A few hours earlier, Stubbins crouched in his rough sod hovel. It stands nestled against a rough spur of rock, damn near the only cover in this place. But while the rocks block the wind they also drink in the cold of this place and are cool to the touch even in high summer. As the back wall of the structure they flood it with cold, and its occupant might well have frozen to death if not for the gift from his god- a rent in the floor, constantly issuing a ragged limb of hot steam, sulfurous and damp. The humidity it brings has left all of Stubbin's possessions moldy and rotting. A ramshackle wooden altar, controlling a quarter of the limited space, is little more than a pile of moldering wood pulp, obscuring whatever it was dedicated too. Stubbins still uses it; globules of discolored wax nurse small flickering flames atop it, part of some rite for they fail to light the room. Jagged alcoves and runes cut into the walls are obscured by black shadows and blacker lichen. Yet Stubbins does not care, the vent and its damp is proof that something loves him, rare both in his life and this far north. He nervously worries a hide scrap with a piece of charcoal. Somehow both are dry, where he kept them who can say for the rough hide chest is riddled with holes and moist. He writes:

To Duke Winterborne, my teacher and leader,

I do not believe I can achieve the task set for me; they begin to suspect something is amiss. The town hall's horn has been sounded. Not only that but the agent of the interloper is aware of my presence- his position is far stronger than mine and I fear he will turn them against me. This place is close to our master's love yet they do not feel it, clinging pathetically to their lost lives and ways. No more have come forth to join us, not even those who can expect only death from the false world of Light. I do not fear death but success is now a remote hope for me. I bitterly regret that I may be unable to serve our master. From him comes my life and meaning; failure is a most meager repayment on my part. Yet I am a meager man and I fear I have found my path too late, with the best of my strength gone.

I have completed most of the preparations as we discussed- but it may fall to another to set events in motion. Perhaps I am overreacting. This meeting was not planned but it does not mean I have been found out, perhaps the upstart has been discovered? I can only hope. The sheriff is the only man truly upon his guard in this place, the only one who will know what I have done when he sees it. There is a faction against him in this place, more so than they are against those who refuse to participate in their filthy pursuit of worldly wealth, a fact I must use. If heeded he will prove more dangerous than the interloper, who is slow and feeble unlike the sheriff. He hunts restlessly, alone, and I fear it is for me he hunts. A shorter time than the rest he has spent here yet he has seen parts of its true face, if only the youngest and meanest portions. Such a glimpse makes a man wary like nothing else- does he already know, and merely needs the proof? Irregardless, my time grows short. The way is laid, the continuance of the seal shall not be due to me. If I do not write again soon, I shall see you in the next plane my teacher; thank you for the many gifts you have blessed me with.

Your servant,
Lester Stubbins

The sheriff forced his way through the logjam of chairs on the town hall's floor to where one of the two healers in Farshire sat motionless. Not that Sarlock was a good healer, but in Northrend options are limited.

"Sarah!" Brynn refused to use the name Sarlock; he needed her potions, not her delusions of grandeur. "Are you well?" At the sound of Brynn's voice Sarah turned to him, green eyes wide under a tangle of blonde hair and blood that did not appear to be her own, no wound being obvious. The chair Stubbins had been sitting in, now a broken heap on the floor, offered the answer the stunned alchemist could not. Blood spatters sat upon what had been the back of his chair, the broken end and fletching of one of Jeremiah's arrows mixed in with the scraps of wood. Confident that the alchemist was not injured, the sheriff turned to other matters. A red smear on the closest window frame indicated Stubbins' method of escape; the sheriff would have been more impressed if there were any available hiding spots. Farshire was small, and even the poachers refused to camp in the surrounding tundra. Walking back to the front of the room, Brynn ran over the situation in his mind. There were only so many places he could be, yet Brynn didn't think he would get much help in his search. Mayor Clerk's desk trembled in time with the great orb of an elected official attempting to and just barely failing to hide his bulk behind it. No help from that quarter. Not unusual, but on a more serious note Brynn had thought he was finally rid of the flashbacks- he would have liked to have someone share the burden of command. Yet that part wouldn't be so bad- the drained town hall had precious little manpower. Gerald Green, still blinded and towering over the remains of Zebadiah's cane, was strong but had no weapon skill to the best of the sheriff's knowledge- fisticuffs with the undead tended to end poorly. Still, that was a problem for the actual attack- what the sheriff needed now were pairs of eyes. Zebadiah and his son Stevron, to whom the old man had hastily hobbled to in the confusion, were decent shots with a bow and cunning. The sheriff would sooner enlist the aid of starved wolves- they at least would be predictable. Scarlet lay unconscious across Terrance's lap. As to Terrance, the last name Jenkins was good reason to exclude him but being a decent man he was the black sheep of the family; Brynn could count on him. Jeremiah, Mammoth, Icehorn and Thomas were a foregone conclusion; the sheriff could always rely on them when something needed doing. Darren would be another pair of eyes but the sheriff didn't really need her either. That left Sarlock and Father Miller. Brynn didn't think dragging the alchemist along was a good idea, but Miller was under oath to fight the Cult of the Damned and Scourge wherever they appeared and the sheriff was going to hold him to it just in case anything needed smiting.

