Part 14

Chalisse entered the Royal Exchange again. Slipping quietly into the building, she stepped up to the crystal. It was her third time in here within twenty-four hours, and she could only hope that it was early enough in the morning to escape notice.

She wanted the Power in that crystal with a fierce and driving passion that consumed her. Her throat felt dry, her skin was soaked in sweat, and she trembled violently every few minutes. She had to have Power, the pain and hunger was becoming intense.

She began to drain the being trapped in the crystal, and she could see his baleful red eyes watching her yet again. Often, this made her feel that much more powerful, but this time, they seemed to condemn her for her groveling, wretched need. The baleful eyes gazed at her with hateful, direct regard, and she summoned her courage to take from them what she wanted and needed.

At last, she sank onto the cushions, delirious with the sweetness of Power that flowed through her. She ran her hands over her body, soon tugging free from her clothes. It was too early in the morning for her to be disturbed, and it was generally good form to ask before joining someone anyway (though watching was considered entirely within the bounds of courtesy—do it in public, someone's going to watch it, most likely).

So she abandoned herself to the physical sensations the crystal's Power imparted to her. She grasped her breasts, tweaking at her nipples. In her mind, she was being ravaged by a powerful demon, who was tugging and even biting at her nipples (the last accomplished with a sharp, fingernail based pinch). This was a common fantasy for her, and she indulged it recklessly now.

She imagined him drinking from her blood, and she felt real blood trickle down her breast as she dug her own fingernails into her chest. Abandoned to her quest to satisfy the virulent lust that was surging through her, she gave herself up to the demon in her mind, pleasuring herself in brutal, debased ways to the mental visage of a gloating demon.

A demon that looked very much like a dreadcaller.

They rode slowly down the corridor. It was wide, so wide that it was most likely once used to haul in large cartloads or wagonloads of goods. Now, though, it dripped incessantly with cold water, while bits of fallen stone decorated it like forlorn and forgotten children's toys.

Relics of the past, the fallen stone in the passageway seemed to speak, warning them to turn, go back, give up the quest for Prince Keleseth, and flee to the safety of Dalaran. The rotten walls, covered in some places in a slimy sheen, pressed down upon Nerissa like a stark, painful blanket on her soul.

She actually entertained the idea of turning back. She genuinely considered it, until the most terrible of facts occurred to her. "Ferruk has the amulet that can teleport me up to Dalaran," she said bleakly.

Stunned, the entire group stopped and turned to stare at her.

"Seriously?" Malovici asked, his golden orbs directed upon her.

"Yes," she responded, her heart sinking.

"What a clusterfuck," Malovici said, his voice somehow amused, as if he found it to be over-the-top funny. A grand, cosmic joke at all of their expense. "That sure puts a kink in it, don't it."

Then, pragmatically, he turned and started back up the dank, musty corridor again. The others turned to follow him, Nerissa numb at the revelation. Despite dire expectations, some part of her had been holding out hope that a cure could be found. That she could be freed.

But now, as she set off down the corridor after the others, her mind roiled with the pain of lost hope. Who knew if they would ever see Ferruk again at all? Who could say if they would survive this terrible experience? Who knew what would become of her?

An emptiness settled into her. The thought of never seeing Ferruk again was agonizing. Without realizing it, she said aloud, "Now I know why love is so difficult. I can't imagine living another thousand years without ever seeing Ferruk again." It had finally sunk in for her that she probably would never see him again.

Whitecrow gave her a gentle, warm rub on her shoulder, his big hand kind and understanding. Her loss was recent, and most people did eventually heal from loss. But as Whitecrow well knew, other people were haunted for years, if not their lifetimes, by a loss that becomes a defining part of who they are. It was possible that Nerissa would be such a person. He knew he was still haunted by his own love and loss.

They rode further into the corridor, each of them feeling a sense of oppression as the walls closed in both behind and in front of them. The ancient ruins, of unknown heritage and experience, seemed to whisper of past secrets, as if to reveal them at last. Only, in the end, to be frustrated by the fact that the language it spoke, and the language of the riders, was a world apart.

The group picked their way through the rubble carefully, wary of their mounts—and any possible ambush. Several times, Malovici mounted his wyvern to ride forward and inspect great gaps in the wall. Gaps which, if one were to ride too close to and slip, plunged thousands of feet to the dangerous, frigid waters below.

