.

An arrow whizzed by her head. Her two guardians faced a Mah'riel warrior, two to one. Blades clanged metalicaly, promising death. The Sidhe gazed silently at the Lord across the square, slowly walking towards Juriel, towards Silverwolf. His hand rested on His blade, and he had begun to bare it, three feet of steel so seemingly ordinary even a smith wouldn't know how it differed from all the rest. It gleamed, its edge permanent, unbreakable by just about any means. The Lord laughed. She could feel him, feel his pull. Feel the pull of the grave, taste the rotten miasma His dark magic required. It turned her stomach; she felt her gorge rise of its own accord.

"Watch Me die then, mortal, but know the price you will pay first!" The Lord replied blithely in a melodious voice, His eyes merry, empty of pity and mercy and dancing with madness. He moved with a cold grace, a deadly grace and quiet command. He moved with confidence that Juriel would be pressed hard to match.

She felt the Lord lash out before she saw it, deflected it only barely. Her mind was elsewhere, clearing itself, diving into a peaceful corner. A corner where she could gain the concentration to use her true art, a Blood Art, with her own flesh and blood as the focus instead of an object or idea. Her blood burned in her veins, a quiet insistent fire of potent magic screaming to be release. She drew it and spun it after a fashion; threads of life, of Light, that she wove into a tight net with a drawstring of sorts. Invisible, useless except at the right time.

Paving stones were rent from their place of rest. The earth tore itself apart, heaving beneath the feet of Icharii, Dragonguard, undead, Wolves alike. Only the Lord and Seska, and the Mah'riel weavers remained firmly rooted to the earth as gashes opened in the courtyard, as buildings not already fallen collapsed in showers of sooty dust and embers. Wolves howled in terror as the earth opened to accept them, then closed again with wet crunchs and great bellows of pain that were always cut short. Spires of stone, sharp as razors at the point, jutted up from the paving stones, skewering Icharii and Dragonguard, only missing Juriel for Seska's deflection. Lightning flashed out of the smoky night sky, the smell of charred flesh and elctrified air sharp even amongst the myriad other odors of the field of battle.

As the last thread fell in place, Seska caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A barrel of some sort push by a man in leathers and chain that tumbled across the pavement already riven with cracks. As if destined to do so, it rolled right to the foot of the Lord. He looked at it, and laughed coldly, a sound that echoed through the din even as the sun seemed to blossom from the center of the square.

The blast sent a hurricane of slivered stone and dirt, shattered timber and flesh and bone radiating outward. The Sidhe was knocked clean off her feet, landing on her rump with her staff clutched firmly in her hand some pace or two behind.Smoke wreathed the square, and except for odd....

Blinking, she watched as the smoke and dust swirled eerily around spheres of solid air. The Lord stood on thin air over a crater a good three feet deep, its sides still smoking. There was not so much as one scratch on him, though his black attire appeared slightly dusty, and a touch singed in places. Mah'riel weavers, the ones who were fast enough, resolved out of the drifting fog surrounded by similar shields woven of the Lords' own power. As they walked, the Lord stepped forward, crossing the chasm, his eyes resting on where Silverwolf had come to rest. They burned.

Now. Now was the time. Seska sprang into action. The tightly coiled net woven of her own blood-magic descended on the Lord. Its purpose was not to impede his movement, nor to kill him. She had used this particular weave before. It was the weave that bound him, or the greater part of his being, beyond this world. As it descended, she felt his power cut off, his magic die. Without breaking stride, his head snapped to look at her, eyes gleaming madness and death, the promise of the horror to come. The Mah'riel turned to face her, and suddenly the skies opened up and lightning flashed. She had enough time, this time - as she tightened the weave on the Lord, denying him his magic, she turned and brushed the flows of the Mah'riel with her mind, siezing control of their magic and turning the bolts aside. One Icharii fell, dead in his armor. One remained with her, and their scattered forces were now sorely depleted. But each strike was staggering in its power...each strike she turned was like a slap to the face, and her face began to show the strain of fighting all of them - at least fifteen Weavers. Sweat streamed down her face as more Wolves and undead entered the square, and as some of the blasted corpses began to rise. She blinked as the fallen Icharii began to stand, and her stomach threatened to empty itself as she felt the taint of darkness on that poor soul.

"We leave, now. Not a choice."

The world came back into focus. The screams of the dying were back in full force, theb estial cry of the Lord and his victorious army.

"We do not leave without him!" She snapped at the newcomer. "I have a plan, in any case. I'll be damned if I let that bastard have Alcair!" She snarled, getting back to shaky feet, leaning heavily on her staff. In a moment, she would have to wield it again to save her life, but never in her life had she left a man behind.

Because if Juriel somehow fell into the Lord's hands, he could be turned to the Lords' cause, be turned Werewolf. Be turned into something little more than a walking madman with the lust for blood. She turned, and regarded the new comer, calm seeming to settle over her regardless of what she actually felt. "And who are you, to make commands of the Orders' command, standing on the Order's land?" She questioned, icy calm. Cold.

The blast shook him, and sent him flying. He had not even locked blades with the dark man, and he had been sent through the air, not of his own accord. But he chuckled silently as he lay there on the ground, oblivious to the destruction happening around him. Of the angel of death threatening to take him at that very moment. As he rolled over, to push himself to his feet, Silverwolfe's silent chuckle turned to outright laughter. The blast had thrown him, but an instant after the initial blast, most of the flame of the explosion flowed into Silverwolfe. Its energy becoming part of him, part of his body, part of his magic. As he stood, the nearly invisible blaze of magic had become glaringly apparent. His body becoming incandescent, his eyes blazing with green fire.

Feeling the magic rippling outward through the air, Silverwolfe looked about and saw the Mah'riel females all battling Seska. Raising his hands up, again a glowing rune became apparent hovering infront of them, and the earth before him erupted with a wall of rolling flame. Immediately that wall raced towards the Mah'riel, and Silverwolfe with his blade in hand rushed into the Fire. Bursting out of the flame before it reached the first of the females, Silverwolfe grinned at the surprise on her face as his sword separated her head from her shoulders. As the flame passed over him once again, he felt the dark presence at his back, and cast his hand out again, the runic magic sapping all heat from the air around each of the Mah'riel and coalescing into a ball of fire in his hand. Facing the dark lord, The Icharii King smiled mockingly as he released the liquid fire sending it flying towards the Dark lord.

He expected the flame to be deflected, and the dark man obliged as Silverwolfe stood there watching. Grinning from ear to ear, Silverwolfe raised his blade and charged, Locking swords with the Dark Lord. The two danced across the blasted lands and through the rubble with fluid grace, each deflecting blows and dodging the others would be fatal strikes. As they battled Silverwolfe was oblivious to the four of the five remaining Icharii coming forward and leaping about, keeping the wolves at bay. The two lords danced with death, blades and sparks flying as each attempted to strike the other down.

