Intermission: Neverwinter

Four years had transpired from the defeat of the King of Shadows. The event, the ball at Castle Never, had cemented the victory's memory in fountains run golden with champagne and masks of every conceivable plumage, adornment and color. Tablecloths of harlequin-printed velvet decorating the tables soothed the stoic chill of the castle's stone. Masks and gowns outlandish in their jewel-tones, feathers and rhinestones promenaded in such noble pageantry the lesser-born of knights- even members of the Nine- were daunted. Even Lord Nasher chose to withdraw from the activities, entrusting his Nine with the task of controlling the crowd.

Nevalle was at ease with the task, even the event itself. Born to a noble family, such spectacle and pomp was to him akin to breathing- necessary, involuntary. His much-celebrated choice of a billowing, concealing mahogany cloak hooded to his brow, where a white half-mask and red feathered tricorne hat, was to him a thoughtless decision. Yet the notable adventurers and Greycloaks of Neverwinter present, garbed in garish costumes, gloated over his taste. His mother's overbearing etiquette, decorum and style were evident in her son. Capable socially, he'd made conversation with the guests as they leaked into the central ballroom from Blacklake. A few shared words warmed their demeanor and satisfied their thirst for Neverwinter's society.

Hollow words and empty smiles did little, however, to cure the itch of his thoughts. He'd tirelessly slaved on Axarthys's case for days, exchanging sleep for a few extra spoonfuls of sugar in his tea and the occasional swig of sherry to stifle the insanity beginning to stem through the veins of his mind. One success brought a hundred more questions to be asked, more interviews to be had, more possible criminals to be tried. After Brelaina was caught, then ten associates at the Docks were found through her to be involved. Those leads were proved or disproved, then from that batch, another twenty leads came, and then another ten, maybe from that score of criminals another fifteen still. Sorting the ordeal had become a witch hunt. Each citizen of the Docks was pitted against one another, pointing fingers and stating names to incriminate anyone not themselves. Dawn until dusk Nevalle pursued empty tips, even worse yet, pleading with Casavir to reveal more about the Docks plot. The paladin remained stubbornly wordless, and so Nevalle was left with what little information was available to solve the situation at hand.

Nevalle feared he'd forget what he fought for at all. Then nights remedied that affliction. Spending the starlight watching Axarthys slumber, restless, weak and ill, inspired him. The cleric he'd summoned never spoke, leaving the three of them to a soothing peace and the sound of the shuffling of covers or the bubbling of potions heated over the fire, sweet-smelling poultices of ginger, saffron and frankincense warmed on the hearth. The determined, pained expression on the tanar'ri's face as she slept stirred Nevalle's faith in her, instigating his fascination with the striking creature.

Many years a knight, Nevalle was acutely aware of demonic vices. He knew, for example, that succubi appeared incontrovertibly attractive to mortal men and yet were dreadful, debased, tactless killers. Their very nature made them unappealing to knights who were aware of it, stripping them of their foremost power: seduction. Succubi were at the core of their being creatures unbefitting of salvation, only divine punishment. He supposed the same for all tanar'ri, that they were helplessly and hopelessly beyond the light of good and Tyr. Half-fiends, any partially mortal fiend, could be afforded deliverance, trust, love, and all human emotions for their partially non-demonic heritage.

Nevalle couldn't help feeling that hope for Axarthys. Yet she was more pure-blooded than any succubus ever was. She was wholly tanar'ri, not at all human. While she battled silently in her sedation for her life, Nevalle had secretly cheered for her. He wished her to win. He wished her to live. Her smile was too chaste, her laughter too pure, her emotions too untainted for her to be condemned- there was hope left for her, possibly love left for her. He prayed Tyr would have mercy for her, the demon, no, have mercy for the woman, Axarthys Saintrowe.

Her name recollected the divinity of her face, its grey skin tattooed in pink a flag of strength for her people, her lips full and upturned in a hesitant, vexing smile. The materialization of her face in his thoughts was splintered by the grasping of his lower arm, words beckoning him out of his lull that said, "Nevalle, Nevalle?"