It was a death trap, and they were riding willingly right into it. The chill they felt was not entirely due to the cold or even the damp and odorous walls. The very essence of the place seemed to be a sort of spiritual subjugation, a damping of one's very soul. They traveled for hours, until at last they entered the Keep, passing from dank and decrepit corridor so vast that it seemed more like a railway for the Gods, to a cathedral-like antechamber.

Nerissa felt the added weight of the fact that they were leaving Ferruk further behind with each step. All she could think about was how he had tried to help her understand how serious her situation was. How he had asked her what she wanted to do. How he'd helped her realize that she was actually a capable and worthy paladin.

How he had comforted her when she'd realized the truth about her mother and her mother's intentions. How he had held her, and the way he'd made love to her with such depth and passion. The tenderness that he had, but tried so hard to hide.

She shook her head to clear it. They were about to enter a dangerous, malevolent situation in which she needed to have all of her wits about her. Trying to distract herself, she looked up and studied the architecture that towered so far over them that it was actually softened by mist at the top. Ornate curved beams softened the harsh, utilitarian stone. Massive candelabras seemed to have been burning indefinitely, their spidery limbs covered in cobwebs and dust.

Soon, they faced the hallway into the Keep proper. Here, doors had once stood, but now the rotting wooden beams that had once supported them were bare and broken. They smelled of mildew and decomposing wood.

Beyond the doorway, though, they could see several Vrykul working at anvils. It seemed to be the standard working ritual for underpaid, undermotivated people… three men watching, one man working.

The confrontation was about to begin.

"She is deeply addicted, my lord. I believe that she's reached the point of real physical withdrawal. It's not even night yet, and she has been to the Exchange's power crystal a total of three times. Yesterday it was three, as well. But I suspect that today will be four times, as she has already been three times today, and the first was near three am," Tarisseil informed Quardis.

"As such," he continued, "I think the easiest way to create an accident for her would simply be a tainted power source. I suspect that if she found one on her way to the Exchange, given her… perhaps, shall we say, less scrupulous nature, she would be unlikely to try to find its owner, and very likely to simply consume it. Especially if you can somehow manage to cut her off from magic and make her desperate."

Quardis leaned his elbows on his chair, clasping his hands and steepling his index fingers in front of him. Leaning against them thoughtfully, he considered what his man was telling him.

"So, what we must consider, is how to taint the thing so that it isn't necessarily obvious, and yet also to keep this subtly tainted magic source from being traced back to us."

Tarisseil nodded, "Those seem to be the main issues, sir, yes. However, I would also like to point something further out. When she is in the deepest throes of her addiction, she seems to become a bit oblivious of her surroundings. She looks around, but doesn't even seem to see what is there. It will have to be something definitively eye catching. Which makes it that much harder to taint without it being obvious."

"Hmmm," Quardis said pensively. "Yes, that does complicate it. I would say that the ones most likely to be able to create such a power source would be the gnomes. I need a gnome, Tarisseil."

"Yes, master," Tarisseil said, knowing this was his dismissal. How about I just get the moon, the sun, and the stars for you, too, oh great and bastardly master? he thought to himself as he left the room.

The group dismounted, and without preamble, Whitecrow stepped past the threshold of the long-lost doors and up the hallway a ways. Malovici disappeared into the shadows, following the other two up the passageway. When they caught up, Whitecrow threw a small throwing axe, which bounced harmlessly off of its target's hard leather tunic.

It served its purpose, though, as the Vrykul bellowed, running towards them, his not-so-little friend hot on his heels.

Whitecrow grinned and let the thrill he felt at the impending battle turn into a powerful burst of speed that swept him down the passageway and let him slam into his target with such concussive force that it actually stunned the Vrykul and his companion. Taking advantage of their momentary incapacitation, he let loose a mighty swing with his axe, cutting a small ridge into the first man's hard leathers.

Nerissa leaped forward as Whitecrow zinged away from them, reaching the fight mere moments after he had. She called upon the Light, consecrating the ground all around her, blessing it with a holy fire that burned those not attuned to her. Malovici, for his part, scampered behind Whitecrow's target, a large Vrykul with a scar that ran from his forehead to his cheekbone.

Slipping behind Scarface, Malovici then leaped into the air, and with a spin, stabbed the giant in the back. His dagger sank deeply into him, slicing through the leather like it wasn't even there. It was an incredibly lucky strike, digging into a nerve just above his hip on the right side. Scarface fell forward, his right leg no longer working properly, and bellowed in pain.