Quickly dropping to a knee, Silverwolfe's blade lashed out and cut into the Lord's Thigh. Attempting to evade the dark lords counter strike, Silverwolfe leaped backwards, but was too slow and his left hand went flying through the air, removed from his body at the wrist. Blood poured from the stump as Silverwolfe renewed his attack, his blade twirling, both men moving with brilliant speed. Suddenly a bright rune appeared between the two, and a blast of air sent both men flying in opposite directions. Each slammed into the fragmented walls of the courtyard with sickening thuds, and fell to the ground.

Shaking his head, dizzy from loss of blood Silverwolfe looked about, and crawled to his knees, bent over, holding himself up with one arm, his stump cradled across his chest. The blaze of magic was quickly diminishing from about his body as more blood seeped into the earth. Drawing a rune on a fallen stone brick, it became molten. Laughing, he pressed his stump atop it, the wound cauterizing instantly. Silverwolfe again stood, regretting his desperate attack as he finally felt the sharp pain caused by now cracked ribs. Gripping his sword in his hand, the blaze about him was slowly strengthening again as the flow of blood had been stopped.

Looking at the Dark Lord, Silverwolfe called out, his voice mocking. "You fight well, Young One. Tell me, What is your name?"

"Who am I? I'm the only guy around here who doesn't seem to have an apparent deathwish! So your god-damned order can find its death some other fracking time!"

He had hoped the woman would have the same sense to leave while the leaving was good, but apparently nobody in the entire place had even the slightest desire to carry on breathing. The place was a mess and every second the battle continued made it even worse. Ulfman couldn 't even see the point to it? Assuming they survived there wouldn't be enough left of the place at this rate to be worth saving. Rubble and ashes was the special on the menu tonight. He grasped his head with his right hand and clenched up his hair in frustration. Well this is what happens when you try to keep a little bit of hope eh? One dissapointment after the next, piling up till its heavy enough to come crashing down and break something.

"Fine.... no.... you know what? I see how this is gonna work. I want out of here, simple as that, and in order to do that apparently the only option is to help you suicidal lunatics see sunrise whether you like or not. That means you lucky people get my services free of charge."

He looked over at the battle between wonder boy and lord nasty. It was ridiculous and obscene beyond any battle had any rights to be. It was hard enough for the average citizen to live his lives just stemming off the ordinary threats in life; famine, disease, bandits, thieves, ill health, bad weather. The world was against the average person from the day they were born and if that wasn't enough you had these powered up, psychotic, macho lunatics running around the lands with the sort of power that could level entire cities to the ground in under a day. He hated it. People didn't deserve this. He could see it in the eyes of the small group of surviving soldiers that made up the party. They hadn't signed up for this. When they had pledged their loyalty to whichever lord, lady, regent or commander they served, they had no idea of the sorts of stuff that lay out there in the world. Sure they were prepared for death, a soldier had to be. Death at the hands of an enemy soldier, or an invader, or even a bandit. Not freakish, flying, magical, shapeshifting, super warriors who had methods of killing people at their disposal that would make a hardened veteran suffer nightmares for the rest of his days. Enough was enough. He had put up with enough of this crap.

"You want wonder boy over there coming out of this alive? You tell him that. 'Cause he seems to have his own bloody ideas by the looks of things."

Swift like a hunter his right hand fell to leather strap across his chest and withdrew a small throwing knife with a fire red stone set into the body. One of the wolf like creatures hard started towards the group and with a sharp turn he launched the small blade through the air, whispering under his breath as he did so.

"Ummelaithue."

The small blade burst into flames as it pierced the skull of the wolf beast, the fire quickly engulfing the whole body from head to toe with unnatural speed. It took less than a second before it was nothing more than a charred and blackened heap crashing to the fractured pavement.

"I had hoped i wouldn't have to do this, but circumstances say otherwise."

With his right hand he tore the leather glove from his left arm and rolled up his sleeve. Revealed where flesh should have been was a steel appendage, jointed at the fingers, wrist and elbow to allow a perfect imitation of natural movement. Down the length of the forearm it appeared to be made of eight bands of metal, like large metal bracelets locked together down its length. In each of these bands was eight different coloured stones, the same eight colours represented on each band in the same order, though not always in the same position down its length. With his right hand he gripped the banding nearest the wrist joint.

"All i need to know from you is two things; what sort of magic are they using? And what sort of magic you gonna need to stop them?"

The Lord stood up, and began to calmly dust off his dark clothing, grimacing at the rent in the thigh of his breeches. He looked up at Silverwolf as he got to his own feet, and his burning eyes narrowed. With a quick glance at Seska, filled with hatred, contempt, loathing, he began to walk across the rubble strewn plaza once more, his blade spinning in his hand. The wound on his leg had no apparent effect on the...man?...and he continued without a limp.

"My fine young.....hero. You are quick on your feet, and strong in your skills. But I am far stronger." He simply ignored Juriel's questions as if they had not been asked, ignored his insult as if it were water sliding off a ducks' back. Something....surged....in the Lord. It pulsed with a sickening life of its own, a miasma of death contained within his body.

Contained within the net that the Sidhe had woven around him. Seska's eyes seemed to bulge, the words from the strange newcomer muted to a low buzz - she could hear his words, but could not respond. Every ounce of her strength went into maintaining the binding on the Lord. With each sickening, gut twisting pulse of the Lords' power, she staggered, her knees going weak and her legs like liquid under her. She pooled more and more of her strength into maintaining the warding on him, and as she did, the Mah'riel began to curse loudly. They were not completely cut off from their source of power, but now they were greatly reduced. And the Lord could do nothing except fight with his hands and sword in hand. His magic may as well have been a lawn ornament; it was sealed away from him. For now.

She opened her mouth to respond to the newcomer, but no words came out. Another gutwrenching pulse of power slammed into the weave, distorting it, nearly tearing it in half. Her knees buckled, and she went down on them, barely catching herself with a hand.

"They....they draw on the Lord for their....power..." She said, through gritted teeth as sweat streamed down her face, drenched her clothing, darkened the ground around her. A thin stream of blood began to snake its way down her face from her nose, curving around her mouth to hang on the verge of dripping on her chin. "His.....power is bound..." She whispered, breathlessly. She could feel the casual attempts by the Dark Lord to break her binding, could feel his....his mind searching the weave, probing and pushing, looking for any weakness. The Lord seemed to be in no great hurry with it as he walked across the courtyard with that same casual ease and grace. Suddenly he slammed into it again, and her head spun. She could feel her touch with reality begin to slip, and fought to hold on. "So long....so long as I maintain the weave....."

