Apologies for another long gap between chapters - but here's the next one! And things should start to really get going from this point. I can't believe it's almost the end. Just two or three more chapters, and we'll be at the epilogue :O Anyway, I hope you enjoy this installment, and reviews are always greatly appreciated ^.^

Sand was not a man who needed much sleep. Perhaps it was his Elvish side shining through, or perhaps it was because he was one of those people who could never stop thinking, not at any hour of the day. Thus he had not been grudging of Isaviel's distracting company when she lay down beside him in his bed. That had been all they did that night. She had needed company, and to feel safe, and he had not wanted to dwell on any other reasons this beautiful Elf might have for choosing to sleep by his side.

He had watched her for a time, the way her eyes darted back and forth behind her closed eyelids, her hair unbound and tumbling over her arms, her breathing steady and gentle, expression as vulnerable as it ever would be. Even in sleep she seemed watchful, though, ready to leap into defence at any moment. It reminded him of his own younger days when he too had been prone to bouts of adventure with Daeghun, Shayla, Esmerelle, Tarmas and Cormick. And who of them were left? Cormick was old now, while Tarmas, Esmerelle and Shayla were all dead. That left him and Daeghun, and how far apart they had grown! He had lain on his back reminiscing of days long passed, staring at the rafters of his bedroom, almost forgetting how Isaviel slept so trustingly by his side, her hand warm in his, until he too fell asleep.

When he had awoken Isaviel was gone, not even the hint of a rumple in the sheets to tell of her passing. Sitting up suddenly, rubbing at tired eyes and blinking around the cluttered room in confusion, Sand had told himself he was being petty to feel peeved by her silent departure. Still, he knew her too well to think that it was because of any thoughtfulness on her part. She had acted on a whim – and was probably regretting it – he told himself as he washed with conjured water and dressed in the only clean shirt and breeches he had left.

With this in mind, Sand peered sullenly around his room as if through new eyes, and was struck by the mess. He hated mess, and he always had clean clothes. Until now, apparently. Had his…situation regarding Isaviel really made him that distracted? No, he had been more than a little thrown by the loss of Elanee, and Shandra's death tendays earlier had been a blow to them all. But…somehow his frustration with Isaviel had cleared his head momentarily, he felt. As one afflicted by madness may experience moments of lucidity, he understood that his recent obsessiveness had overstretched him by far. He had given himself no time to organise, or to keep organised. All the decades of his long life he had thrived on rigid structure and logic, and now he was mired in a lack of both. Muttering mutinously to himself, he set about righting his wrongs.

The wizard was still impatiently sorting his books in his bedroom into piles of alphabetised categories, every now and again pausing to angrily throw more discarded clothing amongst the others for washing, when he heard a clamouring from the bailey beyond his window. Leaning across the bed onto the windowsill beyond, where the rafters sloped lowest, Sand could make out the movement of the chains which lowered the drawbridge from the gatehouse, and slowly the great wooden gates swung wide as well.

Guardsmen on the walls were shouting responses to an aggravated Kana waiting by that opened entrance, hands on hips, and the confusion was drawing more than a little attention. Workers from the few remaining building works in the main bailey were stopping and turning to stare, and Neeshka opened her front door, leaning out to get a better view. The brief glimpse Sand saw of the Tiefling unsettled him – she looked pale and pained, a frown on her face where usually there was none – until his attention was called to a more immediate concern.

A raggedly armoured man rode in through the gates, a younger soldier astride their weary horse behind him. Both were swaying in the saddle, blood-stained and muddied, soaked through by melted snow, with pale, stricken faces and wide, staring eyes. The younger man, the rider not holding the reins, would have fallen to the frozen earth had a guard of the keep not been there to catch him.

Kana was still struggling to get much sense out of the second man by the time Sand rushed from his house to join them, his cloak about his shoulders, still buttoning his green doublet over his shirt. Someone had at least had the presence of mind to help the rider down while his compatriot was led away to the temple for medical aid, but he was shivering violently and swaying on his feet.

"You need to tell us from which regiment you hail, soldier," Kana was gritting out, her insistent tone suggesting that she had already attempted this request several times, "Has your post fallen? Who was your commanding officer?"

At those words the man blanched, his eyes flickering over to Sand before he continued to babble of fire and death and shadows. Looking at the soldier's horror, the wizard put a restraining hand on Kana's shoulder and shook his head when she turned to him. At last she understood, and ordered the guards to help the man to a warm bath and some hot food.

