A Just Cause

(1:00 AM)

Flames take them all, Pryus thought as Cyrael, Lenthyrr, and the other elf faded away into errant slivers of golden light. The winds quickly started to die down. Should have known better than to come here myself.

Gnashing his teeth against each other, he jerked the dagger out of his chest, and watched as a thin trickle of blood began to snake its way down the craggy red hide. So blind that I broke my own rule; always send someone to die in your place. He let out an angry snort, and noticed that he could see his own breath. Was the room getting colder?

A series of sharp cracking noises echoed through the chamber. Pryus looked up in time to see a multitude of blue crystalline fragments appear hanging in the air overhead.

"Look out!" shouted one of the nearby humans, "The wild surge… take cover!"

Several spear-like shards of ice came crashing down to the cavern floor, forcing all the lesser beings to scatter like rodents. Pryus snorted loudly again, but didn't budge, even as an ice spike shattered no more than a few metres away. He casually plucked a few wayward ice splinters out of his arm and side before he heard a cry from the other side of the room.

One of the blue spears or perhaps a ricocheted piece caught the thief, Kretia, directly in the back. She collapsed across the ground making a wheezing sound as her blood spread out, soaking the back of her tunic and the floor beneath her.

Another icicle from the wild surge struck the younger human, the girl carrying the black case, in the back of the head. She fell out of sight as she went down behind a rocky outcropping. The remaining opponents showed some survival instincts, at least, taking refuge just inside the sealed tunnel leading out of the chamber.

Pryus moved to the centre of the room and stood cross-armed, patiently waiting for the ice storm's magic to exhaust itself. After a short wait, the final shard collided with the ground, knocking over one of the torch sconces as it broke against the ground.

The mercenary in black was the first to emerge from his cover. It was almost pitiful, seeing the human attempt to put on airs of defiance, raising his weapons at Pryus. As if they posed even the slightest threat to him.

"Where has the celestial fled to?" demanded the mercenary. It might have been amusing if Pryus wasn't so disgusted at the moment. "And speak shortly; we outnumber you."

Except for Kretia, the others seemed to be unmolested. Even the young girl survived somehow. She sat up from behind the large rock, rubbing the back of her head with a grimace.

Pryus felt a smirk coming on, but he instead twisted it into a scowl. "Indeed. A cripple, a child, a wild hound, and a woman. Such dire straits I face."

"Child?!"

"Hound?"

"A 'woman'?"

He ignored them and made a pair of fists across his chest, closing his eyes to find his focus. Now that the business with Cyrael was clearly at an end, there was no need to maintain his more discreet appearance. A painful twisting of joints and cracking of bone spread across his body as Pryus felt his entire form stretching and reshaping itself via polymorph. He could feel tendons tear and thicken, adding so much to his muscle-mass that the warrior had to hunch over and place his forearms against the ground as his size shifted. To his eyes, the cavern and its occupants seemed to be shrinking around him.

Pryus' hide 'armour' receded and integrated itself into his thick red scales, and the transformative pain slowly began to subside as his body hardened into its natural state. With the polymorphing magic no longer in place, Pryus felt a wave of relief as he looked down at the small humans and elf. They all had taken several steps back, and gazed upon him with plain fear. Now all was as it should be.

"In your case," growled the dragon, his rough voice echoing off the cave walls. "Greater numbers only means a larger meal for me, should the interest strike me so." Pryus leaned forward, lowering his head toward them. "Fortunately for the lot of you, I am a creature of opportunity. I would prefer to strike a bargain than slay you outright, though I'll gladly do the latter if you force me to it."

"Bargain?! You actually expect us to buy such a dragon-sized load of dung?" shouted the cripple. "Nothing good ever comes from working with or for your enemies. I've learned that the hard way…" Derrick looked at the elf woman, cocking his head at Dace. "On that note, I don't even know why this dog is here. Bloody bastard's just as likely to kill us as the dragon will. What are you even thinking?"

"I've had to make compromises today, Derrick. Don't think I'm pleased with this arrangement, and don't think what he's done is any more or less evil than Cerdan's actions."

Idiot humans never knew when to shut up. At least the mercenary was still paying attention. Pryus raised his head toward the ceiling and opened his maw very slightly, allowing a jet of flame to blast forth from his core. Through the thin layer of smoke that hung in the air, the dragon was sure he could see genuine fear in the small creatures. "I made the mistake of involving myself in this affair and coming here in person. A lapse in judgment, and not one I'll make again today. Yet still I wish to see revenge on the winged one. No doubt you lot wish to see him foiled as well, hm? I can aid you, under the condition that you murder him, through magical means or otherwise, should the chance present itself."

Both the cleric and mercenary answered simultaneously.

"No."

"Yes."

"I won't condone cold murder at some monster's behest, even if Cyrael is a man of evil. We are no mercenaries," said the cleric.

Dace snorted. "I do not care if he is 'evil' or not. I want him dead out of sheer spite."