Brynn vaulted the railing to the raised platform where the mayor still cowered. "Alright- undead are in the area and our only lead is the cultist who just ran off. Time to go fetch him back- alive, mind you, till some questions have been answered. Who's willing to do their part for the town?" The sheriff shot Miller a meaningful look; the man looked uncertain but stiffened under the accusatory glare. Everyone conscious in the room except the mayor and Brynn raised their hand. Scarlet had been unceremoniously dumped to the floor, and Sarah looked pouty- had she been about to say something? - but otherwise the group before him looked resolute and dependable. Light damn it, he hadn't expected that. The Jenkinses always haughtily declined whenever community aid was called for; the sheriff didn't trust them but couldn't refuse them. That they were usurious bastards grown fat on horrendously unjust loans who undermined the sheriff politically whenever possible was not a defensible excuse to exclude them with an undead menace looming. He'd also been sure that Sarlock would refuse to dirty her hands, and she didn't look happy yet her hand was still up, drawing a worried look from Gerald. Just a few too many surprises in one day for Sheriff Desechain's liking. So that made a... 13 man posse. Light be praised.

"What are you waiting for then? Everyone outside and mount up!" Brynn strode briskly out the door, pushing aside chairs with more force than was necessary. Sensing his mood, his horse began snorting as soon as it saw the sheriff. What he would give for a proper warhorse. The others filed out as he stroked the animal, trying to calm it down. Thomas nimbly took the seat of his hawkstrider, which bent its knees as he did so, making the task considerably easier. Its plumage was dull but the more ornamental breeds were much less hardy, making what had been intended as a slight by Thomas' family a very useful gift. Gerald hauled himself onto his monstrous draft horse, far heftier than its peers as was its owner. Jeremiah and his cohorts swung into the saddles of shaggy garrons, bows in easy reach. The poachers hated firing from horseback, too difficult, but it seemed they were making an exception for this. Sarah was looking at him as if she expected a boost up then mounted her garron with a huff, wrenching her hood up in a sharp and angry motion. Zebadiah mounted a pale horse with a swiftness that belied his advanced years, while Stevron methodically mounted a red stallion; Brynn studiously avoided eye contact with them. Father Miller began to speak as the sheriff mounted his steed.

"I'm afraid I can't keep up so well, just have my mule here. I'll make the best time that I can, I'll be caught up and healing people before you even knew I was gone." He offered the group a weak smile at odds with the fear in his eyes. The priest nearly jumped out of his skin and seat when the mule shifted its weight, his brown hair and robe rumpled. Twitchy, and looking to hang back. The sheriff knew how to fix that.

"Volunteering for the rearguard Father? That's the most dangerous spot in the column; if the undead decide to attack you'll be the first to know. Courageous, your faith is an inspiration to us all!" The sheriff paused to let those words sink in then laid out his plan. "Alright, only so many places this cultist could be, so we check his house first before we start splitting ourselves up; don't know what he has up his sleeve so we need to be careful." Sheriff Desechain set a brisk trot down what passed for the main street in Farshire, dust from the brittle ground swirling around the hooves and claws of their mounts. He smiled to himself as he saw Father Miller's mule seemed to be keeping up just fine. They soon left the town behind, what little of it there was. Unpainted clapboard and sod houses on either side of the dirt track, the gaping maw of the mine, and the Green family smithy, a unique building in that no part of it was sagging. Smoke rose from every chimney but no one greeted them as the sun began to set. Cowards.

