Author's Note: I feel obligated to point out that the goriest part of this chapter actually comes more or less directly from the game (or the Enhanced Edition, at least.) Beware of bloodsplosions.

50 – Meatheaded

"Never count a necromancer out as long as there are living things nearby," -Laspeera Inthre, Mageduels: A Manual

With a muffled clatter the armful of firewood Skie had been lugging fell to the dirt. Ignoring the sticks, she winced and held up her hand, fingers fluttering as she examined them. "Aw. I broke a nail."

Ashura looked up from the suit of chainmail in her lap. She had been making an effort to clean and maybe mend the armor, though it looked like Thunderhammer would know what to do a lot better than she. Half a day's ride to Beregost, though for now the sun was setting.

"That's going to happen," Ashura said.

Skie cringed and sucked on the offending finger. "Yowch! How do you keep from-"

Ashura held up a hand, displaying well filed fingernails. "Might be best to keep them shorter."

"Really?"

"Read in a combat manual once that short fingernails are ideal. If they're long they dig into your hand when you're punching people."

"Hm." Skie kept wiggling her fingers, well-manicured nails glinting a bit in the golden light; polished and painted a subtle shade of peach. "I think I might prefer simply not punching people."

Ashura chuckled. "You can try, but it seems inevitable in this line of work. You could also ask Xan how he manages to never damage those long nails of his when he swings that sword around. He probably knows all sorts of elven beauty secrets."

That earned her a glare from the elf, before he buried his nose back in his spellbook. Most times when they stopped to rest he seemed to immediately start studying, and Ashura sometimes suspected it was just an excuse not to be sociable.

"How about you teach me instead?" Skie asked.

"Beauty secrets?"

A bright laugh. "No silly. Fighting. The tricks from those manuals you keep talking about." She looked down at her feet. "I asked Eldoth to teach me once, but he said it just wouldn't be right. 'And it would hurt too much if I harmed a hair on your pretty head.' He's really a gentle soul, in his way."

"Uh huh." Ashura pushed her undone armor aside and stood, stretching a bit in her quilted black shirt and trousers. "We can spar. Sure."

"I actually had a fencing instructor once," Skie said. "Believe it or not. He taught me basic form, but I think he was under orders to go easy on me."

"Well, I won't."

The heiress grinned. "Good. I keep telling people how tired I am of being treated like a princess, but no one listens."

Bending down, Ashura sorted through her equipment. "Since we don't have blunted weapons out here it's traditional to make do with swords tied into their sheathes. We can start with one gladius apiece. Ess-tee and I like to fight with two weapons, but that's tricky to learn and not necessarily better than just using one." She stood up, securing the pair of swords, scabbards and a little rope, but Skie was holding her hands out.

"Hold on a moment," she protested, still smiling. "Let me see if I can find a way to clip my nails first."

In the end Skie proved a surprisingly capable sparring partner (if you ignored all the whining.) She was nimble and quick on her feet, had dazzlingly fast reflexes, and though there was little heft behind her blows she had the weaving and stabbing parts down. In the morning before breaking camp she and Ashura would warm up and practice. Shar-Teel mostly sat on the sidelines, offering her usual sort of advice. ('Come on! You could have tripped her there!' 'You can use your feet for more than that silly dancing! Kick!')

They were traveling the road south towards Nashkel now, on the hunt for Dorn's next target. One morning, out in the stony scrubland near the foot of the Cloudpeaks, Ashura slid out from Garrick's embrace and rose to survey the camp. A glance into the other tent showed that Skie's bedroll was empty, although Edloth's was as well.

Maybe they snuck off together. Ashura shrugged and walked towards the long-dead fire were Shar-Teel rested on a stone, sipping leftover Estagundian coffee from her tin canteen. She offered a sip to Ashura, who accepted with a nod. Bitter but invigorating.