Pryus almost laughed as he watched the two lock eyes on each other, mirroring each other's glare. The dragon lord had already sacrificed many resources this past day, and for so little gain. At least there was some amusement to be had from these little primates.

(1:11)

"Are you going to kill me now?" he asked.

"No," replied Cyrael. "We have more important –"

"No, really, are you going to kill me now?" the elf asked again.

"No."

"…You're sure you're not going to –"

Cyrael flicked his wrist to the side, and the flame blade burst into being, providing a burning shaft of light in the darkness of the room. The elf gasped slightly and squinted his eyes.

"Cease playing games, Cerdan. You may have fooled others by your inanity, but we know you for what you truly are." The celestial glared down at the elf. Clearly, this Bloodletter had long grown accustomed to playing a fool in order to conceal the warrior within. Or so Lenthyrr claimed. She had the 'fool' part correct, at least.

"So what happens now, then?" the elf went on, "I'm tied to a pillar, you hold me at your mercy. Is this the part where you divulge the details of your master plan and I defiantly swear to stop you before you kill me in some elaborately impractical death-trap?"

Cyrael noticed a slight movement at the elf's wrists. "You see me as a villain, do you not? My reasons for all that has occurred thus far are nobler than you may think. Were I to tell you, it would change nothing; you would still seek to oppose me, in all likelihood." Cyrael took a step back and slowly paced around Cerdan in a wide circle. The flaming sword briefly left a vague trail of light as he moved. "But perhaps I grant you too little credit, perhaps there is some flicker of hope within you. Maybe all you need is a tiny spark of clarity to guide you back to the higher path and purpose." He cast his gaze toward the hooded woman standing by the window.

Lenthyrr's head was tilted back slightly as she took in the dim moonlight. Cyrael had been hesitant to bring her to this particular place, but her fervour was unyielding. Strength of will, strength of body; she was the only one he could truly rely on to help him achieve his destiny. Thin wisps of smoke seeped from the ground at her feet and vanished into the air. If they remained on these grounds too long, her strength would soon be sapped away.

Cerdan piped up again, "Oh, I got it now. You need my help for your master plan, don't you? Ha!" A wide smile appeared on his face, but Cyrael knew that the elf had grossly misjudged the situation. "It's this whole business with the Behemoth's Heart, you expect me to show you how to use the blasted weapon so you can crush the world. Is that it? I bet it is!"

"An interesting theory, Caden," murmured Lenthyrr, turning to face them. "One that betrays your inherent mistrust in those that surround you. It is an understandable view, when one realizes that all kith and kin have turned their backs on you. Elves, humans, clergy, and thieves alike."

"No, no, no," Cerdan continued, "that's not how you win me over at all. Pointing out insecurities? Please. Even I have standards, you know; I have to be finessed through bribery! A big enough sack of gold does wonders for my health." Cyrael wondered how long Lenthyrr would go along with this nonsense before returning to the subject of Caden's Hill.

"Besides," added Cerdan, "you'd need to find one of the paladins or priests who built the thing if you want to know how the artifact works. All I did was touch it and pass out."

A corner of Cyrael's lip curled upward. "We already know how to use the magic of the Behemoth."

"Oh, well, jingles for you. Can I go now?"

It was time to reveal the truth to the Bloodletter. Cyrael reached into a pocket on his white coat and removed the chunk of crystal that was so familiar to the elven rogue. "Did you know that a Waterdhavian sect of the Church of Tyr recovered the Heart in the aftermath of the war? It spent decades sealed away in a vault somewhere until a few years ago, when a few opportunistic nobles and clergy elected to make second attempt at mastering the destructive force." As Cyrael spoke, Lenthyrr remained stone silent. No doubt she was intently analyzing Cerdan's face and body language for even the slightest hint of what the thief was thinking.

"I already knew about all that through the rumour vine back at the guild," said Cerdan, "Last I heard, they were having trouble activating its magic. So what? You expect me to care about any of this? I washed my hands of the disaster half a century ago. Let them blow themselves up, for all I care. You can do the same, so long as I don't have to hear you blab on about it."

Cyrael looked at the rogue's hands. The elf was wearing gloves when he picked up the Behemoth's Heart earlier, so he was still ignorant to the connection. "In truth, the Waterdhavians had it all wrong. The spellbinders who created the Heart had long perished since Caden's Hill, so the secrets of the artifact's design were lost. This new generation of arms-builders and seekers of power believed the dormant magical energy could be tapped from the crystal, but have thus far failed."

He thrust his arm forward, pressing the red crystal against the elf's forehead. The artifact began to sparkle with crimson light, flooding the chamber with a pulsing red glow. "The lost power of the Behemoth was never in the Heart as they thought, Cerdan. It was a part of you."