Their destination lay only a few minutes outside town- a desolate spur of rock barely visible from the northern edge of Farshire- it wasn't the homestead the furthest to the north but it was close, and none of those further out came to town with any regularity. If an undead push was coming it would pass here first. Dwarfed by the shadows keeping pace on their right flank, Brynn felt uneasy. Stubbins' sickly mule lay a about a hundred yards south of the rock- foam coated its muzzle; it appeared it had been ridden to death. Grimacing and speaking in a soft voice that nonetheless brooked no argument, the sheriff split the group in two to pincer around the rock- Stubbins' house, if it could be called that, lay on the other side, hidden from town and always in the sun. The Jenkinses, Father Miller, Mammoth and Sarah took the right side, falling into shadow while Brynn and the remainder hooked to the left. The mound of sod blazed a sickly orange in the dying light, grass feebly clinging to the three sides. The dull gray spur towered over them all, dwarfing the hut that looked too small for a man to stand in. A hide door, untied, flapped in an air current as the group reunited in front of the hovel.

Stubbins emerged unbidden. He looked small, his posture hunched enough that he could pass through the low door. A mane of thinning hair wreathed his head, broken by sores and more devoid of luster than the sheriff's faded locks. The right shoulder of his robes had been cut away, revealing the broken haft and arrowhead embedded in his gaunt shoulder. "Sheriff, if I might have the chance to explain myself?" His raspy voice sounded as bad as the man looked.

The sheriff fingered the handle of his saber. "Miller? Brighttree?" Father Miller looked lost until Thomas responded.

"No enchantments or spells on this area that I can detect."

"Uh... I sense no undead presences" stammered the priest. Brynn had far more faith in Thomas' abilities than the priest's but he couldn't see where any undead would be hiding, and the earth around the area was undisturbed- no crypt fiends burrowing. Brynn swung down from his saddle, crossing his arms and fixing the ragged man with a piercing glare.

"Lester Stubbins- you stand accused of membership in the Cult of the Damned, the penalty for which is death. Speak now in your defense as is your right or admit your guilt."

Zebadiah's sputtering indignation prevented Stubbins from speaking. "Wha- naw sherriff- we have naw time fer' this, kill tha blaggard now!"

"My father is right" added Stevron in an odd voice- it sounded as if it were a phrase repeated more out of habit than any sentiment. Terrance snorted derisively.

"There is always time to do the honorable thing."

"Wha would ye know h'about it de-"

"Enough! Stubbins, say your piece."

"It seems I made a mistake sheriff, allow me to explain meself and you'll understand that I'm no follower of the Lich King!"

"You seem to know a lot about where I was this morning for someone who wasn't linked with the shade."

"I've been keeping vigil on this place, the last holdout of humanity in Northrend, miserable as it is. In these observations for my master I have learned a great deal, which now I shall share with you for both our ends." Stubbins' manner had changed- his voice was no longer so raspy and Thomas was the only person Brynn had ever heard speak in such a formal manner; this beggar had more dignity than the mayor, not that such a thing was difficult. Sarah, standing next to the sheriff, looked as confused as he felt. Wait, why was she off her horse? "Sheriff Desechain, what I have learned and what you must understand is that-!" All the sheriff understood was that Stevron had just shot Stubbins in the throat, sending him to his knees with his throat a bloody ruin, choking on his own blood.

"Wha- I thought we were taking him alive brother? How the blazes are we supposed to question a corpse? Dammit Stevron! What were you thinking?"

"I don't owe you an explanation brother" replied Stevron, his voice flat and monotone, overriding his brother's strident yell.

"Yeah? What about the sheriff? Reckon you should tell him why you defied direct orders and the plan, endangering the whole town? Sheriff? What say you to... what's wrong?"

Brynn had not been following the conversation, but rather watched as the skin on Stubbin's body grew taught and he jerkily regained his feet, his -it's?- shaggy head bearded red and tilted back, unseeing. Steam rushed from the hovel behind Stubbins as he extended to his full height like a hanged man. Before he could make his next move the sulfurous cloud swept over all concerned, blinding and warm. The setting sun painted the fumes violet, enhanced by the deadly beauty of nightfall, the tell-tale chill driven off for now. Stubbins must have a vent in his hut to one of the caverns under Farshire- Brynn knew some of the reservoirs ran hot but even so the sheriff would have thought some magic was at work, even if Stubbins walking around with arterial blood spraying from his neck hadn't been a clue. How had Thomas missed something magical?