As they sat by the coals, a noise somewhere to the west turned both their heads and had them reaching for their weapons. Then they heard it again, more clearly, and Shar-Teel settled back.

Sounded like a grunt. "Ugh," Ashura groaned. "I can guess what that is."

Shar-Teel chuckled. "You'd guess wrong. You've got a dirty mind."

"I do?"

Standing, Shar-Teel brushed her leggings off and pointed. "Go see for yourself. You may not have noticed, but he does this every morning."

"Uh?"

"It's just some meatheaded pig, dancing with a rock. A fitting partner for him I say. It probably has more brains than he does."

Urm. Do I really want to know? But now she was curious. Dancing with a rock?

Rising and turning towards the sound, Ashura walked a ways from the fire and over a rise were dry, golden grass swayed. There in a low furrow that was probably a creek in wet weather stood Dorn Il-Khan, holding a round stone the size of an ogre's head between dusty fingers. His greatsword stood imbedded in the earth a few paces away, and he had left his armor behind, dressed now in the ragged trousers and vest he wore beneath.

Oh. He's doing his morning calisthenics. I do have a dirty mind don't I?

She approached casually and he gave her a brief glance before returning his gaze to the field, holding the stone up and then chopping down from his ear to his knee in a diagonal motion. Lifting the stone again, he repeated the move from the opposite shoulder. Then again; lunging and lifting, deep breaths timed with each motion.

"Rocks," Ashura noted. "Never would have thought of that."

Dorn ignored her, twisting his body through another repetition, then another. Eventually he lifted the stone high over his head, then bent to one side, holding for a beat. Then he bent the other way, swaying like a tree. "That is why…" Dorn growled, panting a bit "…you're so shrimpy."

"Bah."

Swinging the great stone down, Dorn held it level with his broad chest. He was thicker with muscle than even Minsc had been; almost grotesquely so. Covered in a few more scars too: Ashura could make out crisscrossed skin at his chest and down his abdomen, and there were raised lines all along his meaty arms. "The orcs of my tribe would test each other with stones such as these," he stated flatly. "Issuing challenges to see who could swing them around the longest. Or toss the heaviest."

"Well, no need to challenge me. I figure you're stronger."

"Perhaps. The women of my tribe never participated. Their duties were confined to the young and the cookfires."

Ashura scowled. "Lovely."

Dorn lowered the rock and shrugged slightly, then brought it up again, tensing and holding for a count. "Perhaps if my tribe had followed your ways they would not have been crushed by a band of ogres when I was still small. I remember that day: the women and children huddled and helpless in the long house while our warriors were brought down one by one. Since that day I've been shown that women can fight just fine with training, and more sword-arms are always an advantage. Even one as weak as your red-haired friend can at least draw a bow."

"Ims is a good shot. Yeah."

"And you are stronger still." He took a step forward and offered her the rock. "But there is always room for improvement." An obvious challenge.

With a deep breath Ashura reached out and pressed her hands against the stone's rough surface. Dorn let go of it like it was nothing, and she lurched forward, struggling to hold the weight up and pulling it closer to her body. Ugh. Heavier than it looks.

Scowling and setting her feet firm, Ashura breathed in and gradually raised the rock. Chest level. Then in front of her face. Then it was high above her head.

A little victory, but she couldn't imagine casually flinging it around like the half-orc had. She carefully eased it down, then let go.

"A bit much for me." Ashura held out a finger. "Think I prefer this one." She slipped down onto the grass, setting her arms and legs out a bit. Then with a deep breath she swooped down and forward, shoulders and head high, hips close to the ground and arms supporting most of her weight. A breath out and she pushed back to the starting position.

"Stretching like a cat?" Dorn asked incredulously.

"Yep." Another stretch. "That's literally what it's called in the manuals. 'Lion Stretches.' Harder than it looks, and you really feel it in the arms."

Dorn shook his head. "You should just find a lighter stone."

"Bah." Again she rocked forward. "Prove that you can do thirty of these, and then you can brag."