"Y-yes, Darmon?" He asked. Darmon's raised brow and amused grin attested to Nevalle's apparent loss of focus.

"Just making sure you're still alive. Your gaze is a little distant, a little…empty. You aren't going totally loopy with sleep depravation, are you? Or are you just mad drunk?" Darmon asked. Nevalle glared.

"I'm not inebriated quite yet," he said, "I'll work on that."

"Well, if it ever happens, make sure you try and find me. I'll spar with you drunk. Best fun you'll have in months if you can get over the hangover and stab wounds tomorrow morning." Darmon elbowed the knight, winking as he danced off into a mass of pink-gowned, voluptuous redheads. By the revolting manner in which Darmon had melted into their number, immediately winking and smiling suggestively at them, Nevalle was not so certain his peer would have the opportunity to drunkenly spar. Thanking the women in his thoughts, he sidestepped a gathering of wizards and surveyed the ballroom from the back of the room, scrutinizing the event. The string quartet hired to perform had not yet begun to play their music, readying their instruments. Nevalle painfully considered which noblewoman he would dance with, scanning the crowd for a woman who wouldn't try her hand at enchanting him. He wasn't interested in proposals from young damsels vying for his titles or wealth, just a waltz and the continuation of his servitude to Neverwinter, not to a wife. He added in his thoughts, as if to secure them in his mind, yes, thank you very much, I am perfectly satisfied with my life's existence.

The clots of people passing through the artery of the main entry had slowed considerably, the remaining fashionably late nobles trickling through as they jabbered court gossip into the eager ears of their companions, their vivid purple and electric green costumes of stripes and checker-boards flitting in their gait as if as gleeful to hear the gossip as their wearers. Adelaide had crept through the door, her tempestuous demeanor appropriately accompanied with a storm-grey gown and mask. Casavir, standing adjacent the entry in his trim surcoat of emerald green and artfully stitched white breeches, his mask of parrot feathers a similar shade, spoke to her not a word. Nevalle thought that odd, given their former alliance in the case of Axarthys, but he put the thought aside, watching as the finalized crowd amassed at the center of the ballroom, meshing in their array of colors into a rainbow-colored pit. Their voices rose in volume now that more social contact was made in the large crowd. Mere prattling rose to the level of a most robust chatting.

Almost thankfully, a sudden silence erased the voices of the fancifully dressed nobles. They parted as if an ocean halved, the cleaved wave crashing at the shores of the outskirts of the ballroom. In the path formed, the most radiant of gowns sashayed, its body comprised of folds orange and yellow in their silk, encrusted in stones the color of sunshine at the edges of her taut long sleeves, the rim of her skirt at the crest of her bodice. Its wearer approached slowly. Her mask fanned outwards in feathers rich brown, crowning her head. She walked hesitantly into the center of the room, her gait weak and tap of her heels on the floor delicate. When she rotated, eyeing the crowd, he saw the back of her gown dipped in a low V, her burn's scar painfully visible. And in the coil of her hair atop her head was weaved yellow orchids, a ribbon blue and tipped in gold tied in a bow behind her neck.

"I am unaware of a city whose nobles would permit demons to mingle in their number and attend their celebrations." A man jeered from the back of the room. The crowd laughed restrainedly, sidling from the demon as she paced the circle of the room, head bowed not in shame but rather deference to the mortals she so easily could have overpowered, weak as she was. Her pink eyes peered up from under the openings in her mask, lined in dark kohl to accentuate her gaze. She was so undeniably beautiful, so helplessly injured and feeble and conversely so powerful in her audacity. There was an exotic regality about her, forged from her untainted tanar'ri blood, unquestioned splendor, political risk-taking and physical defenselessness. Her vulnerability juxtaposed her planar strength, beguiling Nevalle, who broke through the crowd to stand beside her.

He said, "Let us be the better men, then, and show our prisoner the courtesy and culture of our city."

"Show her the culture hers lacks?" Adelaide purred, emerging from the crowd in a sleek dress of muted grey. Her mask, covered in dragon's scales, framed her glacial eyes in a bestial, reptilian inhumanity. She stepped forth, at least a half-head taller than the tanar'ri. She clutched the demon by the throat, tilting her head upwards, "Very well then, remain with us. Do you dance, little succubus?"