(1:19)

Lenthyrr watched Caden's face twist into a look of disbelief. "Ridiculous," he said, staring at the celestial, "You think I'm the Behemoth? If that were true, I'd have a lot more killing sprees to my name than just Caden's Hill." Denial was a natural response for him, Lenthyrr told herself. He went on, "I told you, all I did was touch the crystal. A shock ran through me and I blacked out when the thing set loose the Behemoth. When I woke, a team of paladins was dragging me off the floor and putting me in chains."

"The Behemoth was never a creature of flesh and blood, Caden." Lenthyrr said, leaning in close. "Deep down, you knew that. It is a force derived from layers in the mind and spirit, below the veil of conscious thought. Your deepest and truest base instincts laid bare and given corporeal form. That is the true nature of the Behemoth. I was told by the few survivors that it looked like a towering, leonine giant of ghost-like composition, driven like a beast through the soldiers at Caden's Hill." She nodded toward the crystal in Cyrael's hand. "I imagine it would burn just as brightly were it fuelled by the hatred of any other man or woman. It was merely coincidence that you were wrapped with the paladins' blame for the slaughter. The results likely would have been the same no matter who used it."

She reached up and pushed her hood back, proudly displaying her elvish features. "Are you not tired of running? Of being a mere scapegoat for a corrupt sect of fanatical despots? Please, Caden, let us help you correct this injustice. It is time to wash the blood from your hands and punish those truly responsible."

"Sounds to me like someone's living in the past. I've already accepted what I was."

"But can you accept what you are? Look at how far you've fallen; living in this hive of human-kind, wasting your days adhering to their customs. Trying to become more like them. It is a wide-spread epidemic; not simply among elves, but all the civilized races… turning their backs on tradition and the very things that make us unique, only to embrace the greed-filled lifestyle of a more barbaric, short-lived species. Backwards-style thinking," she spat. Every moment she spent in these human cities was nauseating; no matter where she travelled across Faerun, there were always race-traitors floating about in plain sight.

"And what would you offer against this… affliction?" asked Caden. Lenthyrr noticed his hands had stopped straining against the ropes.

"That all depends on you." She pressed her right hand over her heart, three fingers pointing to the side, and raised her left palm in front, three fingers pointing the opposite way. It was an old elvish sign, shared as an acknowledgement between soldiers who had served together in war. Strength of heart and will on one side, trust in one's brothers and sisters on the other. She only hoped Caden wasn't so far gone that he would forget so simple a message. "Come back to us, Caden. Be the torchbearer for our kind once more."

When she finished speaking, Lenthyrr gave a short, simple bow and stepped away. Leaving Caden alone with Cyrael, she approached the exit to the chamber and waited outside, closing the door behind her. It was still the middle of the night, and no one was likely to come this far up the stairs. Every pace caused her feet to smoke against the stone, but she paid it little mind. It would take more than a tower falsely consecrated by human gods to stop their quest. Half a century after Caden's Hill, they would finally bring true justice to the liars and fanatics that infested the realms, starting with Baldur's Gate.

(1:22)

Pryus watched in silence as the elf and humans conferred near the body of the dead celestial woman. The cripple, Derrick, kept casting a narrow-eyed glare at Pryus, on guard for any sudden moves. As if he believed they could stand a chance in a fight against a dragon that dwarfed them all.

"It's empty… completely devoid of magical energy," said the cleric, placing the expended Sigil back around the dead celestial's neck. "What were you trying to achieve here? We learned little from your man, Cordas, beyond your propensity for wanton murder."

The dragon snorted. "Cordas was nothing, a convenient means at my disposal. I simply provided him with the tools and resources, and ordered him to recover the Sigils. The specific avenues he took were his choice, not mine. If anything, his ways were a product of the society that shaped him. Perhaps the real problem lies in the human condition. We, however, had a loftier pursuit.

"Immortality," Pryus replied, expelling a waft of smoke through his nostrils as he spoke. "Or something close enough to it. Cyrael claimed to be a seraph of Myrkul, the former god of the dead. I still believe this to be the true. We were told that during the year of Myrkul's downfall, the deity encased small portions of his essence in various artifacts throughout Faerun for retrieval after the Time of Troubles ended."

"We already know that much about the Sigils," said Selena. She gestured at the blackened hole in the fallen celestial's chest. "But what of this one?"

Pryus dipped his head and flexed his wings, giving his best imitation of a shrug. "A mercy killing, perhaps? It is beyond my knowledge. We were told that the statue was a focal point for Myrkul's essence. The Sigils' power was to be safely extracted here, and the Wild Source and Behemoth's Heart would have reinforced the magical energy." His scaly lips drew back, baring his teeth in a sneer. "I suppose all that was a lie. Lesson learned: never trust winged beasts. I should know."

The elf sighed. "Well, we know the power of that medallion restored this woman, and probably rendered Cyrael himself invulnerable. It makes me wonder what he's going to do with the second Sigil."