Like Whitecrow, Scarface was able to imbue his roar with the magical essence of his rage, and it unnerved them all slightly, so that their responses were ever-so-slightly impaired.

Behind them, Nantu laughed, as if she found his roar hilarious. She began to chant, and a wave of magic washed over the other three. Suddenly, they found themselves awash in a daze of bloodlust. Each of them hungered suddenly for death, for carnage, for retribution.

Nerissa's sword sang through the air, cutting into the hard, inches-thick leather of Scarface's tunic. 'Whoosh,' it sang, until it landed with a thick, meaty sounding 'whomp.' Nerissa was pleased to find that it seemed to cut into his leathers easily.

But she wanted more. Murmuring an incantation, she called forth Holy magic that sparkled and danced around her for a moment. A seal appeared in the air before her, before it faded from visible sight unless someone were to focus on her and stare for a moment. She slashed again, and was gratified to see her strike dig a bit deeper, hit a bit harder. But the additional power was not without personal cost. It reverberated up her arms, bringing a stinging pain with it, and exhausting her faster. It ate into him, but wrenched at her, as well.

It didn't matter. She lifted the sword, and called upon Holy magic once more. A hammer, formed only of ethereal, ephemeral Holy magic appeared over Scarface's head, sparkling and radiating Holy power that showered down around him in brilliant sparks. It hung suspended for just an instant, before it slammed down upon him with a mighty crushing blow.

The energy discharged from it was powerful, but once more, not without personal cost. It slammed into him, causing him to arch and roar with pain. But the backlash struck Nerissa as well, and she staggered slightly, before pressing forward again.

Nerissa cringed as a dagger flew past her head. Malovici was at it again, his seemingly endless supply of throwing knives zipped out around him as his fingers danced, snapping the tiny daggers out at incredible speeds. His hand zipped back and forth in front of him, bizarrely able to throw knives both in front of, and behind him, with equally deadly accuracy and speed.

He flexed his fingers for a couple seconds, before doing several combination attacks. He repeated the maneuver several times, much to Nerissa's discomfort (even daggers thrown by an elite rogue are unnerving flying past your face). She continued to batter at Scarface with deadly swings of her broadsword that rapidly ate away the leather on his back as she tried to ignore the fan of knives flashing ever so close to her.

She danced around the Vrykul's feet as they thrashed around, he trying to make up for the right leg having been rendered useless. He was able to kneel on it, but not use it, thus he kicked with the left leg, thrashing and causing Nerissa to practically dance to avoid it.

She was grateful that her armor was made for moving, not so much for taking direct blows.

Whitecrow, for his part, was laughing in Scarface's face. Taunting him, daring him, deriding him. These taunts were not only verbal, they held a slight magical compulsion as well.

The giant man could do little damage to the tauren warrior. Whitecrow's armor was thick and heavy, hard to penetrate with any sort of materials. Being a massive man, Whitecrow easily moved in it, and even more than that, he had spent years perfecting his ability to dodge and otherwise avoid incoming blows. The Vrykul's maces bounced off of him, or were reflected, more often than not.

He swung his vast shield as if it weighed little more than a child, using it to batter at his enemy. He was truly a very powerful warrior, and his armor had many enhancements to aid him. He had spent great amounts of money improving it. And in this battle, it certainly showed, for the damage he dealt was almost as great as Nerissa's damage, despite she being especially trained specifically for damage, not avoidance as Whitecrow was.

Nantu called upon the elements, unleashing powerful magics that at times brought comfort and healing to her party, and at other times brought pain and savage injury to their opponents. Her creepy little totems, some of them grinning simulacrums of skulls or faces, distorted and malevolent, surrounded her, staring balefully out over the fight with casual impartiality.

Scarface rapidly succumbed to their methods, toppling forward where he knelt. The other was dispatched even more rapidly, his life already almost ended by the various methods they'd each used to spread out the damage of their blows or their magic as much as they could.

They moved on down the hallway. They fought their way towards the forge room, each fight going much as the first one had. As they approached the first large room, they felt the torrid atmosphere of it bringing sweat up on their brows, even tickling down Nantu's back. Whitecrow's black fur matted with sweat, and Nerissa seemed enervated. Nantu noticed that it was hitting Nerissa hardest of all, she being from the moderate Eversong woods rather than a hot climate like Durotar or even Mulgore.