Avanth turned to stare at Seska again, a baleful expression on his face that promised pain, later. And then suddenly he flew into a flurried attack against Silverwolf as he got close enough, flying into the attack. Juriels' blade met the Lords' plain steel, striking white sparks. The sparks flashed again and again, quicker, quicker. So fast that the weapons themselves ceased to be visible, only the lightning flash of sparks when they met. The Lord locked eyes with the Lord of the Icharii, his dead, flat gaze showing no emotion. None at all, except the faint hint of madness always present. Thrust knocked away, three slashes in the span of a split second deflected, the last so narrowly that Juriel had to flinch backwards, giving ground. The Lord advanced a step at a time, pressing the attack ever harder, ever harder. Not a trace of emotion in those dark, burning eyes....no pity, no mercy, only the promise of madness.

Suddenly, the Lord put his full weight into each strike, losing none of the speed that he had attacked with before. Each blow was deflected as deftly as the last, but each blow was a numbing, shocking strike in of itself. Juriel's shoulders creaked dangerously with each heavy handed slash, found turning lightning quick thrusts aside harder and harder as the Lord used more and more of his strength in each thrust. Not a single bead of sweat was on the Lords' face; it was as if he had endless strength, as if nothing could tire him. And still that pulse, slower now but if so a lot more noticable. It was as if reality rippled with each pulse, the air shimmering as if it were a pond, and a rock had been tossed in. And still that relentless assault, endless assault. The Lord did not allow Juriel to fly into his own attacks. Every time the Icharii lord made to renew his attack, the Lord strengthened his, making the Icharii dance harder, faster, to keep that flickering, deadly blade away from his flesh.

And those eyes. Madness. Pitiless. Unchanging, unruffled, uncaring of whether Juriel died, or stabbed the Lord himself between the eyes. Eyes to breed despair.

All around the square advanced mroe creatures of the Lord, even if they were greatly reduced in number. Before Seska and Ulfmans' eyes, the charred corpse of the Wolf, its twisted human face grinning permanently through charred bone and ashen flesh that flaked as it rose. It stretched as if it had tendons and sinews to loosen, then raised a fleshless snout to the heavens, crying in a distorted parody of its one time bretheren. The sound chilled to the bone, before it turned, and flew into the line Guardsmen and Icharii followed by two of the more live Wolves. Spears stabbed home, and where spears had been lost short swords flicked out at deadly close range, clipping once human flesh. The charred wolf lost its head after its skeletal claws found flesh, just as it sank its blackened teeth into a Guardsman throat. Even though the black body fell away, lifeless and blatantly so now, the wolf head continued to chew, bite harder, kill. Only after several minutes did it drop away, inanimate once more to lay among the headless bodies. All along the thin line men fought with renewed vigor as new enemies approached in a thing, fast stream. One by one Guardsmen dropped, Icharii were killed. But the cost to the Lord was great.

"I would....know your name, stranger, and wish you well of your life. Flee, if you've any sense. I have to drop the warding. I have to. Have to drop it. Can't do what I have to do if I don't. He'll kill us all. If I'm not fast enough. Not fast enough. Have to let him go..." The Sidhe spoke her words short and clipped, through bared teeth. The tendons stood out on her arms from the white-knuckled grip she held on her staff. Again and again she staggered, felt reality waver, felt her consiousness slip. This could not go on. "The Weavers. When the warding drops....they'll regain their magic. When it...drops the Lord....will be able to draw....his power again." The Sidhe simply didn't know how to answer Ulfman. What kind of magic? The Mah'riel held the Lord as their God.....HE was the source of their power. But the Lord? There had been a search, was always a search for that answer. The Lords' power seemed to be all his own, spawned of death and pain. And she was about to loose his power again, to open a gateway to....somewhere else. Perhaps one of the border fortress garrisons. Then, if he followed, he could face an army.

The thought that they had attacked a manned fortress and defeated everyone there did cross her mind....but she had to hope. With his despairing eyes, cold and emotionless, the Lord seemed to stand in the way of hope. The Sidhe had never surrendered before.

She wouldn't now, either.

Her words were pained and clearly she struggled to voice them as she wove whatever bindings she was using. But already she had given him enough information to go on and take a guess at what he needed to know. The lord had the power and she was binding it. Good, that was better than he could hope. But he needed to be sure of exactly what he was about to do. It was dangerous enough even under the most well practiced circumstances under laboratory conditions. But this was the centre of the maelstrom where the forces at work could tear reality into pieces. He didn't like it, but if he was risking this much then risking it all was not much more.

Using his right hand he flicked the leather eye patch on his face and opened his left eye. There was an orb of ject black lodged into the centre that shimmered with a strange greenish hue. And with this he stared at the scene around him.

"Athurau usiguhethui."

And then the world changed for him that no one else could see. He could see the strands, the flow, the arc and ebb of magical energy. Pulled, pushed, diverted, shaped and moulded. There was tones and colours, but more than that, shapes and emotions and ideas and notions that mortal minds were not meant to comprehend. Magic was more than just force, or energy. It was something that flowed and coiled and changed depending on unwritten and mutable laws. He could see the bindings around the lord as a bright light. Signs of green and blue and white mingled in strange shades and colours that had no existence in the real world and barely had in place in the imagination. There was more to them than that but now was not the time to evaluate and look upon them closely as if to study. The shades were enough for now. But more importantly within the bindings he could see what was contained, the lord's power and magic and energy. It swirled in angry, violent, chaotic patterns. Reds, browns, greys and purples in a horrible shade that wasn't just a representation of pain and madness, but was the very thing itself. His skull throbbed to look upon what was in front of him. Quickly he pulled the eye patch down and let the orb sink once again into silence, his normal sight returning.

"Lady, now ain't the time for introductions. And i can already see that fleeing isn't going to get us anywhere. So you're gonna have to listen and you're gonna have to trust me with what happens next. You can't kill him. Not here, not now. But i'm gonna bet you can sting him hard enough that he'll be the one to think about fleeing at least for now. In order to do that you're gonna need to do as i say."

He began twisting the bandings on his metallic left limb. First the top one. It clicked as he turned the black stone into place at the top. Then the next click, as he placed a brown stone in line with it. Clickk. A red stone. Click. Grey. On the fifth band he reversed the direction he turned the metal. Click. A green stone. Click. Blue. Click. White. Click. White. The eight bands locked he stood up straight and pointed the limb in the direction of the lord while at the same time resting his other hand on the woman's shoulder.

"You know what a lightning rod is? Well in about twenty secs i'm gonna become a similar thing for all his powers. Only difference is instead of earthing energy into the ground i'm gonna be converting it into something you can use via my own body. Bad power comes in, good power comes out. Got it? So we're both gonna feel some power and probably some pain, but no matter how much i scream do not let the connection break. When you drop that warding or whatever i'm gonna need you to make sure you can get rid of him and get me out of here, promise? No matter. If i wake up after this i'll know you did it."

He looked at her with his one good eye and silently gave a prayer to whichever decent spirits might be watching over them. This wasn't gonna be fun.

"Iciahennelai."

The lined up stones down his arm began to pulse as they drained the designated magic strands from the surroundings and began to course them and change them through his body before passing them to her. He clenched his teeth against the pain and his grip on her shoulder tightened, even though this was just the leakage coming through the barriers.