Derrick tapped his cane on the ground. "Wait, I don't follow. I thought the Sigils were weapons. When Verskul tried to destroy Baldur's Gate–"

"Verskul? He was an ingrate that grabbed for more than he deserved," Pryus snarled. Deep down, the dragon always knew that it was a poor decision to bring the human wizard into their inner circle. Sure enough, the old mage ended up defying them in the end. "The only reason we enlisted his aid was for his research into the present locations of the Sigils. As soon as he learned of our true plans, he turned on us and tried to destroy the artifacts along with your precious city. Good riddance to him."

"And just what are your 'true plans'?"

"It is of no matter now, with Cyrael gone rogue."

Dace returned to the group from the tunnel that led out. He set down the candle in his hand as he addressed the group. "The beast was right. All exits are sealed by some kind of reinforced stone wall."

Pryus narrowed his eyes at the small creature. "As I said, Cyrael chose this location himself. The paths to this chamber were built by some madman called Sharino. A puzzler of some sort. I knew not of any wardings."

"Then we'll need to focus on breaking the enchantment." Derrick pointed to Selena and Nell. "Cleric, bard, check to see if the magic can be undone. As for you, dragon–"

Nell suddenly piped up for the first time. She sat atop a large rock, leaning forward with her elbows resting atop her knees. "Wait, I can't use magic."

"You're a bard, aren't you?"

The girl's face became marred with a grimace. "I'm getting so sick of explaining this," she muttered. "Look, I can't cast spells, I don't have encyclopaedic knowledge of enchanted doo-dads, and I don't sing special songs that somehow turn you into better fighters for no reason whatsoever!"

"…So, you're not a bard?"

"I'm an artist. I truly hate how everyone immediately equates 'bard' with 'spellcaster'. It used to be about the music itself, not making it easier for your friends to kill things."

"How are you even still alive?" demanded Pryus, now that his attention was focused on the girl. "I saw you felled by an ice shard to the head."

Instead of answering the dragon directly, Nell replied to the elf. "That's what I've been trying to tell you; it doesn't… magic doesn't 'stick' to me like it does most people. I was born in a region scarred by dead magic." She crossed her arms. "So there, I'm not interested in joining your half-crazed gang of thugs. I just want out of here."

"If what you say is true," said Pryus, moving his head closer to her, "then you have the best chance of acquiring the Wild Source without being harmed by its effects."

"No! You think I'm a damned adventurer or something? I just play the violin, for pike's sake!"

Selena stepped in, placing herself between Pryus and the girl. "We cannot force her to aid us."

"Perhaps you cannot," said Dace.

Derrick waved his cane in the air. "This is all a moot point if we're trapped here. Hey you," he pointed at Dace, "show me the barrier."

Pryus scratched one of his claws against the floor as the smaller creatures ambled away from him. They obviously didn't trust him – and why would they? – but they were mostly driven to continue the search for Cyrael, and that was all he cared about. He settled his head down near the floor and waited. He could be patient, if need be.

(1:30)

Cyrael opened the door to see Lenthyrr standing patiently in the stairwell. At her feet in a heap lay a robed corpse, its flesh shrivelled and grey.

"He came up here just now to light the torches," Lenthyrr said before Cyrael could rebuke her. "I had no other avenue but to feed upon him. It is no consequence. What's one more human?"

Shaking his head, the celestial let the matter slide. "Hide the body in the room, then. And take this as well." He removed the Wild Source from his pocket and passed it to the elven woman. "Too much spellcasting in this tower for me to carry it around."

"Caden has pledged himself to our cause?" she asked, a flicker of hope appearing in her dead eyes.

The celestial took a short pause before replying. "He said as much…"

"Then you think we can trust him?"

"I am certain we cannot," he said, lowering his voice. "Clearly he intends to betray us at the first available opportunity."

The elven woman's external expression was unreadable, but she was no doubt crestfallen inside. Cyrael had a feeling of almost-pity for her in his heart. "Still, so long as he pretends to be on our side, he won't cause any immediate problems for our quest. Outwardly, at least. And his lack of sincerity is no great loss, so long as we keep the Behemoth's Heart on hand."

"And the second Sigil?"

"It is warded by the followers of Tyr. An oversight on my part; I should have foreseen that they would have protections in place. I must locate a high-ranking member here, before we can make use of its magic." As the celestial made his way down the steps, he tilted his head at the door behind them. "Mind him, and do not lower your guard. He is not yet ready to know the entire truth."

(1:33)

"Dragon!" Derrick shouted from within the tunnel, "Quit blocking the passage with your fat head. It's hot enough down here even without your awful breath filling the corridor!"

Pryus snorted and leaned back slightly, but continued to peer down at the end of the tunnel. The passage was far too narrow for him to fit through without polymorphing into his human-form, and he had no interest in doing so. Let the humans puzzle their way through the barrier. He was in no hurry. Let the underlings sweat and toil their own way to progress, that's what they're meant for.

He squinted and watched as Derrick waved a candle across the surface of the flat stone wall blocking the way. "Definitely man-made," the human said aloud to the others. "But not a dwarven hew. My late friend Rombis taught me a thing or two about stonecutting."