The string quartet had begun their first song, the trill of a violin marking the notes of a serenade. The legato beckoned the masked crowd to dance and a contagious waltz broke the motionlessness of the crowd. Adelaide smiled as Axarthys dipped into a low, dainty curtsy, saying, "My lady Cryhart, you will not find a succubus who could best me in courtly dance."

"You'll find that hard to prove with no dancing partner." Adelaide snorted, "Nevalle, why don't you treat your prisoner to a dance? Go on. She won't bite… or ask for your hand in marriage."

"An astute suggestion, Adelaide. Axarthys, would you dance with me?" He said, extending a hand as he smiled wryly towards Adelaide. Hesitant though yielding, Axarthys lifted the corner of her gown and bowed, surrendering one of her gloved hands to him.

"You… you aren't being serious." Adelaide, sincerely astonished, stated. Axarthys had begun to tiptoe in fleet step across the polished stone floor, hand in hand with the knight as he led her through the song, a hand on the base of her slender, sickly hip. Adelaide watched, horrified, as they waltzed off into the mass of drunk, dancing denizens, the tap of their footsteps music of its own in a distinctive, rhythmic percussion that echoed the song being played. They moved terribly fast, the tanar'ri's expert feet guiding her flawlessly through the maneuvers of classic Neverwintan dance. Nevalle was impressed with her courtly knowledge and apparent prowess, challenging her with the quickening of his steps in the dance only to have her match his pace faultlessly. Axarthys lifted her chin, her grey and defenseless throat exposed, loose plaits of hair waving in the motion of the dance. Her lips formed an upright crescent, glassy pink surface pleased.

"I'm not sure I've ever been so contented to see her shocked," Nevalle noted to Axarthys as they gyrated in a whirl of red and yellow fabric, "She's been an arrow to the side over your case and the Docks incident."

"I am pleased to have helped you infuriate her. It is an honor to have shocked her so." Axarthys responded, leaning in to him as the serenade slowed, dissolving into the purr of a minuet. Her forehead pressed into the broadness of his chest, her breath hot with fever. Her affliction had not been fully overcome, Nevalle realized, taking her fingers in his as she breathed harder. His hands shifted to her neck, to feel her pulse, touching the bareness of her skin for the first time. Her fingers fell from his chest to linger on his sleeve, her preternatural aura tingling against his mortal appendage. There was a sensation as if a warm, salty tide ebbing at the slate of his mind, and as he tried to return to normal consciousness, he only collapsed deeper into the pit of feeling. All that remained of reality was Axarthys's hand on his arm, a tryst of skin and skin separated only by cotton.

Sickness, pallor. Am I pale, has color drained, where has it gone? He heard echoed in his thoughts. The phrases were senseless, continuing, Pain has left, sickness gone with it. Touch, his touch, mortal, warmth- divine, oh, as if I feel Tyr's hands, Tyr's hands are on me as a holy touch- tingling, no, why does not it burn? Red Fallow's Watch- there was mud, war. Trolls, no… no, orcs. You were so weak, bleeding… there was a knife trapped in your shoulder, and Nasher could not lay the back of his sword across your shoulders for it when he proclaimed you as his soldier… decorum of a knighting ceremony abandoned, but you were brave, you were brave, you deserved to have that title.

Axarthys? He thought. Had she entered his mind, invaded his thoughts? Possessed him?

The connection detached, Axarthys pulling from him, her cheeks colorless beneath her tattoos. Immediately Nevalle was disconnected from the mental link, reality crashing over him in all its weight. Her hands were on either side of her forehead, her limbs trembling. She wheezed, "It was so, so damp… there was mud, and orcs."

