A/N: LMAO! 20 hits in a week!? I think I'd better change my summary to something less contemptible.

The reek of cheese has begun to irritate my olfactory nodes; I may begin taking this fic a bit more seriously... or rather, less like a parody of itself/social experiment. It's still a learning endeavor for me, and hopefully enjoyable for you, so whatever your opinion of the work so far, reviews are welcome.

Chapter 2 - High Moon

The Murder had journeyed some distance toward their eventual goal: the monastery of the Order of the Sightless Eye. They expected no welcome there, of course, as the Sisters held no particular affinity for the disciples of Rathma. They nevertheless pressed on, for such was the importance of their mission: to reach the pass of the Khanduri mountains, and travel onward to Lut Gholein. Their ultimate goal, they thought, was to defeat Diablo and return the world from its defilement at the hands of the Prime Evil, back to the Way of All Things.

Arram Nightblade, the leader of the Murder stood with his arms crossed at a fork in the dirt road, looking through weary eyes at the darkness leading down both paths.

"Traveling with children." The old man shook his head, groaning softly in his rasping voice. "I don't know why I agreed to lead this expedition, nor why the council thought well of sending children- children who haven't attained so much as control over inanimate clay- into battle against this... this arch-fiend."

His interlocutor and lieutenant, Roth Grimward, stood next to him tall and proud like a statue. Also like a statue, he stared out defiantly against the world with unseeing eyes- a fact which a careful observer might have gleaned from the great helm he wore. Solidly built of iron and bearing extensive tracery of ornate symbols, it obscured his entire face, save for a pair of hard, frowning lips. He spoke tersely, and with fortitude. "We are none of us particularly fit for battle, lord."

Arram grinned. He had spent his career working alone, as necromancers generally do, but the frank demeanor of this steel-plated man- a man under whose armor seemed to lay nothing but layers of even harder granite- was refreshing from the self-serving dissimulation of most of their kind.

He replied at length, "yes, I am decrepit, the boy and the girl are insipid, and your own magic is similarly limited." His tone reached an almost apologetic lilt on mentioning Grimward's blindness, knowing that the grief of losing his vision would still be fresh in the man's mind. Or at least, it would be in the mind of any man on less intimate terms with the Great Cycle of Being. Indeed, there were few, even among the priesthood, who could demonstrate through their own actions such a thorough understanding of life, and of that which lies beyond. Thus, Nightblade knew to speak his mind freely when in the company of his lieutenant.

"We will succeed, nevertheless," Grimward replied, with sustained resolution. A sardonic half-grin crept onto Arram's colorless lips, and he might have uttered something sententious, had not a boisterous call from over the next hill abstracted their attention. The indiscernible salutation echoed through the still air of the warm, summery night, and the two were soon joined by Nyelun Viltower, a man of 22, who by his muscular build could easily be mistaken for a knight of Zakarum or even a highlander from the north, if not for his adept's vest and the papery skin underneath. He was broad-shouldered, full of vitality, with a mane of white hair running back along his head and down to his shoulderblades. His stride was light and easy, unlike his two middle-aged commanders, who seemed to lumber along like zombies when they were next to him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, boy," said Nightblade good-naturedly as they resumed the journey.

"I've spied a fairly large encampment a league beyond the bridge crossing the river after the next couple of hills."

"An encampment? Of what?"

"It's hard to tell by moonlight."

"Deduce, lad," Grimwald interpolated. "What could you ascertain about the encampment?"

The youth thought for a moment. "Whomever built it seems to have done so in a hurry. It's rather shabbily constructed."

"...And yet you can discern the work of human hands, and not those of demons?"

"Demons? Faith, I certainly hope not," Viltower returned, in his distinctively flippant and oafish manner. "But, we'll see when we get there, won't we?"

Grimwald nodded, giving a slight grunt of acknowledgement and no doubt rolling his eyes behind his iron mask.

Bringing up the rear of the group, Zahara and Clegorn trudged listlessly along, the former having spent what should have been her sleeping hours in study, and the latter being unaccustomed to walking for an entire night. Zahara pretended to examine the wall of trees and shrubbery, as if she hadn't noticed Nyelun's appreciative sideways glances from across the narrow road.

Yes, even Grimward could see what was going on.

She brushed a wave of dark hair over her reddening cheek before impulsively returning the glance, and found him engrossed with counting a sachel of four or five throwing knives, still grinning mischievously. and suddenly found herself again struck in the heart, as she had been in the tent with Clegorn. A sudden dread for the group, which she realized she was becoming attached to.

The group remained silent but for the clinking of metal and the clomping of boots against firm, dry earth until they reached the bridge crossing the river. The silhouette of a square wall of logs all sharpened at the ends, loomed in the distance like a forest of spearheads.

Squinting out into the darkness, Arram broke the silence. "Can't make out much from here."

Nyelun concurred in the sobriety demanded by the situation. "Yes, it could be anything in there. We'll need a closer look. Shall I go ahead?"

"No," the old man replied thoughtfully. "It looks too expansive to have been built by monsters. The only creatures in the area industrious enough to have made the attempt are goatmen, and they're all nomads."

Zahara noticed a figure flitting out of the trees, sprinting toward the encampment. Her eyes could make out the figure of a young woman holding a bow.

"I think we've been spotted. Do you see that shape there?" She pointed the figure out.

Nightblade made a sound like gas escaping from an exhumed corpse. "Well, we might as well go there to greet them peaceably, rather than move on paranoid of an attack that might not be coming. This will likely be a bloody mess either way."