Dorn laughed. "Very well." He dropped to the ground, then paused. "Hm. How do you do this exactly?"

She chuckled and walked with her hands and feet until she was beside him. "Down and forward like this. Then hold. Then back like this."

He grunted and wobbled a bit as he went through the motion. Then again. "Alright, I will admit that this is harder than it looks. Slightly." Steadying himself, he tried to do it again, determined to show her that he could.

Ashura dipped back, and when she swooped up again she found herself looking over at Garrick, a confused frown on his face and his arms crossed at his chest. She shot him a smile anyway. "Hey Garrick. Care to join us?"

"I uh…don't think I'm that flexible."

Her smile became a deep smirk. "You're plenty flexible." Another rocking motion. "One of these days…" And another. "…I'm going to find…" And another. "…a way to get you to stop…wew!" She wobbled up onto her feet. "To stop being so lazy and exercise more than just those lute-playing fingers of yours."

Dorn rose as well, brushing his cloth leggings off. "Why do you tolerate such a weakling anyway?" he growled.

"My good manners and sweet singing-voice, I should hope?" Garrick suggested.

Ashura pointed and started to say something, but Dorn cut her off. "That won't save you from a hoard of trolls."

"Hrmph!" Garrick muttered. "Well, if I must…" Now it was his turn to slip down onto hands and feet, then raise his body and straighten his back. He faced forward and glared a little in that direction. "Hm. Is this how you do it?"

"Yep." Ashura patted his shoulder lightly. "Come on. You're stronger than you think."

And he was, although he was completely unused to the odd exercise. By the third lion stretch Garrick was wobbly, but he soldiered on to nine before he lost his balance and slipped to the ground. He shook his head and chuckled self-effacingly as he got back onto his knees.

Reaching down, Dorn placed a hand on the bard's shoulder and helped pull him the rest of the way up. Ashura was expecting a taunt, but instead the half-orc simply said: "As good a start as any. Keep trying." And with that he turned, lifted his sword, and started back towards the camp.

Garrick shook his head as they watched the big half-orc walk away. "Yeah," he said sarcastically, "someday soon I'll have muscles like those."

"Gods, I hope not," Ashura muttered. Garrick gave her an odd look and she cocked her head. Then a little realization struck her, and she laughed. "Oh! Are you jealous or something?"

Garrick's eyes went to the sky. "Urm. Well, maybe a little. I mean, here you were on your hands and feet with that big burly fellow out in a field and…"

"Bleck." Ashura shook her head. "You really have a dirty mind. I never even...I mean, can you imagine?" She made a face. "It'd be like laying under a big bag of anvils."

A wide-eyed look of horror bloomed on Garrick's face.

Oh woops. Conjuring that image up was probably a bad idea. Ashura slipped an arm around his shoulder and led him towards the camp. "Quit being so thin-skinned." She ruffled his hair and then pulled him even closer. "You sensitive artist you."

The camp had awakened a bit by now. Imoen and Xan chatted quietly at one side of the fire, the flames rekindled just enough to brew herbal tea with the little brass pot and tripod they carried. From a nearby stand of trees Eldoth and Skie were drifting into view as well, both of Skie's arms encircling the bard's as she hung on and smiled brightly. Her hair was a mess, clothes disheveled, but Eldoth looked as neat and put together as always. There was a bored, distant look on his face as well, head turned away from the girl.

Hells. He looks downright miserable. Wonder what the story is there.

A few steps later Eldoth glanced over at the campsite and his face shifted, his casual grin returning. He whispered something to Skie and she scurried off to one of the tents, emerging a moment later with an iron pan, a packet of butter, and some hard bread wrapped up in cloth. She made her way to Imoen and Xan's little fire and sought some space to make breakfast.

"Quite a dear isn't she?" Eldoth casually asked Garrick as their paths converged and he sat down. "Grew up being waited on by countless servants, but she's learning her way around a cooking fire."