When she dropped them he knew he was gonna scream.....

Slash after slash, thrusts and lashes Silverwolfe blocked. Matching the lord strike for strike, but slowly he was losing ground. Looking into the Dark Lords eyes, Silverwolfe frowned for the first time. There was nothing there, no soul, no emotion. Just an emptiness that seemed to draw him in. Still, he fought on. For several minutes they travelled across the courtyard, and Silverwolfe could not find an opening to exploit without losing another appendage. So he fought on, even though he realized he was losing the fight, prepared to die, willing to die if it meant a chance to stop this madman. His fighting came naturally now, his arms and motions becoming mechanical as he continued to defend. His mind however was else where.

He began to think of his life, and remember his early days, a plague on the lands of his birth and those around it. Then his imprisonment, and his awakening thousands of years later on Maxim, with no recollection of who he was before. His memories altered by his long dead mother, hoping that with no recollection of who he was, he would change. Wandering aimlessly through the wilderness, in the form of a human, He was found near death by a ranger. This man nursed him back to health, and trained him in the ways of the wild, how to survive, how to fight and how to speak the language of the land. He remembered watching the man grow old while he stayed a youth. Watching him die, and burying him. He then took the old Rangers name, Silverwolfe, and began traveling the Island of Maxim.

The next thousand or so years flashed before his eyes, recovering his memories, destroying his father, and restoring his people from their ancient imprisonment. His marriage to Khelestra, and the birth of his children. His Children! He renewed his attack, his desperation causing him to fight with renewed vigor and finally gain some ground on the Dark Lord. With his good arm, he continued his desperate fight, Turning aside the blows before finally landing a kick on the man sending him flying. Watching the man stand again, Silverwolfe felt despair grow within him, and looking over his shoulder at his few remaining men, he felt a great sadness for those that lost their lives, both human and Icharii. He then called out a request in his own language, one that damaged him more than anything in his life."Tia Shaelylaer Mylos! Koli ti os thosi!"

Immediately the few remaining Icharii leaped into the air, flying above the battlefield and retrieved special daggers from their waists. Removing their chest plates, they dropped them to the ground. Taking the daggers, each of the men plunged it into their hearts. Instantly, the bodies turned to ash and the rest of the armor fell away, clanging to the ground. But in the air, where the men had been, were burning flames, each blazing as brightly as the sun. Slowly they swirled to the ground, surrounding the courtyard. Suddenly, one of the living flames broke off from the rest. It zig-zagged through the enemy, and nearly everything it touched became engulfed in liquid flame.

As the other three swirled about the courtyard, moving in a circle, Silverwolfe chanced a look at Seska, and finally noticed the man beside him. He hoped they would survive. Then he shouted, "My wonderful warriors, Come to me!" Immediately, the three life-fires within the courtyard raced towards Silverwolfe, coalescing on his battered body. There was a blinding light, and a light hum in that stayed lingered until the light faded. Standing where Silverwolfe had been, was a figure hovering in the air. His body glowed with lines of what appeared to be magma where his blood vessels were, his hair, strands of fire flowing in the breeze. His eyes were blazing brilliantly, a radiant green, in stark contrast to the flames surrounding him. His severed hand, restored as he absorbed the dynamic flame, the life force of his elite, his heroic warriors.

Looking at the Lord, he watched impassively as the dark man strode forward. He could feel the pure power and strength flowing through his own body, but there was no longer a sense of arrogance. He saw the death caused by this man, the suffering and the enslavement of people that had no choice but to become the vile wolves that made up a large part of the dark mans forces. He saw the destruction of the keep, and the outlying town, and could feel the lingering cries of anguish, the memories of terror and pain in the air. Silverwolfe's heart burned with rage, the flames burning through his body of no comparison to the hate he felt for this creature.

Charging forward, Silverwolfe split his sword, and attacked with renewed fury. Two blades flying, invisible but for the contact they made with the dark mans sword. Every ounce of energy Silverwolfe had went into each strike, Each connection throwing the dark man back. But still, the man showed no emotion, broke no sweat, and fought with the same relentlessness, fighting back, gaining ground on the King of the Icharii once again. For a few seconds that seemed like eternity, the battle continued like this. Then, drawing on his stores of energy Silverwolfe spun, a blur of light, a metallic crash and suddenly the three swords went flying through the air.

Still the Icharii King pressed his attack, throwing punches, kicks and the dark man did the same, blocking the blows, and retaliating. Taking a hit to the ribs, Silverwolfe felt the blow rock through his body, but felt no pain for the power coursing through his veins. Again, and again the dark mans hits connected, until Silverwolfe once again was sent flying through the air from a strong hit to his chest. In mid-air, the Lord of the Icharii righted himself, and landed on his feet. Seeing a dozen or so wolves begin to charge him, he flicked a hand towards them, and a wave of molten fire materialized and engulfed the beasts.

Before the flames even began to approach the wolves, Silverwolfe was on the Dark Man again, and this time he saw a brief opening in the Dark One's defenses. Capitalizing on it, he struck out, catching him in the face, sending the dark man staggering back. Instantly, Silverwolfe was on top of him again, and the two Lords traded blows for several seconds, neither caring about defense, each taking hits that would have killed a normal man. Sparking his runic magic, he enveloped his hand with pure magic, his own life force, and lashed out with a right cross that penetrated the Dark Lord's defenses, slamming into his face and sending him tumbling through the air into two of his remaining Mah'riel warriors, bowling them over.

Looking at the Dark Lord, he noticed that he had landed near where his blade had come to rest. Retrieving his own two blades, he began to walk towards his opponent, cutting down his enemies warriors as they advanced. He spoke, his voice Metallic, and thundering. "In my many thousands of years of life I have never faced one such as you. You are a blight on this world. You cause atrocities that I could never have imagined. For those you have made suffer, for those you have killed, and for those you have enslaved, I am Vengeance Incarnate!"

Silverwolfe could feel his power ebbing away, and knew that the power that his Warriors' sacrifice had given him would soon fade. If it did, he knew that he would be no better off than a child facing a lion. He charged, hoping to end the battle before he lost his chance. He had to win, or give Seska enough time to bring whatever plan she had to fruition. He refused to die here, refused to let this creature win.

Sakura remained where he was, lost in his own thoughts. Could she really blame him? All of those things she had told him of herself that he had known nothing of before. But it had had to be done, for her concience to remain clean. After all, the man had laid his heart bare to her, and she could do not less than the same.

The horse was set to a walk, a pace that ate ground but would not tire the animal itself. Her thoughts drifted; her gaze wandered. Taking in the verdant valley that spread out below her in the twilight, a veritable Garden of Eden. And so little known of it, other than its simple existence. She herself could not touch magic, but even she could feel the slow, living pulse of power that coursed through this land. It was a no wonder that the Lord desired it so very badly. With this kind of power, he could perhaps undo the binding that bound the vast majority of his power from him. Of course, he could find another way to break that seal. If he did, they could not stand against him when he came to reclaim the Tower.