"There's an identical barrier in the overhead passage as well," offered the elf, "Don't expect me to climb back up, though. It was hard enough working up the will to descend."

"Hmm. Probably attached to a counterweight on the other side." Derrick pressed his ear against the stone and banged on the wall with his cane. "Solid, though. Can't drill through it, even if we had the right implements."

"Or maybe it's held by magical force," Selena said. "Cyrael and that other mage had time to cast during the confusion earlier. It's easy to lose track of the number of wild surges when the room is filled with mist."

"Wait," said Nell, standing behind the others. The girl pointed to the left part of the stone wall. "What are those markings going up and down the side?"

Derrick moved the candle over and looked closer. "Five straight, parallel lines running vertically. Hm. And there are some sporadic little dots on the lines, appearing intermittently." He scratched his head. "And there's another pattern over on the right side, too. Maybe it's a code of some kind?"

"No," Nell whispered absently. "Not a code…" The others looked back at the girl, and saw that she had her head tilted to the left. They all tilted their heads in a similar way and stared at the wall again, clearly wondering what she saw that they did not. "It's a song."

Glancing back at Pryus, Nell asked, "Who did you say built this chamber?"

"Cyrael claimed it was created by someone called Sharino, or Serino. Someone called the Mad Prodigy."

"Serino… no he must have meant Cierenno!" Her declaration was met by silence. "You know, Cierenno? Faerun's greatest and most eccentric composer?" More silence. "Ugh, you vagrants don't know anything. Barbarians," she muttered.

"Why would a… musician want to build a chamber down in the city bowels?" asked Derrick.

"He was mad?"

"Eccentricities?"

"The acoustics are pretty good in here…"

"Fine, never mind. So what happens now?" Derrick went on, "You just strum a few notes on your lute?"

"Please. I can't stand the lute. The only reason I carried one around before was because the unenlightened masses practically expect every minstrel in Faerun and their mother to have one. So cliché." She removed the black case from around her shoulder and laid it flat on the ground. "I prefer the violin. An instrument like this takes actual training and skill to perfect."

"Just shut up and play, will you?"

"Pfah. Move the candle along the score as I progress."

Pryus watched as she removed the wooden instrument and the bow from the case and prepared to play the first note. A musical key of all things, he thought, settling his head low on the floor. Why were humans such fickle, irrational creatures?

(1:40)

Cyrael made his way through the ornate corridors of the Tower of Tyr's lower floors. None of the knights or clergy he passed even bothered a single look at him. No doubt they were all far too pressed and fatigued after the attacks that Pryus' men had orchestrated earlier in the day. Even if he were to throw off his coat and flap his wings, the humans here would probably think they were seeing things from stress.

Unfortunately for him, the only faithful he saw thus far were either paladins or minor healers and pages. Not a one who would possess the divine ability needed to remove the Sigil's protective wards. Maybe Pryus' henchmen had done too thorough a job.

He paused as he rounded a corner and narrowed his eyes. Standing down the hall was an elderly man in priest's robes, currently scolding a young boy who had a dark bruise just above his nose. Was this how discipline was kept in the temple?

"… you out with a clear, simple order to follow, and you waste this opportunity by getting in a brawl with some street kid?!" shouted the old man.

The young acolyte stared at his shoes and burbled, "Not just any kid, he was two – no, three feet bigger than me, with fists the size of hams! And I think he was working for–"

"Spare me your roundabout excuses, acolyte. Get from my sight hastefully. I think there is an unwashed latrine calling for you somewhere."

"Yes, Prelate." The boy murmured as he scurried away.

Prelate? So this was the man Lenthyrr had contacted a month ago regarding Cerdan's current whereabouts. It was the right move to flush the Bloodletter out of hiding this way, and even serendipitous for Cyrael's current task.

There were still a few clergymen and women wandering the hall, so he couldn't apprehend the Prelate immediately. The celestial slowed his pace, following the old man through a set of double-doors that opened to a large, mostly dark chamber. The few lamps that hung on opposite ends of the room provided barely enough light that Cyrael could make out the many rows of makeshift cots and stretchers across the floor. Most of the wounded were sleeping or moaning in pain, and none took notice of either man as they walked the narrow aisles between the beds.

As the Prelate reached the midpoint of the chamber, Cyrael decided it was noisy and dark enough for him to strike. He took several quick long strides forward and grabbed the old man from behind, tightly clasping the human's mouth and neck. Saudere flapped his arms around and made some muffled sounds, but the celestial was clearly the human's physical superior.

Cyrael glanced around as Saudere struggled. No other clerics or knights entered the hall, so all Cyrael had to do was wait for the old man to pas out. Then he could hide the Prelate under a blanket and move him out atop a stretcher. No one would stop to question one more corpse on a day like today.

Saudere gave a few final, sluggish kicks, banging his feet against the nearby beds. When the Prelate finally went limp, Cyrael carefully laid the human to the floor and turned around to grab a bloodied quilt hanging off the foot of a cot behind him. As he turned to face Saudere again, he felt a momentary ripple in the air as something swished past his shoulder.