Shar-Teel shot them both a glare, then made a gesture with the dagger she had been sharpening. "I know my way 'round a fire too, pig. Especially when it comes to skewering and roasting things over it."

"An important start I suppose, but you really ought to learn how to bake."

Shar-Teel ignored the comment and the man who had made it, turning her blade over and giving it a few more careful strokes before she stood and stomped off. Soon she was packing her things and preparing for the road.

"Ya ought to be careful with that sort of talk," Imoen said in a low voice aimed at Eldoth. "Ess-Tee got threatened with domestication once recently. She didn't take it too well. I think lots of men died."

"Domestication?" Eldoth raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a strange story there."

"Yeah. Her dad really wants to marry her off. He's some sort of noble or something." She laughed. "Can you imagine?"

Turning his head, Eldoth watched as Shar-Teel bent down to yank a tent peg free with a single motion and a grunt. "I simply cannot."

A crowd had gathered by the large creek that cut through the hamlet of Nashkel, some cheering, some jeering, but most just giving the bald man in their midst puzzled looks. He was dressed in bracers, loose red trousers and sturdy boots, his upper chest and arms left bare to display swirling tattoos, and he seemed to be giving some sort of demonstration. At first Ashura guessed it was a dance, but the high kicks and sharp punching combinations seemed to imply that it was some form of unarmed martial art.

Impressive too, especially the high kicks, which he would effortlessly hold with his foot pointed straight up, then bend his knee without so much as a quiver through the rest of his body. Impressive muscles too. He was built both lithe and strong, and moved with precision and grace, maintaining a blank stare through the taunts some of the male villagers were shouting. From time to time he would swivel and punctuate a kick or a punch with a battle cry; usually the words: "I will show you justice!" intoned in a thick Calishite accent.

Xan casually waded into the crowd, giving the performer a brief, appraising look before questioning the onlookers. The party was were searching for one of Dorn's companions, a necromancer named Kryll.

The woman had supposedly been seen heading towards Nashkel, and it helped that her features were fairly distinct: an unblemished face and long silver-grey hair. According to Dorn she was nearing her seventieth summer, but had used the life-stealing arts to prolong her youth.

It didn't take long for Xan to get a bite. Or several. "She walked off with my husband!" a well-dressed woman in red silks shouted.

"And mine as well," a wiry peasant put in, arms crossed tight at her chest. "Put a spell on 'im, she did."

"A spell?" Xan asked in a flat tone, though the woman seemed to take offense.

"Aye. My Glen is a lot of things, but he ain't no trollop-chaser! And when poor, addled Noober spotted him heading out the other night behind the white-haired woman, 'e said there was a queer look in Glen's eyes. All glazed and bespelled. And Karp and Lady Taris' husbands were in tow with 'em!"

"That sounds like Kryll," Dorn rumbled. The pair of women gave him a glance and shuffled back a bit.

Turning, Xan raised a hand for silence. Then, in as soothing a voice as he could muster he asked: "Where were they headed?"

The peasant pointed to the first woman who had spoken. "Lady Taris followed 'em the farthest."

The lady nodded. "Aye. Out into the wilderness as far as I could go, to the east, following my dear Hagar. They followed the feet of the Cloudpeaks, I think. The people of this town say that Firewine Bridge is in that direction, but I had to turn back. I hear there are horrid monsters out there, and my poor, poor Hagar… He ignored my cries!" She shook her head, worrying a handkerchief between her hands.

Once they had gotten all the information that they could and walked away from the crowd a bit Ashura turned towards Dorn. "Husband-stealing? Sounds kind of ridiculous."

Dorn just shook his head, eyes on the eastern horizon as if he could see his quarry out there somewhere past the houses and trees. "Kryll always kept slaves around, usually men and usually charmed into obedience. She used them both to perform mundane tasks and to steal lifeforce when needed. 'Bloodbags,' she called them."