The sound was distant, but it came fast. A horse, a single rider. Aeyliea drew rein, and turned in her saddle to look behind her along the shadowy road. A lone rider, moving like all of hades were on his heels. When he saw her, he spurred his horse for extra speed, but even from a distance she could see that the beast was half-blown, its sides lathered with sweat.

"My lady! Lady Aeyliea!" He shouted as he charged forward, coming to a sudden halt in front of her. His horse stood on quivering legs, its nostrils flaring wide as it gasped for air. "My lady! Alcair has fallen! The Lady Dragonslayer says the Lord has sacked the city, and she has gone to retake it!" The wild look in his eyes gave the truth of it. Eyes narrowing, she spun her stallion around, and dug her heels in without a further word. The horse raced up the path she had just come down, and for once she didn't care if the animal was blown when it reached the Tower Gate. She swept around a curve in the path as it followed the lines of the land, and thundered past Sakura riding back the other way at his own sedate pace. She gritted her teeth - the man wouldn't have hurried to catch up to her if all of hell was on his heels, just to make a point of how stubborn he could be. There was nothing for it, though; that unyielding quality was one of the many gems that she saw in her husband. A weak man, never.

She didn't even cast a backward glance as he spun around and chose to dig his heels in now. Her thoughts were all on that filthy Sidhe, and what kind of stupidity she may have caused now. Why hadn't she waited until her bloody Warlady had been informed, so that she could make a decision? Instead, she had hared off with an undisclosed number of men, ready to go to war without even mentioning it to her. Ever more disobedience from that one, and perhaps some day soon she would have to get rid of her. It was a startlingly cold thought, especially for the detatchment she maintained. She knew she would kill the Sidhe if she threatened her, Sakura, her children, or any of her peoples' well being. She would do it, and not shed a single tear.

At the garrison, she would learn more. In the meantime, she let her thoughts wander, pondering the why of it as often she did. Mountains rose to either side of her as she plunged into the Pass, descending towards the city itself.

A blade flicked past his defenses, scoring his arm. Another flickering blow grated across his ribs. Dark, jellied blood dripped from those wounds, strange clotted filth that was nevertheless warm and full of life, while at the same time as dead as a stone. The Lord fought on relentlessly, turnign blows and receiving them. The blue-white flash of their blades meeting was almost constant now, like flickering heat lightning. Though he could not even bring his blade close to the Icharii Lords' body, now, he continued his assault and defense. They moved like graceful ballroom dancers, wielding death with casual indifference. He watched with that same indifference as Icharii in living flame consumed his Wolves, as he heard their pained, agonized screams as they died.....as he heard their thanks, their salvation from the madness forced on them.

One of them even thanked the Icharii Lord with his dying breath, as the flames consumed him to ashes. It all meant little to the Lord. Seska heard them too, through ears that seemed distant and near at the same time. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth gritted and her face a mask of such pained desperation, concetration, determination as to be painful to look at. With each pulsing of the Lords' power, as he sought to push his rotten fingers through the warding, she staggered. Ulfmen staggered too, grunting with the brunt of the force. Would she have been able to maintain it without his aid? She didn't think so.

Stroke and counterstroke aside, he probed the inside of this net that had been woven around him, looking for a weakness to exploit. A blade scoring his cheek, bursting one of his eyes like an overripe berry that spilled foul smelling filth down his face resulted in as little expression, as little change in the drive of the Lord's attacks. In that moment, he found what he was looking for.

The Lords' eyes glazed over for a second, the only change in those cold orbs of madness since his arrival. Silverwolf drove first one blade through his dark heart, then the other through his belly. Transfixed so, the Lord grinned, and then threw all of his mental might at the shield woven around him.

It buckled. Bits of it stretched thinner, and thinner, and then finally snapped. Absolute power rushed into the Lord, where before it had been denied. Power. Great power.

As the warding broke, the Sidhe shrieked. She dropped to her knees, fell over backwards and her shrieks pierced the night as she beat her heels against the stone of the courtyard, thrashed her head about wildly. She clutched at her head suddenly, and screamed in earnest for the pain of it, like a thousand daggers driven into her brain, like liquid fire surging through her veins. Her piercing scream fell off as her eyes rolled back into her head, closed, and she lay still save for the irregular, deep rise and fall of her chest.

And the Lord crowed laughter then, sickening, stomach turning. He was taken by fits of mad laughter, even impaled on Silverwolfs' swords as he was. Witrh a casual gesture, Juriel was flung back by ropes of air, plainly visible for the motes of dest within them. He stood there, bleeding and not caring in the slightest. "Vengeance Incarnate? You dabble in a realm I am fully immersed in, worm." He gestured wildly, and burned corpses rose. Ashes coalesced into the shapes of men, wielding steel picked up from the broken flagstones. The Mah'riel that remained dropped to their knees, incapacitated by the extasy of their God, as their God brought forth his judgement. Even the Weavers stopped, their eyes glazed as the surge, the tidal surge of the Lords' power truely hit them.

A thin sheet of dust whipped away from the Lord, and then the swirling ashbeasts slowly drifted apart, forgotten. Magic surged in the Lord, flows so strong they could sweep this entire, pitiful excuse of a fortress away. The ground trembled, and the walls of the fortress began to fall. The buildings of the city began to collapse as well, sending up fountains of sparks into the night sky.

The wind roared then, a gale as powerful as any tornado ever. It cut a swathe across the square, spiralling into a great vortex. The Lord stood at its heart, in the middle of a tunnel of wind and debris. A thick thread of wind leaped out, swept through and around Juriel, lifiting him off his feet. Picked him up and carried him high into the air, to turn back down and slam him into the paving stones with enough force to crack some of them. Another thread flicked out and, laden with debris, slammed into the surviving Dragonguard. They went down pierced through with chunks of wood, stone, bones.

"I will kill you all, now." He crowed in triumph, walking now towards the unconcious sidhe and the strange newcomer, who remained on his feet, if barely. "I'll finally be rid of YOU, you annoying pest." He whispered under his breath to Seska, though she couldn't hear it obviously.

Not enough.... not enough power.... or not applied correctly.... think.... think damnit!!!

His nose was bleeding and the aching pain in his body wouldn't not let go. His vision swirled and danced in front of him and all he could see was the woman sprawled on the floor thrashing in agony, unable to do anything. And beyond that the dark lord was getting closer and closer. Damaged, hacked, leeking corrupted, decaying blood. The energy flowing into him from its source was becoming overwhelming but Ulfman was still draining it through his body. He could feel the magic now as the arcane engine in his arm used his cells to convert the foul energy.

It was like dark twisted snakes comprised of maggots crawling through his skin, through his mind. Pain, agony, despair, madness. It crept into his memories perverting them and turning each one into a nightmare. He wasn't even sure if he was feeling the pain anymore or whether it was simply twisting his mind to make him think he was. The only part of him he could still feel was his right hand where the converted energy leaked out now the woman had fallen. Life, hope, light. The opposite of what was coming in. It would tear his body apart if he kept this up too long, the opposite forces of life and death competing in his mortal frame and destroying or corrupting his flesh.