"Maybe we will get some more sense out of him when he is warm and well fed," she conceded all but ruefully, her words trailing off when she saw Sand's expression. For he had been privy to Isaviel's revelations that night before, and with a chill in his heart, he feared he understood.

"Find our Knight-Captain. Inform Lord Nasher as well. I fear our first fort has fallen, and we have lost an invaluable commander along with many good men."

"This is terrible news," Lord Nasher intoned with a rumbling gravitas that only he could convey, even slumped in a wicker chair dressed in his night-shirt and breeches with a bandage around his midriff.

Joining his side in the small atrium outside the bedchamber chosen for the more sane man of the two from Callum's fort, Sir Nevalle had grown a little pink. Whether from shame, embarrassment or anger, Isaviel could not tell. She hoped it was all three, and hid her smirk of triumph from Kana, but not from him. He had to acknowledge that she had been right about his error in choosing Callum as the commander of the most precarious of their forts. To garrison it seriously had been folly, and if only Nasher had not given Nevalle control of Crossroad Keep while the Moon Elf was away, she was certain this would not have happened. Sand would never have made such a foolish choice.

At the beginnings of such a train of thought, Isaviel forcefully returned her considerations to the fresh memory of the sight of the newly washed man still shuddering on the bed in the corner of his room, hot soup he held in his chafed hands sloshing dangerously over his lap.

The moment Kana had found her, out in the empty practice yards acting out her most difficult routine of offensive swordplay and acrobatics, she had known what this would be about. But she alone was unsurprised by this 'revelation'. Nasher looked wearier than ever, and she wondered whether he was truly recovering or not. Kana's brow had furrowed deeply, her eyes harder than ever as the terrified messenger at last calmed himself sufficiently to explain what happened at Callum's fort.

Sand was rather tellingly absent. Kana had made it quite clear that he had been in the bailey to witness the messengers' arrival; but the Moon Elf fully expected him to avoid her after the night they had just passed together. When she had awoken, blessedly free from the nightmares she had been suffering, she had been restless with the strength that Akachi's newly manifested curse all the same.

More than that, this need she felt for the wizard friend of hers unsettled her. She had always lived her life with the intention of relying solely upon herself, and the idea that she would require his company – her hand in his while they slept – to fight away her nightmares filled her with frustration. It had suddenly been imperative that she leave his house and push aside her thoughts with activity and the biting winds of deepest winter. That she did not expect Sand to understand. He distrusted her attentions towards him, and rightly so.

"You must garrison the forts as I told you," Isaviel urged Nevalle and his lord, both relieved and horrified to see Kana nodding along to her words, "No delays. Not a hint of doubt when the messages are sent to them. I don't care how many of the Many-Starred Cloaks it takes to get it done within the hour."

"At once, Knight-Captain," her lieutenant nodded sharply and strode purposefully out into the corridors of the keep. No objection came from Lord Nasher.

"And what do you intend to do now, 'Knight-Captain'?" Nevalle could not keep the derision out of his voice as he turned to face Isaviel fully, "Do we have any time left for you to go visiting mythical dragon-spirits in a long-forgotten realm? How can we allow you to leave when this may all be the ramblings of a deranged warlock?"

"If you don't, then my use to you is forfeited anyway," Isaviel shrugged, "My companions and I will leave tonight, and Jerro will use his magic to get us there. We will be no more than a tenday gone. There will be time to finish preparations before our enemy is upon us." There has to be, or the Sword Coast is doomed.

Once she had left the stifling presence of Lord Nasher and his lakey, taken up by thoughts of battles to come, and of rounding up her companions to leave that very day for Arvahn, Isaviel barely noticed a tall, burly soldier pass her approaching along the corridor. This was the east wing of the castle after all, wherein stood most of the Greycloaks' accommodation. When he paused in front of her she frowned and stepped aside impatiently.

"Isaviel?"

The use of her name, in an unsettlingly familiar voice, halted her and brought back memories of those months ago out in the swamps, fishing with little luck in waters she did not know then were corrupted by the destructive power of the King of Shadows. No words came to her lips as she turned back to regard that soldier beside her, at last recognising his unusual height and broad shoulders, strong muscles beneath the standard-issue soldiers' chain shirt, blue tabard and black breeches, his fur-lined grey cloak sprinkled with melting snow and stained by mud. But his broad boots were of the Mere, stitched just so to help keep water out, and that greatsword hanging in its scuffed sheath from his back sent a jolt of something like horror through the Moon Elf. When last she had seen it, it had been hanging over Retta Starling's fireplace. A memory of that woman's husband, who had never truly recovered after an injury sustained in the Battle of West Harbour.