They stood on the threshold of the room, looking at three Vrykul making weapons at the forge. One of them hefted a huge steel blade, letting it down into the water with a 'hiss' audible from where they were as steam rose from the water. For all that fire burned seemingly everywhere, even shooting out of the forge and up the walls, the room was dark and gloomy.

Somehow, none of them had ever really noticed this before, though it seemed that the Vrykul repeatedly had to be cleared out, as they kept coming back over and over again. But perhaps that was because the situation had never been this dire before.

Whitecrow and Nerissa slowly stepped forward, Malovici cloaking himself in shadows and magic that distracted and confused the mind and sight if one looked at him. Nantu followed, and Whitecrow waited for Nantu's signal before zipping across the room. Once more, battle was engaged, the Vrykul reeking of unwashed bodies and other foul odors of unknown origin.

Soon, the scents of blood and eviscerated intestines were added to the general stench as Malovici finalized the kill of the first Vrykul with a stabbing slash to his belly that tore him open, and then the massive axe in Whitecrow's right hand completed the job of disemboweling the giant man. The other Vrykul shouted in anger, one of them leaning forward to spew rank breath and spittle onto Whitecrow's face.

The battle lasted only moments, once more leaving Nantu with little healing to do. She sighed as they moved on, since it wasn't really in her make up to be using the powers gifted to her by the Elements for harm. She feared the old ways of her people, ways that she saw as barbarous and dangerous. Not only for others, but also for the trolls, themselves.

Following behind them, she realized that she was beginning to have a crisis of faith. All that she had known all her life was barbarism and death. Now, thanks to being abandoned by a friend, she was left to mete it out herself. Was there nothing sacred? No place safe?

She followed the others, but she felt herself falling willingly behind. The scents of sulphur, blood, feces, putrid sweat, rotting wood, and mildew ate at her very soul like darkness itself.

Each time that the ancient forge lost the worker at the bellows, it ceased belching forth another line of flames. They were fortunate, in that the workers seemed either so wholly wrapped up in their own work that they didn't notice, or were careless of whether or not others slacked in their duties.

Soon, the room was clear, each killing depressing Nantu further. When they were done, they prepared to move off down the corridor, deeper into the heart of darkness, deeper into the evil of the Keep.

Nantu sat down and shook her head. "I ain't goin'," she said. "I ain't gonna kill no more, and I ain't gonna go no deeper inta hell. I can'ts, I gonna lose meself in here."

The others, to her surprise, walked back to her and sat down with her.

"I don't want to go any further, either," Nerissa said. Her voice quavered with the same fear and uncertainty that Nantu felt.

Nantu was relieved that at least someone understood. Even if it was the spoiled little society princess.

Valorin followed the group inside the Keep, moving slowly, staying well behind them. He slowly and carefully slipped along the walls, watching. It was unfortunate when the troll woman fell behind; he wished it had been his prey instead. He really didn't want to tangle with this group, but the further they went into the keep, the more difficult the situation would get for him.

So he continued to abide and wait. When they sat down, however, he cursed his luck. They'd sat down in such a way and such a place that he couldn't keep out of their line of sight without keeping the forge between them. And if he were to keep the forge between them, he either had to be close enough to it to see around it without being seen… or he had to risk them moving on without him knowing exactly when.

He was pretty sure that they didn't know they were being followed. Not directly anyway. Of course, they knew someone would be following at some point, and thus their extreme level of caution. But they didn't know the nature of whom or what was following them, or that he was already there.

He didn't think so, anyway.

He tapped his fingers to his chin for a moment and settled in to wait, the fire making it difficult to see to them. His magic "vision," was almost as reliable as normal vision, except in times like this, when heat signatures and various other auric patterns melded too much together. For a normally sighted person, it would be akin to fog, smoke, or mist obscuring their vision.

He didn't like it. Indeed, he pretty much despised it to the highest possible degree. Blindness was just unacceptable to someone in his profession.

But he had to have his prize. He had to get Nerissa to get what it was he had craved so much since he had died so long ago. He wasn't supposed to have a memory of The Life Before. The time of which no Forsaken ever spoke. The collective rage was acceptable, but personal hate and rage had to be subsumed, thrown away, for the greater good.