He looked again at the lord, a dark mockery of a man. Damaged and dead inside. Sustained by the dark forces that fueled him and gave him an existence that defied the natural laws. Like the zombies and the corpses of the fallen, sustained by the winds of death. His was a more powerful body than the minions, of course, but still it was a frame supported by the winds of death.

Of course. He's dead, or beyond death. The damage to his form would have killed a mortal man a dozen times over.

The lord still approached, his footfalls slow and sure of himself in his superiority. But now Ulfman staggered forwards in his agony stricken body, shoulders hunched and legs heavy. He lurched forwards like the zombies around them, each foot a great burden as he moved one step at a time. He was no threat to the lord, he didn't even have a weapon out. This was at least what he was counting on, hoping for.

He was in front of the lord now, less than two feet between them. Breathing ragged and strained Ulfman lifted his head to look at the lord. Eye to eye. There was a sick humour in the fact they both now only had one eye. It was hard to laugh but he did so anyway, coughing up blood across his chest.

"What am i in front of you.... eh?..... A mortal man in front of a lord of death.... 'cough'..... Filled with pain.... and agony.... unable to fight..... 'cough, cough'.... Could you know such pain?....."

With all his remained strength he grabbed the lord on the shoulders with both hands. The steel arm on his left now in direct contact with the forces with the magic of death it was draining. His right arm feeding life and light.

"Let me show you."

He screamed now. The dark energy now coming from whatever source and instead of fuelling into the lord was passed through his flesh. There was a universe of suffering there. Visions, nightmares, horrific thoughts and chaos flickering back and forth across his mind like arc of lightning. The reflex of his body cause his hands to grip tigthter, digging into the lords flesh with his fingers. But it was different now. His right hand was fuelling the lord with life as the left cut off his source of power. Blood long clotted and corrupted came alive again, flowing instead red and bright. Nerve endings decayed so long and unused to feeling suddenly sent their messages of pain to a body that was once more horribly alive and riddled with injuries.

The world was black, and Silverwolfe lay there, his body aching and racked with pain. He couldn't move and the world slipped away momentarily. Then there was a scream of pure agony, and Silverwolfe stirred, and though he was unconcious he still blazed with power. However, the extra energy he had received from his men had faded and he had lost the heat emanating from his body. Opening his eyes, the Lord of the Icharii looked about, and saw an interesting sight. The man that was standing with Seska was grappling with the Lord, screaming in agony. Whatever he was doing was having an effect on the Dark Lord.

Looking for the Sorceress, he saw her lying on the ground. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled over and examined her carefully. Out of nowhere, a Mahriel Male approached. Standing Shakily, Silverwolfe blasted him with an inferno, but saw that the flame had no effect. Slamming his hand to the earth, Several pillars of rock blasted from the ground, impaling the Mah'riel. Turning back to Seska, He pulled out a small razor sharp dagger and cut a rune into the back of her hand. Cutting the exact same rune into his palm, he dropped the knife, and placed his bleeding palm over the rune cut into Seska's flesh.

A warm blue glow emanated from Silverwolfe's hand, and enveloped Seska's body. The torn flesh on her legs healing, scarless. The wounds inflicted from the battle healing over as Silverwolfe transferred his power into her, his energy. The light was warm, peaceful, soothing as he poured more of himself into her. As Seska opened her eyes, Silvewolfe looked at her kindly, his eyes soft and full of warmth as he pulled her to her feet. The blaze about Silverwolfe's body was nearly non-existent now. His power nearly completely drained from the events of the night. Removing his hand from hers, only a faint scar, barely noticeable remained where he had carved the rune into her hand.

"Welcome back, Sorceress. You must escape. I have a feeling I will not be leaving." Dropping to his hands and knees, Silverwolfe coughed, the damage caused by the vast expenditure of power, and the blows taken from the Dark Lord having taken their toll on his body as he spat blood. "You now carry the essence of Icharii Nobility within your veins. Should you ever need a safe haven, or assistance, go to Verthicha. All Icharii can sense the blood of their royalty, and within you, mine now lurks. Anything you wish from them, will be yours."

He crawled to his swords then, and Merged them into Pandemonium. Driving the blade into the remaining stonework, Silverwolfe supported himself on the Hilt of the sword as rose to a knee. Raising a hand, Silverwolfe cast it forward, a bright blue rune glowed in front of it. A pocket of air formed between Ulfman and the Dark Lord, separating them before it pushed the dark one a good twenty feet away. Smiling weakly Silverwolfe looked at Seska. "With all the death here tonight, it would be a pity if he dies as well."

Sagging a bit, Silverwolfe fell away from the sword. Rolling to his back, He looked again at Seska. "Take care, Seska. It was an honor to fight beside one of Old again after all these years." Closing his eyes, Silverwolfe smiled a small smile as he took two more weak breaths. The blaze of magic faded completely from him, and he was still.

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The sky over the Great Gate suddenly went black as thousands of winged creatures flew over it. They landed just outside the walls of the city, on a hillside, with a beautiful, tall woman in a white silken tunic and skirt at their head landed. Her red hair draping her face, as she looked out over the city. Behind her, ten thousand Icharii warriors landed in perfect formation. Their armor gleaming in the rising sun, their faces invisible behind their helms. Beside the woman, beside Khelestra, Juriel Dlorian's wife were three other Icharii. Silverwolfe's grown children, Iscaron and Kyliah, and their Steward Tolar, the captain of the Verthichan Guard, the Cthyllvista.

Khelestra gazed out at the city, waiting for the force she knew would come to arrive. Suddenly, Tolar gripped her shoulder and she turned to see his grief stricken face. "I... I am sorry my lady. The... The rune. It has burned black."

Shocked, Khelestra dropped to her knees, crying out in anguish and sorrow before cupping her face in her hands. Immediately her children rushed forward, embracing her and joining her in her tears. The army behind them murmuring. The Lord of the Icharii, the most powerful of their warriors, and beloved by all had passed from the realm. Silverwolfe was dead.

A massive cavern carved from basement rock. Under a mountain, a place long forgotten, far away and even so still near.

A different woman stood looking at the shimmering crystal, easily eight feet tall and half again as wide, brilliant white burning with an inner light. And a calamity from within, an imperfection stark and grotesque to behold. A blight, a black heart to the crystaline structure. Unnatural, dark, evil.

An elvish-appearing woman with dark hair the color of a ravens' feathers and gleaming green eyes stared at the crystal. She could feel the power of it, the raw manifest power that had gone into its making. To a human, perhaps, it was nothing more than a massive and pretty crystal, dull except in the light of a fire. To her magic imbued eyes, it burned like the sun. It blazed like a million suns, and though the light did not illuminate the cavern, though everything remained draped in darkness except for the torch in her hand burning blue-white, it also drank the light like the deepest, hungriest of night.