"What's wrong?" He asked, fearful to collect her in his arms again, only approaching her. She was repeating senseless utterances of thoughts, seemingly recollecting his knighting ceremony. Then, an epiphany. Tanar'ri's, their telepathy. She must have exchanged thoughts with him. Her power to communicate psychically was initiated by touch. His excitement bubbled- that was why those directly involved with her capture at the Docks couldn't be found. They'd handled her, skin-to-skin, and her overpowering thoughts had erased theirs, leaving them in a mental fog and goading their irritability with her, instigating violence. If there was some way to utilize that fact, to make it appear to the criminals it wasn't entirely their fault, he could provoke them into admitting involvement…

He deserted his thoughts at the sight of Axarthys, her weakness evident in the seizure of her hands, her shoulders shimmering in a coating of sweat and oils dabbled on her throat. A heat burned in his ribcage, rising from the core of his being, at seeing her, this once-formidable tanar'ri, as feeble as a child. It reduced her beauty to one comprehendible to mortals, lessened the aura of her unearthly, hellish power to the dim glow of the most stunning of human women. Suddenly, she was obtainable, a creature he could sympathize in her illness with, as easily understood as his peer. Close to collapsing, he caught her in his arms, standing her to her feet.

"I-I was too swift to leave my quarters. I am weak still, exhausted." Axarthys said, "I shall repose over by the champagne; surely sitting a moment and downing a glass should cure the malaise. I only came here tonight to express my gratitude for all you have graciously done for me. In complete sincerity, thank you."

"I'll escort you to-"

"It is a short distance." She declined, falling into a shallow curtsy. Wary of her, his eyes pursued her path until she was lost to him in the crowd, their drunken masses blind to her nearness to them. Axarthys had floated towards the tables, drawing close to a seat, when a fresh song erupted from the string quarter: an eased, haunting requiem, the corresponding dance the swaying of couples in one another's embrace. Weaving through a gathering of court dancers in their striped blue finery and a hoard of bloated-bellied merchants in their foreign damasks, Axarthys approached an empty table only to be swept into the arms of a man draped entirely in black.

"I was on my way to be seated. I apologize; I am too taxed to dance." She said, her palms pressed on his torso to attempt to break the embrace and return to the tables. His hands only bore her tighter, his feet guiding them to the farthest reaches of the ballroom. Axarthys struggled as best she could, whimpering.

"My lady, you act as though I intrude upon your good health in simply asking for a dance." He rumbled in her ear, a tenor, predatory voice filling the crevices of her mind. Axarthys's breathing escalated, her steps reverted in the dance so as to break from his grasp. His hands wrapped firmly around her forearms, crushing the fragile skeleton of her limbs in his iron-fisted grip. He uttered, "Sweet Lamb, it has been so long, over four years. This date marks it, you know. The day I watched you slay the Knight Captain."

Bishop.

Axarthys summoned all the might within her to thrash and scream, her shout only capable of escaping her mouth as a pitiable sob. She battled the tightening in his arms' encirclement until she was forced flatly against him, one of his daggers pressed against her hip. Its blade laid against the boning of her bodice, a poised fang threatening to penetrate her should the dance grow any quicker in its tempo. The ranger dragged her failing steps through the dance, shaking his head at her.

"Little Axarthys, have these Neverwintan fools afflicted you with their beliefs, possibly their hatred of me? You struggle so, you, who claimed you loved me so very, very much. You swore you would return to me, and you never did. You forced me to come to you." Bishop growled passionately into her ear.

"You left to die within these walls, you did, and now you expect me to have sought you out? Three days' time I lay sedated, withering from the burn across my back, and it was Sir Nevalle- not you, my champion, my once-beloved, that came to my aid." She wept, "You abandoned me to die at the Docks."

"Hush, my love. Your suffering you may speak of later, and I am sure Loviatar will reward you well for it. Then we can escape your goddess, leave this city and live freely in the wilds of Neverwinter, as once we did." He offered in a whisper, gnawing on the outside of her ear. She tore her face from him. Instinctively Bishop drove the blade into her side at her movement. Axarthys snatched free a hand, immediately diving to ensnare the blade in her grasp. As the ranger twisted the knife to pierce her hip, her hand's interior flesh tore, sinew bisected beneath her silken glove. He muffled her scream with the cup of his hand. Bishop smiled, "My silly Lamb, look what you've done. Blessedly, should you come with me, I'll have the right potions to heal it."