He'd tried, he'd really tried. For over a hundred years, he'd tried. But at last, he'd realized that the memory he had, while it wasn't his whole life's story, was something he couldn't let go. So he'd planned, and he'd worked.

He would live forever, and the object of his passionate hate would live for centuries, even millennia. He'd waited, prepared, learned. He'd become the single best assassin he could possibly be. All for this opportunity that he faced now.

Capture one insignificant elf, and the answer to his lifelong (undeathlong?) ambition would be his. A simple enough task, one would think.

He sighed. Patience. Ever with the patience. Just a little while longer. Wait for the right time. Wait, be still, be calm, don't rush in.

Of all the missions he'd been on, this one was the most important.

No mistakes, Valorin, he told himself. No mistakes…

Geraniel sighed as the bundle under his arm started squirming and kicking again. Dropping it without remorse, he kicked it mid-fall, and it flew down the corridor ahead of him. Geraniel was in a very foul mood today. Getting a gnome, and making sure it was a gnome engineer, to boot, had taken him all the way to (where else?) Gnomeregan.

So now the little bugger dared to squirm and kick at him? No way. He could just ride all the way to Quardis' office suite the old fashioned way. Well, old fashioned for a gnome, anyway. Probably.

Geraniel kicked the bundle again, watching it roll and bounce down the hallway. Oh hell, he probably better pick it up, in case it died. He, it was a male. Geraniel tried to remember that; it was only polite, after all, to at least get the creature's gender right.

Stuffing it under his arm, Geraniel strode faster down the hallway. Soon, he was met by Tarisseil, who was coming from the opposite direction, his long blond hair blowing in the breeze created by his wide strides as he walked down the hallway.

He stopped and asked, "Got one?"

Geraniel nodded, and they turned together towards Quardis' office. Tarisseil hoped that Geraniel hadn't screwed this one up. They stepped inside the office without so much as knocking—they were expected.

"Well?" Quardis said stonily, expecting to see the gnome, and instead seeing only two of his manservants.

Geraniel plopped the bag down on a chair and untied it, pulling it off of the tied up gnome. The gnome was bruised and battered, one eye swollen shut, and one obviously broken arm.

Quardis got up and walked over to him, pulling the engineering tape off of his mouth. The gnome immediately started spewing invectives in gnomish, until Quardis raised his hand. "Can ye speaketh common?" he asked in human language. He'd known it since childhood, as his father was once an ambassador. He was unaware that his common was somewhat antiquated.

"Yeh, I can speak it, better'n you can," snapped the gnome.

"Apologies, my good gnome," Quardis said. "Mightest I ask thy name?"

"Felix Whiskerpull," the gnome snapped, "what ya want from me?"

Quardis bowed, "I hast need of thine assistance, Mister Whiskerpull. But it appears that mine assistant hath sorely mistreated thee. Would this be fact, sir?"

"Why yes it would be fact," the gnome growled, crossing his arms. "So I ain't helpin' you!"

"Sorely vexed, I am, at his most unseemly and improper behavior, good sir. I wish to show thee mine sincere concern for thine welfare," Quardis told the small man. Gesturing to Tarisseil, he waited impassively while the man stepped up behind Geraniel and garroted him. Within moments, the shocked gnome staring in amazement, Geraniel was dead.

Quardis brought food and wine and served the gnome himself. "The food art most restorative, good sir. I doth hope it improves thine health."

The gnome ate greedily, watching Quardis out of the corner of his eye and hoping that he didn't get strangled with a wire, too. While he ate, his health improving with every bite of magical food, Quardis went to his chair and pulled out a small box. Walking back to the gnome, he set it down in front of him. It didn't contain much, really, just 120 gold pieces. But the gnome's eyes lit up with avarice.

"Wouldst thou find thyself interested in assisting mine need for such an reward?" asked Quardis, playing casually with one of the gold pieces.

"I might be in'trested," the gnome said. "Whatcha got in mind?"

Quardis, in his antiquated common, explained exactly what he wanted, but left the technical details up to the gnome. Finally, Felix said, "If'n I ask ya what ya want it for, I 'sume I'll end up like that fellow?" He crooked his thumb at Geraniel.

"I believe thou mightest be on the right track there, sir Whiskerpull," Quardis said.

Felix grinned and agreed. This was going to be fun. He grabbed a coin and shaved a bit off of it with his knife. It was real.

Oh yeah. It was going to be very, very fun.

"Why don't you tell us what's bothering you?" Nerissa probed Nantu.