Whether there was some object doing this or Stubbins had magic the half-elf should have caught it. Hooves pounded, men cursed and a horse screamed. Over the rush of steam issuing from the earth Brynn heard a wet ripping sound, cutting of the horse's last breath. Had Stubbins or whatever force responsible for keeping him alive killed one of the posse? They were at a distinct disadvantage. Jeremiah and Brighttree had been the men the sheriff had been counting on- the deadly bowman and skilled mage. The steam negated their superior range and they were liable to hit a friend in this mess. Icehorn and Mammoth lacked Jeremiah's savvy, leaving him as alone as Thomas. Sarlack, now wrapped around the sheriff's right arm, probably wasn't going to contribute anything to this fight. And it would be a fight, whatever this was would simply have left with the onrush of steam if that was its intention. Instead it was sticking around and making flesh-ripping noises. Since no one had screamed since they were probably beyond Father Miller's help, healing being all that he brought to the table, and even that the sheriff was unsure of if it came down to it. The man was unseasoned and naive, liable to run, oaths to aid the wounded or no. Anyone seriously hurt would most likely die on the spot or bleed out before the Father composed himself. Brynn had not wanted to bring any of the Jenkinses and fully expected them to stab him in the back if it was in any way convenient. That left Wendy and Gerald, bringing fists and thrown daggers with no stopping power to bear against the cultist who had now reanimated into some form of higher undead. Brynn was reevaluating the decisions he had made that had resulted in him not being on his horse, and also those that had caused his appointment as sheriff. Honorable actions- he should have learned better seeing how well such courses had served him in the past. Seizing Sarlock, the sheriff backed briskly along the left side of the rock spur; Stubbins probably hadn't gone far and the sheriff would like to have his now-drawn sword between monstrosities and his vital organs, thank you very much.

"Don't worry Sheriff Desechain, I'm sure the others are alright! We can link up as soon as we-"

"I'm sure the Prince is alright Corporal Desechain, just finishing off the last few of those wretched undead, he'll link back up with us. I'm sure he has a plan to get us off this freezing hellhole."

"-get rid of this mist, and I think I have just the potion!" Shaking himself, the sheriff was shocked to see that Sarlock had abandoned her role as an anchor and was busily mixing potions, somehow managing not to drop anything as she juggled seven crude bottles imprisoning substances of various sickly colors, the largest, a vastly oversized wine bottle with a thin neck and sphere reservoir of which was smoking. She rammed the neck of the smallest inside the largest with a crunching noise as it foamed violently, disgorging blood red foam into the off-white contents of the largest bottle. Sarlock strode past Brynn with a purpose he had never seen in her before, bracing the orb body of the bottle on her hip. The small bottle shattered under the pressure of the swirling contents, spraying shards of glass and a violently expanding pink foam into the mist. While all but the glass dissipated quickly, the steam instantly condensed to water in the path of the foam, spraying several body lengths in front of Sarlock.

"Sarlock, you did this without an alchemy lab?"

"Please, call me Sarah!" What does that have to do with anything? She leaned back and began to pull her hood back, bracing the bottle against herself then shifted violently to avoid the spray of foam as it returned to the frozen ground, where it sizzled menacingly. There was already a large clear area in front of the pair.

"With this we have a real chance of winning-" As the steam began to part Brynn stiffened in horror- a severed head somehow stood before them in a small pool of blood, as if to block their escape route. Then, for one joyous moment, Brynn thought it was Zebadiah- the stoat-like face and eyes so squinty they appeared closed were distinctive even with the giant red handprint across them. But the head had hair- Terrance, not his father. Damn. Then the head fell on its side, and pebbles rained down on Brynn and Sarah from the rock shelf behind them as something massive moved in the steam.

What had once been the man called Lester Stubbins stood before them, shrouded in the receding white cloud that magnified his wrongness rather than concealing it. His arms had burst open, revealing dark, thick and tentacular parodies of his hands and forearms, slick with blood and wreathed in mangled flesh. The ruined head had begun to swell and a long tentacle had burst from the wound on his shoulder; grey hide, the same shade as his hands, was visible in the gaping wound at his throat. Even worse were his legs, swollen to thrice their size, with tears ripping wide in the taut skin.

"That doesn't look like undead..." observed the sheriff- Sarah just made a gagging sound.

The-man-that-was shifted, revealing Terrance's headless corpse still clutched in its left tentacle-hand; it raised the body over its head, gripped by one leg like a flail, and rushed forward with furious wail, elephantine legs bursting from their fleshy sheaths.