The cavern itself was....a remnant of time lost, back in a great war that had all but been forgotten. Forgotten to the short lived races of the world, lost even from myth for ages, time out of mind. Almost out of her recollection....if she thought hard enough, struggled to dig the memories from the mire of them in her head, she could vaguely recall a place - her homeland perhaps - bathed in fire and death. Before the flight, before the long exile. Piles of dust that could have been wooden tables stood in the proper places for such furnishings, as well as upholstered chairs that would likely crumble to similar dust at a touch. Stone plinths held dust encrusted vases with the dust of flowers still settled in the bottom where it had fallen. A great throne, its gilding dulled with the years and caked heavily with dust, stood at the far end of the chamber.

She had stumbled on this place entirely by accident. Or maybe not. It was difficult to tell....she had felt strange for several hours approaching the mountain this place rested under. Very odd. Very odd.

She looked at the crystal again. It was then that she noticed the tiniest of imperfections, a tiny crack in the surface of the gemstone. There the power, whatever it was, whatever magical force it could be for its great strength, swirled violently against something jet black, like fire the color of smoke. It snaked a hair wider before her eyes. She began to back out of the chamber, back into the empty halls of the dead.

The ancient blood returns. Ah....life so sweet....so sweet to destroy....come closer....my child....my pet.... A rasping, ugly voice seemed to croon into her head. She did not hear it with her ears. Instinctively, she reach out, touched the land and its power, felt the magic in her blood burning.

The crack streaked longer as she did, a hair at a time. She turned, and fled into....

Her eyes opened to night, fire-lit darkness. At first she stared upward with a look of blank incomprehension. As she stood on her own two feet, she could feel the weariness drain from her bones, the dull ache in her head vanish. A new strength replaced the old, increased it, threatened to overpower her briefly before she came to her senses and put a rein to this unknown power. She blinked in surprise, and then regained her composure. She could feel the swell and surge of magic all around her, cast a glance over Juriels' shoulder and saw the nameless stranger grappling with the Lord, doing something she didn't entirely understand at first. Life flowed into the Lord, and his wounds seemed to heal, blood turning from putrid jelly to living, flowing red. Flesh with the faint paler of death lightened, and then a new look crossed the Lord's face. A look of pleading, a look of absolute terror. Not the face of the Lord. Just over the Lord's shoulder something black, a mist with the vague shape of some kind of spook hovered, tendrils of black much deeper than the night rooted in the Lord's flesh. The Lord thrashed and flailed, clawed at his head and screamed incomprehensable words of terror and pleading, for mercy, for an end. He did not fight against the stranger locking arms with him, but instead at the dark shape that seemed almost there and almost night. Against that dead black....Seska shuddered. A faint memory, tickling at the back of her mind, remembered.

Before she could respond to him, Juriel had left and taken his blade. She watched his last sacrifice, her blood freezing in her veins as he fell. As he fell, and did not rise again.

Fury raged suddenly in her. A fury as tremendous as the tidal force of the ocean, of the spinning of the heavens. Her calm serenity was riven by it, and she shrieked in absolute, utter bestial fury. And the power was there, pulsing in her veins, throbbing in her head. She....

Whatever it was that Ulfman had done, while he had done it the power of the Lord had quivered, begun to fail. The tornadic winds seem to vanish to nothing. A strong breeze remained, enough force to bowl someone over if it were concentrated. Whatever fight the Lord had had in him had vanished, replaced by a new one: with himself, within himself. Power. It flowed through her, and she worked it, spun it, wove it into something useful. The air behind her, against the shattered wall of the fortress took on a liquid shimmering, starting from a point the size of a gold mark and increasing in size until a man could easily walk through it. She did not turn to face it, merely pushed the part of her mind that maintained the gateway aside.

Power burned in her.

She walked calmly passed Ulfman, gesturing to the gateway. As wild as the oscillations in power were, there was no telling where it exited. Anywhere was better than here, though.

Without another word, she lashed out. The Lord, the battle that had raged between himself over as soon as Ulfmans hands broke contact with him, looked up, startled. Stone shattered, a roaring explosing that cratered the paving of the square deeply. Before the smoke had even a chance to drift away, lightning arced out of the smokey night sky, flashing searing blue-white against the darkness. One bolt. Two. Four. Ten. On and on they rained down, shattering stone that wasn't riven by fiery blasts, flashed to molten rock by fire hot enough to do the task.

"Go, stranger. I must maintain the Gate from this side....go!" She snarled at him, already feeling weariness creep back in. Lightning bolts began to skew off course, slamming into the stone in a rough circle around where the Lord stood amid fiery blasts. Even those began to be deflected; she could feel his strength returning, and knew their time would be short. A bead of sweat rolled down her face.

She cast one look at the....body of Silverwolf. That would come, too, she had decided. If only they....

The first of the Lords' counterstrokes was turned aside as easily as if child's play. A building, already half collapsed, burst like a rotted melon, spewing fire and debris into the square. "NOW!" She screamed at Ulfman.

The connection had been broken. Perhaps it was all that had saved his life. He staggered, his body barely responding as it slowly tore itself apart from within. It had been a long time since he had tried anything like what he had just done and never on such a scale. That the strain would have killed him if he had continued was beyond question. He coughed violently, retching up thick black bile that splashed across the floor and seemed to wriggle slightly. No mortal body was supposed to channel such energies and for all that he was capable of he was still mortal. The strain wasn't just mental, physical too. Pain like no other coursed through each and every fibre of his body as his flesh and bones tried to hold themself together against the damage done. His flesh had become tight and his muscles weakened, in appearence he was nearer to the dead, skin grey and pale. Several blood vessels had burst, though he could barely feel the trickle of blood as it slipped down his face and limbs, soaking into his clothing. Filthy blood, dark and unhealthy.

Voices and memories and visions shouted and screamed in his mind....you left them to die.... his own thoughts hard to put together.... worthless fool.... trying to piece together the present and now.... kill them all!.... trying to remember what he was doing.... why do you even bother?.... fighting a tide of the past and the never was.... they'll never love you like we could love you.... searching for himself in the jumble of his mind.... please don't kill me!....

His vision was blurred and everything seemed viewed through a red mist. It took him a moment to even remember he had only the one eye to see from. Something tore in his neck as he turned towards sounds that he could barely make out, as though he was underwater. The pain brought a moment of clearness but buckled his legs, dropping him to the floor, still coughing black wriggling bile. His breath was ragged and strained, one lung nearly collapsed in his chest sending its protests to the rest of him as he sucked in filthy smoke filled air down a windpipe that felt burned and scratched.

He saw the woman. Yes, a woman.

A woman he helped. Yes, helped a woman. Why?

He could not remember, too hard to focus. Focus on the woman.

She was saying something to him, he couldn't hear the words.

Don't fight it, give in to release.....

