Storming through the forest, Bala was halted when she discovered a river of swiftly running water, feeling the tie between herself and Warrick stretched perilously. She considered for a moment, leaving him to liaison with the Undead warriors on his own and walk as far away as she could, fading more and more with every step from him. She laughed coldly; thoughts of suicide came to those who were losing battles... she was not losing. Yet.

A sudden crack of dry bush caused her to whirl on a heel and send a bolt of fire thundering into an unfortunate skeletal warrior. The Warlock beside him - half rotted and surrounded with the stench of decay - grinned with blackened teeth; dead skin tearing with the effort. He let out a wheezing laugh, air escaping from the rotted holes in his chest beside his throat.

"That was singularly the funniest thing I have encountered all day." He rattled. Bala sneered at the Undead,

"Hilarious."

"Where is your master?"

"I have no master." Bala looked back down at the running water; her reflection in the river distorted and bubbled.

"Then Warrick is dead?"

"Warrick is camped by a fire at the foot of your precious tower."

The Warlocks mouth opened slightly as if to say something then he smiled with realisation at the woman's back. Nodding slightly, he creaked away using his wooden staff as support as he walked. The company of Undead Warriors followed him obediently, paying their smoking and moaning colleague no attention as they marched towards the tower rising from the forest.

Bala closed her eyes and let herself drift, a sharp tug pulling her from her feet in the darkness toward Warrick. When she opened them again, she was standing by his side once more. He looked up - distracted from the scarlet-bound book of skill he was reading.

"What now?"

"Horde." She inclined her head towards the approaching footfalls of Undead foot-soldiers. Warrick smiled and snapped the book shut, banishing it to his pack with a thought and stood. He stretched stiffly as a rotting corpse emerged from the trees.

The Undead Warlock from the river saw Bala and grinned widely once more.

"If we all traveled as swiftly as you, my dear, then we would have won this war."

"If you all traveled as swiftly as me," Bala replied coldly, "You would not be in this war."

He laughed,

"Indeed." Turning to Warrick he pointed his staff at the dark tower behind them, "It is empty?"

"All save for the one you wanted." Warrick jerked his head to it's topmost room, where a candle light flickered through the window, "The Shadow Priest had barricaded himself in his room in fright."

"Or strategy." The Warlock said grimly, taking a seat fireside.

"Where are your Acolytes, Garrimar?" Warrick asked, noting the absence of soldiers that usually traveled with the old warlock.

"Here… or more appropriately; not here." Garrimar flicked his patchworked hand nonchalantly into the darkness. Bala spotted a bleached head pass above a small bush and disappear behind a tree a short while away.

"They're patrolling?"

"Indeed they are, Bala."

"Where is Teleia?" Warrick asked suddenly. Bala felt a stab of jealousy at the name of the Undeads Succubus. Garrimar shrugged,

"I felt no need for her here, given that all danger would have been disposed of by you and Bala. I brought T'larc."

Almost on cue, a tiny creature the size of a cat pounced from the darkness at Bala, chittering away in mindless babble. Bala caught it mid-air by the tale and let it dangle from her hand as it giggled manically.

"T'larc," Garrimar sighed, "What have I told you about speaking common tongue?"

"That it is beyond my tiny brain?" The Imp rasped. Bala raised an eyebrow,

"Lo and behold. The pest speaks."

The Imp grinned up at her twistedly and wrapped long fingers around her wrist,

"Only for you, my beautiful."

Bala snarled and threw him from her wrist. He tumbled through the air and landed nimbly on his feet with a little skip and a bow.

"Go get trodden on!" She spat.

"I hear words from your illustrious throat, lady, yet I'm still to determine the code you give me." He looked up at her and blinked huge red eyes.

"It is not code, bug."

"Alas again I miss your true message." The Imp clasped a hand to his heart.

"On matters other than T'larc's heart," Garrimar cleared his throat and stood, summoning a long staff from the air before him, "I believe you were promised this in your quest."

Warrick's eyes glittered when they set upon the staff,

"Nafarian surrendered it?" Garrimar half-smiled as he handed the golden staff to Warrick.

"You could say that." He muttered.

The Staff of the Shadow Flame was taller than Warrick by a good two feet; a snarling dragon at its top with horns curling upwards, its base had four spines curving outwards mimicking the tail of the Child of Deathwing himself. Bala eyed the staff. It throbbed with a black light that repulsed her.

"You stole it." She whispered. Garrimar winced,

"Stole is such a strong word…"

"You stole from Nefarian?" She demanded, "Do you have an Undeath-wish? You know he will send someone after it, he may even come himself!"

"Details." Garrimar shrugged and looked at Warrick pointedly, "By which time – if he does choose to pursue the staff – you will have created your Soul Stone. Now come," He ushered the human to him and rose to his feet, "We have much to discuss if we are to take the tower." T'larc chattered and skipped, following his master and Warrick as they entered the huge doors of the tower.

Bala frowned after their backs. Warrick was creating a Soul Stone? Had his lust for power extended to immortality now? Clenching her jaw, she followed them; hearing the soft footfalls of the Acolytes behind her. She hoped Garrimar knew what he was doing, crossing the eldest child of a World Dragon was a serious matter – even if he didn't see it that way.

It may end up costing them their lives.

"Are you reckless or simply stupid?" Bala asked Warrick as she followed him up with winding stairs of the tower. He paused and turned,

"Regarding what?"

"The Staff of the Shadow Flame." Her eyes flicked to it then back to his face.

His brow creased slightly and he drew it closer to him protectively. The eyes of the dragon on its head pulsed with a purple light suddenly, casting a sick glow across the stairway.

"See?" Warrick laughed, "It already knows its new master." He turned to continue up the stairs.

Bala grabbed his wrist and pulled him back,

"…Or is marking you for death! Nefarian will come for it; he is a Dragon, is he not? Dragons loathe being stolen from – especially when the item in question is one he coverts most!"

"Then let him come!" Warrick thundered, "I will kill him with his own prized possession." He pulled his wrist, but Bala refused to let go. She stared into his eyes, barely recognizing the man standing before her.

"You are going to get yourself killed, D'ni." She whispered softly. Warrick blinked and the light from the staff faded.

"You have not called me that in a long time."

"It may be the last time." She muttered, brushing past him towards the landing ahead. He made no move to follow her, remaining on the stair and struggling with the purple haze that had settled upon him. He looked up at the head of the dragon on the staff. It grinned wickedly back; promising death.

Shaking his head free of the dark thoughts, he closed his hand over the Soul Shards in his robe. In a short while, he would no longer have to worry about death. He looked up at the landing above, where four of Garrimar's Acolytes were attacking the spelled door of the Shadow Priest and smiled.

All he needed was one more soul.