After a pause he shook his head a bit. "Of course she usually bought them in the markets of Luskan. Daring, and risky, to ensorcel and run off with three at once. And to steal them from a town with a militia."

"An act of desperation?" Xan suggested.

"Perhaps. That would be good wouldn't it? We want our prey desperate."

"Bloodbags," Imoen grumbled. "Well that's just lovely."

Dorn cast his eyes upon her. "You like to play the hero. Perhaps you'll get to rescue these hapless men." A pause. "Or more likely they'll end up drained husks or undead abominations. Regardless…"

"East then?" Ashura asked. "To Firewine Bridge?"

Dorn tapped the bag at his hip. There was hardly a clink, but earlier he had been nice enough to show Ashura the gems he kept there along with his gold. No gilded paint to it. "Aye. And as promised half of this is yours once I plant my sword in Kryll's heart, along with any plunder you want. I've no need for coins and gems. Only blood."

"Ugh," Skie complained. "I officially disapprove of this whole bounty hunting business. Way, way, way too much walking without anything to show for it."

"At least we have horses," Ashura pointed out. "First time we went up and down the Coast it was on foot."

"So my butt ends up sore instead of my feet?" Skie snapped. "What a tradeoff!" She crinkled her lips a bit once the words had left them. "Sorry. Sorry. I chose to be an adventurer. I need to accept the hard stuff along with the good."

"In silence, preferably," Viconia hissed.

Ashura just shrugged and Imoen gave Skie an encouraging smile. It had been a long and roundabout journey, though if the shattered columns they were passing was any indication then they were nearing the Firewine ruins. They rode through deep amber grass and desolate fields, pocked here and there with holes and shattered masonry beneath an open sky the color of slate.

In the distance the ground fell away to reveal flat, sandy soil, and eventually a great bridge of cracked black stone came into view, spanning the emptiness. Centuries ago Firewine Bridge had been an elven trading town, leveled in some sort of arcane battle that had changed the very course of the river and left little standing beyond the bridge itself. It was unclear what the battle had been fought over, though most accounts suggested that fey'ri sorcerers had been involved, and that after the destruction anything of value had gradually been looted and carted away. Rumors also spoke of a series of connected cellars that still lay beneath the ruins. That did seem like the perfect place for a rogue necromancer to hide.

More promising still: a smear of smoke hung above one end of the bridge, likely from a campfire. Perhaps this would be more straight-forward than they thought. You can always hope.

"Bloodbags," Imoen repeated yet again, shaking her head as they trotted closer to the bridge. "You really kept some pleasant company, huh?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, Dorn simply nodded. "For a time we ravaged and raided our way across the Spine of the World, and none were stronger. We took what we pleased, be it from tombs or foolish challengers. Perhaps we grew too greedy. It never occurred to Semmeon that our rivals would unite against us, or that they would spread rumors that we were petty bandits and thieves."

"Are you sure you weren't a bunch of bandits?" Imoen asked. "You kinda make it sound that way."

"Bah. You know nothing, brat. We followed the rules of 'civilized' men. As far as such things go in Luskan and the north. The thralls that Kryll owned and casually discarded were fairly bought and paid for, and we never attacked traders or homesteads."

"The more I hear 'bout it the more I never want to get within a hundred leagues of this Luskan place."

"That's probably for the best. You would not last a minute there."

"Pfft." Imoen swung down from her saddle and landed in the grass, adjusting her bow. "Not my problem if you underestimate me."

The rest dismounted as well, and Dorn began to march directly towards the rising smoke. Ashura moved in swiftly beside him, and Imoen hastened to keep up.

"Um…" Imoen spoke up. "Shouldn't we scout things out first?"