"I ain't usin' mah magic dis way," Nantu said. "It da very reason why I dun want ta be like da ancestors of da trolls. Cuz dey misusin' da gifts."

Nerissa pondered a moment. "So, killing with the gift bothers you? Do I understand you correctly?"

Nantu nodded, relieved. "Das right."

Nerissa patted Nantu gently on the leg, and then wrapped her arms back around her own legs. "I don't want to go on, either. I've never really struggled the way you are right now. I've always been comfortable using my magic the way I do. I've always held prejudices of who's good and who's evil, and just went with it. But I'm scared.

"These last few days have really stretched and challenged many of my assumptions, and given me new things to consider. I don't want to go on, but I will. And I'll keep using my magic the way I am, for one reason, and one reason only. Because for the first time in my life, people are really, genuinely relying on me.

"Everyone in Vengeance Landing is relying on me. The people in Camp Winterhoof are relying on me. Even the alliance, though they don't know it, are relying on me. I can't let them down. I can't let Ferruk down, no matter what happened that made him run away.

"If you truly can't go on, I understand, and I won't judge you for it. But I can't go back with you. There are too many people relying on me to save their lives, and maybe even help begin to forge a future of freedom for their children." She patted Nantu again on the leg. "We each do as much as we can do. I hope that I have it in me to keep on, no matter the odds, even if I die trying. When I die, I want it to be for something that means something to me. Maybe that's today, I don't know."

Whitecrow added his thoughts; "I'm going on because it's the right thing for me. It feels right, it feels like I'm honoring myself, the traditions of my people, and the lives of those who have died clearing the way for me."

Whitecrow looked over to where Malovici was sewing the bottom of a foot back on, his boot sitting on the floor beside him. Noticing Whitecrow and Nerissa staring at him, he paused, "What?"

Nerissa asked him, "Are you staying and fighting in, or leaving?"

Malovici shrugged, "Staying, of course. Why?"

"Well," Nerissa asked, "why are you staying?"

Malovici's unblinking eyes stared at her for a moment. He cocked his head to the side and seemed to ponder the question. "Well, because I like to kill stuff."

Whitecrow snapped at him, "Mal!"

"What?" Malovici said. "They like to kill stuff too! You should just be glad I'm on your side!" He promptly went back to sewing his foot together.

And Nantu laughed. It started out light and half-hearted, but then gained momentum. Finally, wheezing slightly, she managed to answer Whitecrow and Nerissa's puzzled looks. "'E's right! Be damned if 'e ain't right! Dey does likes ta kill stuff!" she blurted, and laughed again. Soon, Whitecrow and Nerissa joined her.

"An' I am glad 'e's on our side!" Nantu added.

"Finally, someone appreciates me!" Malovici said. "Can we go now?" He crammed the boot back on his newly mended foot, and the party set off deeper into the Keep.

As they moved along the corridor, Nantu told Nerissa, "Yer right, too. Thanks."

The four stood now in the doorway to the stables. Whitecrow was amused by the fact that they put hay in the stables, along with fire-breathing drakes. Oh well, it didn't seem like they were all that smart to begin with, and if they managed to kill themselves and their mounts with that sort of stupidity, more power to them.

Edging along the wall, he eased in and to the left. The first drake was by itself, apparently finishing off a carcass of some animal or another—or a person wrapped in furs. He considered which way to go about killing the thing, and decided that he would bring it outwards and have the others go back into the stall.

In such a manner, he could avoid setting fire to the straw, as well as hopefully not drawing too much attention in the vast room. He explained his intent to the others in a low voice, and then zinged across the room, his hooves easily finding purchase on the straw-strewn stone floor.

He turned the drake away from them as they ran behind it and into the stall. The drake belched fire at him, singing his fur where it peeked out of his armor, blinding him for a moment, and sending searing pain across his skin. Even insulated as he was by a thick winter coat, it was painful. He was glad he'd turned it from the others, so that they wouldn't be in as much pain as he was at the moment.

But Nantu, as always, was there. A soft glow of Healing washed over him, even renewing the singed fur. He smiled to himself. It was ironic that just before the place where her healing would be most needed, Nantu had her personal crisis of faith.

Behind the drake, Nerissa and Malovici were working their magic—whether of physical prowess or literal magic. Malovici had managed to penetrate the thick scales on the creature's hip, and had severed a tendon there. The drake flapped as it tried to remain standing with one leg rendered severely painful to make use of.