He woke up again, struck for moment by a blackout. Not good, focus. Woman.

He couldn't tell what she looked like, too blurred. Couldn't concentrate. Help her.

Something shimmered in his vision. Power. A door, a gate. She was gesturing to it.

Help her? No. Door. Escape.

Escape like you always have....

He saw her eyes motion towards a body next to him. Dead? He didn't know.

Help her. The body. Help her. Focus.

You can't help her....

His right arm wouldn't move. His left arm he couldn't feel. But it moved none the less. Dragging him on his knees to the body. His vision faded for a moment then returned.

He gripped the body with his left hand. Metal hand. Yes, metal hand. Focus. Help her.

Taking the body and gripping it tightly he pulled and dragged with his legs, kicking against the broken floor and struggling even as his muscles tore and his body bled. He didn't scream. Couldn't. Throat so sore and damaged it didn't remember how. All he could do was kick and drag the body. Towards a door. A bright door. So close.

With the last of his strength he pulled both himself and the body through. The last thoughts on his mind before he blacked out completely....

....Couldn't help her....

She stared out a window of plain stone, iron strapped flung open to let in the cool of the night. Out on the road, practically against the stone of the bordering mountain itself, a shimmering pool of light remained, reflecting dully the image of the men whom surrounded it. They stood with their spears grounded in a semicircle around it, and though they appeared to be inattentive, she knew that those spears would be through the liver of anything or anyone leaving that Gateway who did not belong. It was even odds as to whether or not the Sidhe would get a spear for her troubles, either; certainly, she had plenty to answer for already.

She turned back to the rooms lone bed, to one of its two other occupants. A man stood at the door, wyvern-headed helmet hiding is featues. He did not carry a spear, but he did have his hand on the sword at his belt, plainly intending to use it if the occasion demanded it. The other occupant was a strange man a man that seemed as made of things as flesh. He had been the first through the shimmering portal, him and his dead cargo. Silverwolf, stone dead for all his skill and bravery. Thus another of the elite core of the Order had passed on.

The Sidhe had many things to account for, Silverwolfs death by no means the leas, but still far from the worst.

Shaking her head slowly, she left the room. "Make sure he....it....doesn't leave. And send someone along to inform me when he wakes." She said curtly, and then stalked off down the corridor beyond the door. Her face was as smooth as ever, as lacking of outward emotion as ever. She went down the corridor, entered a large chamber and exited through tall doors easily twice the height of a man, made of hardwood bound with iron. The building held something of the days' heat in it yet. Stepping outside was like a slap in the face, or a cold water o the same. Her breah misted as she crossed the road to stand behind the Guardsmen watching the portal. There she stood, watching, brooding.

Further reports had come since the first On horseback, they were of course a few days old by the time their reached her ears. No faster way o communicate short of magic, she supposed. All the reports had illuminated was that what Seska had led a hundred Dragonguard and one Knight into had been nothing short of a massacre. The last riders spoke of the fortress complely overrun, most of the people in the area either dead or fled. And a particularly haunting message - The dark one stalks the night at Alcair. The dark one. The Dark Lord, more properly. And he had lain an ambush out for whoever had been bold enough to go rushing off like heroes.

She snarled silently. And stared into the depths of the gate leading back to Alcair with a sense of growing impatience. Would the woman come out yet? What was going on on the other side....

The sands swirled around him as he strode effortlessly through the wastes. The tattered cloak fluttering as he passed over them. The city sprawling before him had been grand when last he was here... dark... but grand. The sands were new as well, but that was to be expected. The valley had once been alive.. almost vibrant. He could recall that from his days in these lands.

Now all that lay in his path was a broken city. A monument to the vast powers that had been at work here once, long ago. The keep at the center still stood. The shattered teeth of broken buildings jutted from the ground as if a great beast had been slain here once. It reminded him of the endless wars of this land. It reminded him of where he had begun his journey.

He was a transient. A traveler of the void. He had crossed the space between worlds a thousand times, had seen wonders far beyond the dreams of the denizens of this bloody nightmare.

The peace of the night was so at odds with the light of day in this world. A place whose wars had continued for so long that the grass grew red in places. He had longed for the familiar for such a time that having landed in this world, once more, came as a shock. He had already visited the temple in which he was born.. had been trained. It had been a burned husk. The altar at which he had been transformed cracked and desecrated.

The sword at his side howled in remembrance with him. It was a violent scream that echoed over the sands, rebounding off the walls of the keep, still so far away. For a moment all action in the city stopped as its citizens shivered. They had never seen him... probably never heard of him... but for all that, their ancestors had, and the genetic memory of his atrocities would still run as ice in their veins when they heard the voice of that blade.

Out of the sand rose the stones of a shattered and buried road and he passed onto it. The sand that had swirled around him only moments before now fled from him across the stone and out into the desert once more. He passed the walls, an odd sensation bolting down his spine as he passed what had once been a barrier to him.

He was in the land of Koriasai, unchallenged by the wall that had once barred him.

A squad of footsoldiers appeared on the road before the gate, still a hundred feet from him, as if to prevent his passage.

He called to them, Hello, the city!

They relaxed minutely and his stride carried him toward them.

Hallo, the road!, they called back.

As he neared them, a stray breeze blew the hood from his head, revealing him.

Without knowing why, they stiffened at the sight of him. He stood at 6 feet, his hair black and bound with a leather strip behind him to fall down beneath the cover of the cloak. His pale flesh shined forth against the darkness behind him and his orange eyes seemed to glow with power. One of the guards stepped back from the group and mounted, riding toward the keep in the distance. He would report the strange visitor to his commander and shortly there would be someone to challenge this stranger's presence.

Ten stopped a few yards short of the guardsmen and waited for whomever would be sent to question him. He hoped for a rather less violent reception than he had received the last time he'd visited.

He glanced around as he waited for whomever would come to question his arrival, taking in the city laid out in front of him. Timbers braced the broken walls of the buildings and new, unmarked stone, grew up from the tarnished foundations of the buildings at its edges.

So they've begun to rebuild it, he muttered under his breath. The wonders never cease.

High up in the tower he saw a small figure silhouetted in a window. A tiny speck, as if an ant had crawled to the pinnacle of a sand castle and stood looking out over the endless beach beneath it. Even from here he could pick her scent from the breeze.. one filled with anger... hate... and colored with a small amount of fear. That core of mortal apprehensiveness that she probably could not show to any living person.

As his gaze panned around the rest of the city he noted glowing light, dim from the side of the city he stood on, and his mind quested toward it. As the tendrils of his mind found it and tasted of the energy there he smiled in reminiscence. A familiar scent, that one. One he did not relish explaining himself to if all was as it seemed.

His head snapped back to the officers before him and they flinched, brandishing their weapons at him once more.

I'm growing impatient.

He spoke the words coolly... entirely without inflection. A dull monotone that would grate on their nerves. He could already smell their anger and fear. He began to pace, back and forth, from one side of the road to the other.