He stepped backwards, pulling Axarthys forward in the continuation of the dance. Instead of tromping into open air, even into the fellow dancers, Bishop had stepped into the hilt of a greatsword. It was drawn against his back, slipped from under the cloak of one of the men's costumes. Bishop whirled on his heels, Axarthys kept before him like a shield. He faced the red-cloaked, white-masked Nevalle, his sword half-drawn from beneath his roquelaire.

"Release her. She is a prisoner of Neverwinter and will be treated with the respect of a citizen until she is tried by Tyr." The knight exclaimed. Bishop smiled wryly, twirling a dagger and leaving an arm on Axarthys's hip, flipping her about so that she, too, faced the knight.

"It seems you have a new human pet, my precious Lamb," he cooed in her ear, "I'm hurt, my love. I thought I was the only human you ever cared for. Sad. Though I suppose there's room in Neverwinter for more than one demon-fucker."

The crowd had parted, leaving an empty circle about the three, watching intently as if a stage spectacle or a troupe of performing bards. At Bishop's mutterings Nevalle had fully unsheathed his sword, both hands wrapped firmly about its hilt as he laid the point against the line of the ranger's jaw above Axarthys's head. He warned, "You are a traitor, Bishop, and I will cleave you where you stand if you do not remove your hands from my charge at once."

"Nevalle, don't." Axarthys uttered. Her bleeding hand had stained her yellow gown, leaving a river of scarlet staining her side. Nevalle stepped closer, his eyes locked on her. Bishop pulled her hair downwards, the orchids woven in her snowy locks drifting to the floor. He licked the curve of her neck, planting a kiss at the line of her hair even as the point of Nevalle's blade remained on him. As he lowered his face to her shoulder, he felt his face being thrust upwards. As Bishop stumbled backwards Axarthys broke from his grasp, bolting from him in a flurry of yellow silk behind the knight. Bishop snarled and reached for the rapier hidden at his back, fumbling to free it from its scabbard. By then Casavir had joined Nevalle, only a decorative shield torn from its fixture on the wall as defense.

"You were bold to return here, Bishop, and intrude on our city's peace in such a way." Casavir denounced the ranger. Bishop, his blade finally drawn, dodged Nevalle's first lunge and charged at the paladin, leaping to try and impale Casavir on his blade. Instead, the paladin parried his attack, the shield descending in a helix to send Bishop's rapier, trapped in the wood, clattering to the floor. Lurching for it, Bishop felt Nevalle's greatsword looping under his arm, slicing a flawless gash in the underside of his elbow. Tumbling across the floor and regaining his weapon, Bishop rose to circular-parry Nevalle's next attack, locking their blades as Casavir retreated to seek out a new weapon.

"Tell me, Nevalle," Bishop smiled, "How much do you want to see Axarthys swinging dead from the gallows?"

"It would only bring me joy, traitor of Neverwinter," he answered, "if it was you that was hanging."

Bishop growled as he feinted, collapsing to his feet as his rapier fell from the tangle of blades, its hilt landing precisely in Bishop's awaiting palm. Momentarily stymied, Nevalle regained his original stance, though not swiftly enough to dodge the missile of Bishop's launched blade, propelled by the ranger's arms, diving for the knight. The sword's aim fell true, lodging between two of Nevalle's ribs. Instinctively the knight rolled onto his side. The sword's point, still implanted in his body, carried the weight of the rapier- and dragging Bishop- onto the floor. Axarthys cried out, kneeling beside the fallen knight.

"Ne-Nevalle-" She choked. Bishop kicked the knight onto his back, his boot against the side of his blade as he tugged it from in-between Nevalle's ribs. Axarthys gasped, maw trembling at the severity of the wound. She tore off her gloves, her own bleeding hand cupping the crater left from Bishop's blade as she struggled to staunch the bleeding. She felt the scarlet tip of Bishop's rapier lifting a loose tress of her hair.

"Still so beautiful," he snarled lowly, "And so helpless. Has your white knight fallen, my precious damsel? Fear not- your humble woodsman has come to fill his stead."