Nerissa was slashing at it so severely that chunks of scales were falling to the ground. Her magic fire flashed across the floor, leaving the straw untouched, but blazing up the severely crippled drake's legs and wingtips where they touched the ground.

Nantu's magic washed over each of them when the drake unexpectedly turned on Malovici when the Forsaken man stabbed too deeply into a flank with one of the daggers. Suddenly she was needed most for what she did best again—healing. Fire had surged across all three of the others, and Whitecrow gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts at keeping it focused on him.

The fights were quick, rough, and difficult. Some of the beasts had handlers with them, Vrykul intent upon protecting their precious winged mounts. The group carefully cleared out the entire room, despite its significant size. A short discussion determined that leaving would be easier if none of the beasts (of either kind) were alive when they did so.

They stopped to watch their final opponents in this room for a moment. This seemed to be a trainer, a flight trainee, and one very intractable drake. The fight was difficult, Nantu requiring a potion to rejuvenate her Power before it was all done and said. Malovici got severely mauled by the drake at one point, and Nantu herself drew some unwanted attention from the flight trainer.

But they won in the end, and sat down to take a much-needed rest. They'd worn themselves out, each of them in different ways. And the tension wasn't easing; in fact, the closer they got to their first objective, the more difficult and unnerving it was getting. The vast hallways and ominous ceilings squatting far overhead did little to help them feel hopeful.

Perhaps that was the intent of the builders. Or maybe the builders had simply contained so much malevolence themselves, that it had seeped into the Keep from their very hands.

Resting quietly, they spoke little, and soon moved on. They were all equally contained of a mixed desire to get on with it, yet to prolong it. Except, of course, for Malovici, who seemed entirely unruffled by any of the experience so far.

Perhaps the Keep was even comfortable to him, Whitecrow thought, given how it seemed so like the rotting confines of Undercity.

As they worked their way up the uncomfortable, imposing stairways, Nerissa couldn't help but to think back on the last few days. She'd lived 60 years, and yet the last few days made the first part of her life seem surreal, as if it were another lifetime, another person.

It was incredible how much could happen in just a few short days. How life could alter irrevocably, and how a person could become someone new, fresh, and strange to herself. She didn't know herself anymore, and maybe she never had. As difficult as things were for the group right now, as tense and frightening as the experience was…

She felt alive.

She had practically melded with her sword. She knew it now, every nuance of its movements, every nick in the blade. She was one with the sword, one with the armor she wore… one with this new person that bore her name still.

Nothing had changed, but everything had changed. From the pristine pastures of Eversong Woods, where she'd been pampered and protected and watched every moment… to a place of such great danger that she could die any moment, and not to any Silvermoon assassin.

The world was the same, and it was different. She was the same, and she was different.

And it had all started a matter of mere days ago. Such a short period of time to become someone unrecognizable. Such a short period of time to go from a place of near absolute safety to a place of unrelenting danger and peril. And she'd learned so much about herself in this short period of time.

She really did care about others. She was an excellent fighter. She could love. Perhaps it was the last most of all that had changed everything for her. Her mind told her that she shouldn't love Ferruk, that his behavior had been terrible, that he had abandoned her, and that her love for him made no sense whatsoever to any thinking person.

Yet she loved him still. Her heart insisted that there was more there than met the eyes. It continually reminded her of the goodness that it was determined was there. And it even dared to insist that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to be perfect to be worth loving. That maybe he simply didn't know how to handle his feelings any better than she knew how to handle hers.

It was easy to forget that he was younger than her by more than half.

She followed the group, and found her spirits actually rising. She did love Ferruk. He'd come to her in her dream, and for a while, she'd seen that part of him that she adored. She couldn't explain the end of the dream, nor the beginning. But in this, her mind and heart were in perfect accord.

The middle of the dream had been him, through and through. It was as if he'd managed to take over that part of the dream and be himself for a while, before something, some strangeness in him, had taken over and altered who he really was.

She sighed and went back to concentrating. She had battles to fight, and some of them were coming pretty close to being losses for the party. It was time to focus on the fights at hand, to be fully here.

She could only hope that there would be time enough later to contemplate the changes in herself. And if there weren't, then it would have done her no good to bother with it now.

They had almost reached the chamber the Prince was said to be residing in.

The battle was at hand.