"Bah!" Dorn growled. "Kryll will have a thousand ways to spot scouts, no matter how clever you think you are. The eyes of her 'pets' see all." His pace increased, and Imoen had to jog to stay close behind. "Best to be direct, and overwhelm her swiftly with our numbers." He hefted his sword. "Surprise and numbers. That was how my companions took me down. It will be fitting."

"Do we…even know that it's…Kryll?" Imoen puffed as she ran behind him. Ashura kept up with far less effort, silently jogging beside the half-orc with her swords drawn. Bet she's enjoying this. Looks like she's finally found a kindred spirit in the hard-headed, hard-charging department.

"The witch is ahead!" Dorn growled as they pushed forward through the brittle grass. "I can feel it in my blood." Not to be outdone, Shar-Teel was racing to catch up with them, but the others lagged well behind.

Rolling her eyes, Imoen slowed just enough to draw a piece of dried gum from her pouch and run through the motions of her invisibility spell. Once she had vanished she picked up the pace, holding her bow out and placing an arrow against the string. Someone has to be cautious.

The source of the smoke was hidden behind a single stone arch that seemed to have once been part of a greater wall, rubble strewn all about its feet, and when they rounded it they came upon a camp. Quite the setup too: the cookfire was broad and well-kept, grates set up above the even flames where tea brewed, water boiled, and a big pot of stew simmered. There was a large yurt standing in the shadow of the arch, and a cushioned chair carved from a great log sat before the fire.

A woman in a simple shawl and peasant's dress knelt with her back to the intruders, tending to the stew and completely ignoring them, and on the great chair lounged a second woman in a high-collared robe, two men in roughspun clothes standing at either side of her like statues, their eyes blank and distant. A third man crouched nearby, polishing a bronze bowl, and all of the peasants had red runic markings painted across their faces.

The robed woman had pale white hair and vibrant, youthful features, and she did not seem the least bit surprised as the sight of Dorn and Ashura. By way of greeting she smirked and raised manicured fingers heavy with rings.

"I knew you would show yourself eventually, Dorn," she said in a teasing tone as the earth nearby erupted.

Bony, claw-like hands burst from the dust near Dorn and Ashura's feet, snatching at their ankles. They both lost their balance and pitched forward, swords and jaws smacking the earth as Shar-Teel skidded to a stop behind them and hopped back.

"But it's so nice of you to arrive with haste," the woman on the throne added, rising to her feet.

"Kryll!" Dorn snarled as he fought to push his way up from the ground. "Your pets cannot stop me!"

Imoen swiveled her bow, pondering what to do with the one arrow she could shoot while still unseen. She crept in closer. Best make it count.

"They'll slow you well enough, fool!" With a wide grin and outstretched hands, Kryll gestured towards the men at her side, and they stood up taller, taking a few steps forward before flinging their heads back. Their bodies began to convulse, and the woman at the stewpot straightened up and joined them.

Suddenly the runes on the thralls' faces took on a hellish glow, seams of energy expanding from the edges of the pant to crawl down their skin. The thralls shook and gibbered mindlessly, clawing at their chests and arms, rips in their clothing revealing burning cracks that rapidly grew. Flesh rended and burned, mouths flew open wide, and instead of screams a terrible hiss erupted from all three throats. Then as one the thralls seemed to simply explode in a shower of rags and sodden black flesh and pink mist.

The bloody rain splattered Kryll, soaking her face and robes, but the grin on her face only grew. And once the pieces had fallen to the earth the skeletons of the thralls remained; raw red bones held together by magic and strings of tendon. Pinpricks of fire leapt to life in their empty eye sockets, and new seams of red light flared up across their limbs. As one the undead clattered forward, the witch watching over them with pride.

Ashura and Dorn had managed to hack away the skeletal hands that held them by then, finding their feet. Shar-Teel raced past them both, taking a swing at one of the creatures, but the skeleton blocked the blade with its forearm and the bone held firm, boosted by whatever sacrificial magic Kryll had employed.