A blade? Acting instantly, the celestial jumped backward and stretched his wings out of instinct. He instantly regretted both actions; a loud rip echoed through the massive room as his wings ripped through the back of his coat. Even worse, he stumbled into the bed behind him and fell atop an injured man who began screaming from the pain and surprise. All this was quickly pushed out of his mind as his attacker lunged forward with a second blow, driving a blade down at Cyrael's chest in a downward chop.

Throwing caution aside, Cyrael summoned his flaming sword to hand. The fire blade exploded into being, and the steel weapon collided against the celestial's magic. Locked against each other, the sword's flame illuminated the face of Cyrael's opponent. It was the swordsman from Kara-tur, whom Cyrael had briefly seen earlier in the day with Norris. And now the easterner had seen him take the Prelate.

Even worse was the fact that the warrior's katana was holding strong against Cyrael's flame blade. Sparks periodically cracked from where the weapons clashed. If the katana wasn't melting against the celestial fire, it must have been forged with a particularly strong enchantment woven into the steel. Although Cyrael could no longer die due to the Sigil's magic, such a weapon could still inflict raw pain upon his being or even slow him down if he stopped to self-regenerate.

Behind the easterner, Cyrael saw that the Prelate was already stirring back to wakefulness. The plan wasn't going to work now… he had no choice but to pull back to the tower-top empty-handed. Using all his strength, Cyrael pushed hard against the warrior, tossing him back into the bed behind him. That was all the time the celestial needed to dismiss his flaming sword from his hand, and release a focused blast of wind from the other. The sudden loss of light would leave the Kara-turian momentarily blind, but Cyrael had no desire to push his fleeting advantage.

He leaped off the bed, ignoring the screams of the patient lying there, and moved back toward the doorway that he entered from. With both hands, he let loose another gust of wind, just enough to push away the beds before him and create enough space in the aisle for a short sprint. He charged forward and leaped up, angling his body, and let his feet leave the floor.

He flapped his wings a single time, and held them out, letting himself glide out through the double-doors, swooping past a pair of guards approaching from the hallway to investigate the commotion. Twisting himself in mid-air as he rounded the narrow corner, Cyrael had to use his hands to continually summon enough wind to keep himself aloft.

Flying up to the next floor, he could hear the clanking of metal armour following from behind. Setting down atop the flight of stairs, he turned to look down at the knights that warily approached the first few steps. A single sharp gust would probably be enough to knock them over in their bulky armour.

"Stand down, mortals!" he boomed, projecting his voice as far as he could. "I am an emissary of Tyr, and I demand you return to–"

One knight with a thick black glove on one hand pushed his way to the front. "Hold, creature. You disturb the sanctity of this place… we're not dense enough to drop to our knees in praise of every white-winged spell-wielder that crosses our path. You stink of a devil in angel's dress."

Cyrael heard a door open directly behind him. "What's all the commotion–"

The woman was cut short with a gasp when she laid eyes on Cyrael's feathered wings. The celestial swiftly closed in and seized the woman by the arm, pulling out of the doorway. Calling his sword back, Cyrael held the flame up toward the cleric's face.

"You there, sir black-glove." He called down at the knights.

"Sir Rennemar, monster."

"Order your men off this pursuit, or yet more death will follow here." The knights made no further moves toward him, but they didn't back off, either.

Knowing this would not hold them for long, Cyrael pulled the cleric alongside as he hurried toward the next flight of stairs, and continued to make his way to the tower apex.

(1:49)

"Wait, let me try that again."

"And you call yourself a musician, girl?" demanded Derrick.

Nell shook her head. "I'm not used to reading a musical score written sideways… and in the dark. For all I know, I'm reading the notes upside-down and backwards. I've never seen this particular sequence before." She adjusted her fingers on the violin and started over.

Any amusement these bickering children had to offer was long exhausted. Pryus scraped a claw along the ground and turned his head, eyeing the corpse of the celestial woman and briefly wondered how celestial flesh might taste. Something to investigate later after he was rid of these others.

As the two humans continued to blunder through their musical puzzle, Pryus noticed Dace giving him a cold stare, as if sizing the dragon up for an attack. The mercenary moved toward Selena and muttered something to her, holding a gloved hand over his mouth. The elf's eyes moved between Dace and Pryus before she mumbled something in reply. Both moved out of the tunnel to stand before Pryus.

"Dragon!" shouted the elf, "Cyrael could be anywhere by now. We'll need further direction when we escape this place."

If there was one thing Pryus hated about their kind, it was their annoying tendency to grow defiant when subservience was due. "Bah, I cannot help you. Our plan was to make our stand here, divide the power, and then go our separate ways. We agreed that we would each fight the encroachment of human society in our own way."

Dace snorted. "More fools, you. Throwing your weight behind excessive, grandiose schemes that never go anywhere… You deserve your failure."