He paced around Nevalle's defeated form, his rapier outlining Axarthys's neck down to her bare shoulder. Unmoving, Axarthys's pink eyes fixed on his honey-colored ones, disquieting and calculating in their stare. Narrowing his gaze, Bishop hesitated. She was poised to retaliate. The ranger, cautious, took a single more step towards her, his rapier's tip sinking to press between her breasts. Without warning Axarthys ducked beneath his blade, Nevalle's sword drawn from behind her. She swung it upwards as she stood, driving it perpendicular to Bishop's navel. Lowering on his knees and rotating to gash open her throat in a semicircle slashing motion, Nevalle's sword struck him through his thigh, shattering the bone as it pierced through the marrow and out the back of his leg, pinning him to the floor as it cleaved the stone in the fissure adjoining two rocks. Bishop's rapier missed Axarthys's throat as he became nailed to the floor, shrieking in the misery of his decimated leg.

Casavir trotted up to the scene, Adelaide beside him. He dropped his mace, eyeing the writhing Bishop. Adelaide ignored the agonized ranger, instead stooping to Nevalle's side to pry away the cloak and tunic, examining his wound. Axarthys, exhausted, lay beside Nevalle, her head replaced on his shoulder. Adelaide motioned to Casavir to beckon him to join her, and he knelt beside her as she advised, "Ignore the ranger, fool. Even if he breaks free from being… crucified to the floor, his thigh bone will be completely shattered. He won't be able to walk I suspect not for many months, if ever at all. Leave him to die and spare him your senseless mercy."

By this time, Darmon and Sand had joined Adelaide, surrounding Nevalle around his feet. Adelaide explained, "Look, the sword struck Nevalle directly between the bone. There are, blessedly, no fractures-" she said, pressing on the curve of Nevalle's ribcage to illicit a muffled groan. He withheld his suffering honorably well, teeth clenched with lips sealed. Adelaide peered up at Casavir, then to the wound to say, erasing Casavir's slight mask of relief, "-well, that sounds wonderful, doesn't it? But the muscle is torn and the rapier seems to have punctured all the way through his lung."

"Then we'd best fetch healing potions." Casavir said, moving to stand only to feel Adelaide's hand on his knee.

"You idiot," she hissed, "He will internally drown if you pour healing potions into his lung. You make me question how you ever got out of Old Owl Well alive. Sand, what spells have you to heal the wound until he can be properly treated?"

Before Sand replied, Bishop yelped in pain, hands wrapped around his wound as blood pooled down his leg, invisible as it tracked down his black breeches and suddenly realized, crimson cast against the stone on the ground. Casavir stood to remove the blade, an arm around one of the ranger's shoulders as he lifted him, saying, "I will escort him to the dungeon and alert a healer."

"No-" a voice insisted, quieted by injury. It was Nevalle, who ordered through heaving breaths, "-Take him to the infirmary… report to Nasher."

"At once." Casavir nodded, heaving the bleeding ranger over a shoulder to carry him off through the crowd. With his leave, Adelaide returned to her captain, looking sharply towards Sand. The wizard shrugged.

"My healing skills are minimal at best, compared to a cleric." He answered.

"I… I may help." Axarthys offered. The Nine and the wizard exchanged glances, the gathered crowd gasping, glaring and glowering at the demon, as if her offer of aid would undoubtedly be the kiss of death for their Captain of the Nine. And yet none resisted her offer, silent in response to it. Axarthys decided to act upon her proposition. She reached a hand for his wound, settling her palm over the gaping hole. She could sense the tensing of his veins, the thumping of his overworked heart, then the thoughts, the very pain he felt. Her telepathy began to take hold of him, her thoughts and his connected.

Listen well to my voice, she soothingly transmitted into the chaos of his thoughts, Capable I am of sealing your wound, but you must remain still, no matter the pain you feel as I do so. I shall advise you as once you did me: if you are brave, I will be fast.

I-I cannot breathe, his horrified thoughts echoed in her. She tapped into the well of his subconscious, into the mechanics of his involuntary bodily actions. Axarthys imposed her thoughts on this, forcing his nerves to transmit the command to keep his breathing steadied and to support his lung to save it from collapsing.