The other two undead faced Ashura and Dorn, clawed hands whipping forward. Blades and bones resounded off each other as the warriors swung back.

But none of the undead or their mistress had noticed Imoen, or the fact that she'd crept past the melee. Now or never. She stood up straight, took a side-stance and drew back until her bow creaked, aiming pointblank at the witch.

When she let loose the air shimmered about her, the arrow appearing mid-flight. There was a ripple as the enchanted arrowhead struck some sort of barrier, but it punched through the magic and pierced robes and flesh, sending Kryll stumbling back.

The skeletons stuttered and hesitated too, seemingly linked with their mistress, and Dorn, Ashura and Shar-Teel took full advantage of the pause, hammering hard with their blades.

Kryll continued to wobble on her feet, clutching at the arrow now imbedded deep in her chest. Then she whirled and made a hobbling retreat, a crossbow bolt streaking in but bouncing harmlessly off her arcane protections. The man who had been polishing the bowl stood and followed her, and a fourth enthralled peasant slipped out of the yurt as she passed it, running at her heels as well.

By then Imoen had drawn a hasty second arrow and loosed, grinning when it sunk into Krylls side, between her ribs. Somehow the necromancer managed to wobble forward though, only slowing a little before she slipped around a corner and vanishing behind a half-toppled building.

A few moments later -once the full force of the group had been brought to bear- the skeletons were reduced to bits of bone and sinew scattered across the grass, and Dorn was marching ahead towards the spot where the necromancer had disappeared.

"Would you slow down, ya bufflehead!" Imoen shouted as she followed him, and he did indeed stop, looking through a doorway and down set of darkened steps.

"Kryll is-" he began.

"Possibly leading us into a trap," Imoen pointed out. "And possibly surrounded by an army of undead. So let's possibly exercise a little caution? Okay?"

"If she escapes…" Dorn growled.

"Gods! Yer as bad as Kivan. And he…" She scrunched her face up and looked off.

Swinging around, Dorn faced her. "Did your friend get his vengeance? Before he died?"

Imoen bit her lip. "I suppose he did."

"Then that is all that matters." He turned back to face the dark passageway, though he did wait for the others to catch up before he entered.

The shriveled husk that had once been a man lay face up, next to the discarded arrows, his desiccated eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Kryll had been easy enough to track a moment ago; all they had to do was follow the blood trail. From here it would be trickier though. The passages beneath Firewine Bridge seemed to branch out repeatedly and at random, veering at sharp angles.

"Wonder if there's a chance Kryll's as lost as we'll be wondering through here," Imoen pondered.

"No chance." The voice was a faint and dry whisper that rose from the lips of the dead man.

Imoen let out a start and hopped back. "Ack!"

"I did not arrive here by chance," the corpse rasped. "I knew you would seek me out, Dorn. So I sought protection, and preparation. The oni that calls these ruins home knows a great deal on the subject of death-magic, and agreed to teach me if I was willing to serve. It seems I will be bringing him worthy sacrifices too. Far more palatable than the halflings he preys upon. I-"

Stepping close to the undead husk, Ashura brought her boot down hard, shattering teeth and sending up a cloud of dust. When she stepped back it spoke no more.

"Hey!" Imoen complained. "Kryll was telling us her evil plan. Valuable information!"

"If there even is an oni," Ashura pointed out. "Could be she was just taunting us. Or wasting our time while she escapes." She pointed to the side passages with a sword. "We've got a lot of ground to cover." Her swords swept by Imoen, then Skie and Eldoth, and finally Garrick. "Luckily we've got a lot of talented scouts."

Author's Note: My deepest and most heartfelt apologies to Sunnysoul that the Rasaad cameo was so brief.

In the game you actually find and fight Kryll in a different area, but it was near Firewine Bridge and the idea to combine her with the dungeon crawl just struck me.

And wow, I think we've just crossed the 300,000 word mark! Although I wonder how many of those words are from my overly verbose author's notes.