The dragon ignored the comment. "If Cyrael still plans to strike against human society, he'll do so in a major hub of activity. Not likely Waterdeep, though… the wizards of this city are keenly aware of magical disturbances. We went through great pains to avoid detection here below the earth, but even Cyrael would not have the resources or the bravado to walk the streets. Certainly not while unleashing the wanton chaos of the Wild Source. No, if he used the artifact on the masses above, the city would be on him in a blink."

"Baldur's Gate, then?" asked Selena, "We're a city run by merchants and traders. Mages have a lesser presence there than in most other Sword Coast cities."

Pryus nodded his head. It made sense. "He escaped this chamber by casting some sort of recall spell… so it probably would teleport him to a place where he had already set foot recently."

"We lack that luxury," Dace said pointedly.

"Obviously so. But… there is another option." Pryus narrowed his eyes at the pair. "Cyrael was not alone in concealing things from the rest of our group. One of my tasks was to provide the portal mirrors between Waterdeep and Baldur's Gate; I happen to have a business associate who is also a practiced artificer." The dragon tilted his head toward the tunnel as he exhaled a small puff of smoke.

"I never told Cyrael or the others of a separate set of mirrors, linking my nearby lair to one of Cordas' safehouses with your city. If I lead you there, I expect that you will move swiftly after the celestial, and leave my lair and its contents untouched."

The sound of Nell's violin behind them held a long note, and was suddenly drowned out by a low grinding noise. Looking into the tunnel, they could see the stone wall receding down into a gap in the floor.

Selena folded her arms and returned her attention to Pryus. "We'll accept your offer for now, but don't presume that we're your personal hit team. I won't condone violence if it can be avoided."

"Hnnh. If you want to stop him, you may not have a choice." Pryus closed his eyes and focused on the polymorph spell he had committed to memory. Clenching his teeth, the dragon growled out the incantation and began to feel his body crack and tighten on itself as his scales began to recede. The pain was a necessary process as his physical form reconfigured itself, and he would make no complaint so long as revenge drove him. Any important enough goal inevitably called for sacrifices.

(1:53)

Cyrael slammed the door open and shoved the cleric inside. Cerdan was sitting on the windowsill, facing the door. The celestial ignored the rogue for now and pointed to Lenthyrr. "Pass me you cloak and the orb, quickly!"

She pulled the black garment from her shoulders and tossed it to him without question. From one of the larger pockets on her voluminous robe, she produced the sphere of ice that they had previously lent to (and then took back from) Pryus' man, Cordas, back in Baldur's Gate. After hastily donning the protective cloak, Cyrael took the ice sphere and went a few steps down the stairwell outside. Holding the cloak close over his face and body, he raised his arm and pitched the orb at the opposite wall.

There was a sharp cracking sound from where the orb struck, and Cyrael could feel the heat draining from the air around him. He lowered the cloak and saw that a spheroid wall of ice was now blocking the passage to the lower levels. More than enough to impede the knights' pursuit.

The celestial moved down to where the ice sphere was embedded in the thick frozen barrier. He summoned his flaming sword and slowly ran the tip in a circle around the artifact, careful not to touch the fire to the orb itself. The ice cracked and sizzled where the blade touched, and the orb soon fell out of the ice wall. Dismissing his blade, Cyrael quickly caught the orb in one hand with the cloak and returned to the tower apex.

The human cleric was sitting with her back against one of the white columns near the centre of the room. She didn't appear overly scared and merely glared at the others, particularly Lenthyrr. Good. If she were sobbing uncontrollably, it would only hinder what would come next.

Cyrael handed the orb and cloak back to Lenthyrr, then removed the unspent Sigil of the Fallen from within his coat.

"Our presence here is known, I take it?" asked Lenthyrr, gesturing at his protruding wings.

Ignoring the question, Cyrael crouched before the human woman, dangling the amulet from his hand. "Your people have placed a divine ward on this artifact. The markings on your robe paint you as a ranking clergywoman. I want you to remove the enchantment." The woman was silent for a long moment before she opened her mouth to speak. Cyrael immediately cut her off. "I know what you will say; 'Never help the likes of you', 'My faith makes me strong', 'Unbreakable conviction', et cetera. But let me tell you this; you are going to die here."

The flame sword burst alive into his free hand, causing the cleric to yelp and flinch. Cyrael continued, "I wish to grant you a quick death. A clean and honourable purging of mortal life through holy fire. But my friend here." He tilted his head toward Lenthyrr. "She has less mercy in her heart. I'm certain you sensed it immediately, she is undead. What you may not realize, however, is that she is an elven vampire. Do you know what that means?"

Lenthyrr crossed her arms, pacing closer. "Of course she doesn't. The human faiths oft fail to educate their followers on the nuances of other races."