Maintaining the strength of their connection, Axarthys summoned her hellish magic into her touch. Fire spanned from her fingertips, scorching the wounded flesh to close it in a burn. Nevalle writhed terribly beneath her, and too weak to withstand it, Axarthys relied on her thoughts, cooing in his mind, Stay still for me.

Stay still?! Oh, certainly, allow you to further the misery! Indeed, I'll just lay prostrate before your altar of pain and submit to the torments of a tanar'ri! Surely that is a reasonable reaction. Holy Tyr! Excuse me, that burns. Stop it! What are you doing?! He fumed in his thoughts. Axarthys smiled faintly, exterior to her thoughts, as she removed her hand and glanced to the burn. The dried blood had caked around it, the stench of singed flesh permeating the air, however the intended affect had been achieved. Releasing her touch, she rolled onto her opposite side away from Nevalle, consciousness diminishing into a lull at having expended her energy.

"Well, aren't we a bright star in the sky?" Adelaide snorted at Axarthys's method. She rose to her feet, followed by Sand and Darmon. The mass of people had scattered as Casavir returned, the royal guard pouring in around him to assess the duel, some dashing immediately to Nevalle's side and others instructing the throng to remain there until the wounded had been seen to and removed from the room. Worried onlookers and engrossed bystanders watched as the guard helped their captain to his feet, outstretching his arms around their shoulders.

"Casavir," Nevalle weakly called. The paladin reported to him and Nevalle uttered, "See to Axarthys. Station guards outside her door- if Bishop finds some way to reach her and harms her… I won't be able to sleep thinking he's attacked my charge."

"I will defend her with my life." He swore, a hand on his peer's shoulder, "Rest well- I will let no harm come to her."

As they parted, Casavir scooped Axarthys into his arms. Adelaide sauntered towards the paladin. Hers was a grim smile plastering her face, contorting the shape of her cheeks. Casavir's arms wrapped taut around the tanar'ri. Sand joined Adelaide, standing in front of Casavir. The frightening stare of the knight of the Nine, her mouth now furiously pleased in its convoluted crescent, mocked, "The turncoat assigned to care for the demon, ah, how appropriate. And while we hold vigil at our captain Nevalle's side, you'll be fulfilling your assignment protecting and harboring the murderer of your love. Oh, my dear Casavir, how fate bears you in such disfavor!"

"On the contrary," the paladin said, "I have found it in my heart to mourn this tanar'ri, and for it, Fate will treat me kindly. Adelaide, have you so forgotten? 'You were a stranger to sorrow: therefore fate has cursed you'."

He broke past Sand and Adelaide, halving their close bodies as he'd pushed past them, transcending their stations to whisk the frail demon to her chambers. Followed by the drainage of the rest of the crowd, leaking from the ballroom to flow out the single entrance, Adelaide chuckled solemnly and bitterly, watching the flustered masses chattering and darting for the exit, their feathers ruffled- literally, in the fletching of their masks, and figuratively, in the expressions of bewilderment they wore beneath their guises. Sand scoffed as the final attendants of the dance shuffled off, then the wizard faced Adelaide.

"With Bishop here, your revised testimony will not stand his scrutiny. Even my words may have been rendered useless, depending on how he states his tale." He said. The paladin shook her head, satisfaction stemming on her countenance at her own thoughts.

"Oh, my sweet Sand, after tonight-" she answered, "-I have a feeling Bishop will be on our side."

-

Author's Notes:

Holy crap, I had no idea I could cram so much PLOT into one chapter, let alone a single scene. My brain kind of wants to explode. I am NEVER going to do that again! Okay. I DID get to write as Nevalle, so I had fun writing. Any ways, I wasn't thrilled with this post, but it's the climax of the tale I guess (can I say that without any sexual connotation? No? Then, well, never mind) and lots of stuff had to happen. Oh, and a shameless self-plug: I finished the Casavir and Sand plushies, so to see them check out my Deviantart gallery, linked in my profile.

Before I'm off, THANK YOU FOR MORE THAT 500 HITS! And for the handful who've stuck this far with it, thanks for coming along for the ride!

Happy reading always,

Valah