"Elven vampires do not merely feed off the blood of a victim as their human counterparts do," Cyrael said, "They drain a person's essence of spirit. She can degrade your willpower and soul until you literally remain a shadow of your former self. Then we will force you to undo the Sigil's warding, and your soul will be damned to the Nine Hells as well." He raised the black amulet before the woman's face at eye level. "Time to decide your fate, human. Will you let yourself perish with a soul corrupted, or do you choose to die pure?"

(1:56)

"Why in the world must dragons always make their homes in the dankest, most inaccessible holes in the ground?" the girl muttered aloud.

The dragon snorted but didn't deign to answer. If she was too dense to see the value of solitude from human company, then it wasn't his place to offer any enlightenment. The irony that he made his home beneath a veritable hive of humans was not lost on him. The main reason he put up with this city was that Waterdeep had the tendency to attract some of the best magic talent in all the Realms. And besides, owning a hoard of gems and gold was completely useless out in the wild. Why most of his younger brethren would simply sit atop their hoards and never actually spend any of it was beyond him. Simple attraction to shiny objects, perhaps.

Still in his tiny human form, Pryus led the party up a recently dug incline in the earth. Ryloch's fellow doppelgangers had done a particularly quick job in clearing the passage from the existing tunnels to Cierenno's chamber. Capable minions were so hard to come by.

He'd gone through so much toil and trial for an attempt to bring down the power centres of human civilization. And now he was helping their kind, though more for spite of Cyrael than any altruistic reason. It mattered little, he could plant schemes tomorrow. Vengeance today.

The path levelled out and they entered a cavern that was even wider than the previous one, though the walls and floor were noticeably damp.

"I've never even seen this much gold at once…" Nell whispered as she saw the piles of money heaped around the centre of the room.

"Don't get any ideas. It's hard enough to move these coins from place to place, and I won't activate the portal if any of you resort to petty thievery."

"Whatever. I don't care about that madness in Baldur's Gate, I just want to get up to Waterdeep and be away from all you crazies! Need some sleep…"

"Enough talk," said Dace. "Where is the mirror you described?"

Pryus pointed at the far end of the chamber where the last unbroken mirror stood draped in dark cloth. They crossed the room and the dragon whisked the cover away. After a mere hour, he was already growing weary of his present company, and more than prepared to see them off. Touching the sequence of runes lining the frame, the portal rippled open, revealing a dark room on the other side.

"Where will this lead us?" demanded Dace.

"One of the safehouses previously operated by Cordas. I believe it is situated in the wealthier upstate regions of your city."

"I see." Dace looked Selena in the eye. "You go first."

She gave the mercenary a scowl. "No tricks, blackheart."

"Hurry up and leave," Pryus growled. The elf made an indignant sniffing sound and, pulling her damp cloak tightly around her legs, carefully stepped through the frame.

As soon as she passed the threshold, the woman let out a shriek and appeared to tumble forward, slamming against the opposite wall.

"Augh, blast," she groaned, rubbing her neck and looking around. To Pryus' surprise, the elf got up and appeared to be standing perpendicular to them with her feet on the wall. She looked up at the others through the portal. "It's on the ceiling. Cordas hung the mirror flat on the damned ceiling."

"Really…" said Dace. The mercenary suddenly turned to the side and seized Nell by the wrist. Yanking the girl ahead in the direction of the mirror, he put his leg out and tripped the girl, forcing her to collapse forward and fall through the portal. Crying out in surprise, the girl tried to grab the side of the frame as she went through, but her fingers slipped and she tumbled down in to Baldur's Gate.

Pryus saw Selena lurch forward and manage to catch Nell in her arms, nearly toppling over as she struggled under the sudden weight.

"Betrayal!" shouted Derrick. To his credit, he was quick enough to draw his sword-cane from its sheath before Dace kicked out, knocking the weapon from his hand and across the chamber.

The mercenary pointed a finger at Pryus, "Break this mirror or I will not pursue Cyrael!"

Shoving Derrick over into a pile of coins, Dace charged forward, grabbed the top of the frame, and swung himself through the portal.

Pryus watched the mercenary roll as he landed. Without hesitation, dragon stepped forth and touched a pair of symbols on the frame simultaneously, calling out the spell syllables over Derrick's protests from behind. The pane's image became silver and opaque for an instant before exploding into a multitude of glass shards that ineffectually struck Pryus' hide armour.

"You piking beast! Why did you do that?!" Derrick exclaimed, hobbling over and pressing his hands against the empty frame.

"Of the four of you, the mercenary seems by far the only capable candidate for damaging Cyrael's plans. It would be foolish of me not to favour his methods over those of a pacifist, a child, and a cripple." He watched impassively as Derrick retrieved his sword-cane from the ground. "Do you intend to fight me, human?" The dragon made the disdain evident in his voice.

Derrick's grip tightened over the handle, but didn't move otherwise.

"Bah, as I thought." Pryus cocked his head toward one of the tunnels leading out of his lair. "That way will lead you up to the sewer system. Begone, and be thankful I've kept you so far from certain death, human. Our part in this day's events is at an end."

(2:00 AM)