"Bevil," Isaviel gasped her childhood friend's name, her eyes at last moving to meet his.

"You look…," he paused, a frown coming to his face as he actually thought about his words. What had he intended to say? That she looked 'the same'? That she looked 'good'? A flush of chagrin came to his face as all of these problems finally occurred to him, too. "You look different," he offered at last.

For his part, Bevil looked tired, with bags under his ever-vacant blue eyes, sporting a thick – but at least well-kept – beard, probably as an attempt to keep out the cold. Still, the sight of him, however changed, was astounding to Isaviel. She had assumed, from Daeghun's typical unforthcoming attitude towards the fall of West Harbour, that Bevil had died with the rest. A shadow of guilt passed through her at the realisation that he had not occurred to her at all since. She had not allowed herself to grieve for Merring and Tarmas or even Amie. Why would he have been any different?

"H-how long have you been…a soldier at the keep?" she all but demanded at length. It made her skin crawl to think that she might be the knight-captain of any one of them, but the idea of either herself or Bevil having any military experience beyond duties in the West Harbour militia was ludicrous, even then. She still remembered when they had played with toy swords.

"Since your Lord Casavir brought the refugees back from Highcliff," Bevil admitted, raising his hands in defeat when she glared at him, "I know…I would have come to see you sooner only everyone kept telling me you were busy, or your were away…and you're the knight-captain here. I'm just a Greycloak. No one really believed me," he grinned at the evident disparity.

"'Lord Casavir'?" Isaviel scoffed.

Bevil hardly seemed to notice. The reverent look in his eyes bespoke of hero worship. The Moon Elf chided herself for being surprised, and suddenly felt at a loss in this most unexpected of conversations. Once she might have been disappointed by the coldness of the interaction; not out of any affection, but out of a fear that she was 'losing her touch'. Now all she thought of was how fortunate it was that she had not lingered longer in West Harbour. What might she have done if someone of Bevil's ilk had tried to marry her? Suddenly the life of the adventurer seemed far more preferable.

When the warrior put a hand on her shoulder, the unexpected contact jolted the Moon Elf from her thoughts. Looking up once more into his eyes she saw a hint of that affection which had made her so uncomfortable over the years. She supressed a shudder and stepped carefully out of his reach, smiling as she always had regardless.

"It truly is good to see you again, Isaviel," Bevil said as fervently as he could, his eyes still as vacant as if he were reading lines for a play he barely knew, "I hope we can meet again…"

"I have a Knight-Captain's duties now," she reminded him as sharply as she could muster, and his face fell as Isaviel moved away quickly now, "And those duties call now, Bevil."

Isaviel paused, seeing how crestfallen he was, and sighed in frustration when a ghost of emotion flitted through her, something akin to sadness, nostalgia maybe. It took only that moment to recognise that this feeling was not hers but rather that of the presence within her. Angered by the thought, and increasingly impatient – as well as disappointed by this most soulless of reunions, she found herself driven to continue.

"We never had a hope, you and I," she told Bevil, and watched his brows knit together, "I don't want you to think otherwise, not so late. I could be dead tonight, and I won't die without having you know that. I never loved you…and it is not for West Harbour that I will grieve when I survive this."

Isaviel had never been so relieved when he said nothing in return and allowed her to turn on her heel and stalk away. For her part, she felt no guilt, only satisfaction and maybe a little relief. But that ghostly presence within her, manifesting only as flutters of emotion or remembered sensations, was not so heartless. Akachi wanted her to feel regret. Nothing had ever made her less determined to care.

In a complex as vast as Crossroad Keep, perhaps Isaviel should not have been so surprised that it should take so long to track down each of her friends in turn. She had needed their support, and for the most part she had found it – few of them wanted to linger in the castle while preparations for war were made, knowing that would mean a gruelling wait with little to do but fear.

Zhjaeve had proven the easiest to track, helping to dress the wounds of the injured soldiers in the temple with the priests of Lathander, administering healing spells to those who required them most. She had been as matter of fact as always when Isaviel asked for her aid in the journey to Arvahn. She would need the Githzerai's advice, especially now that she knew for certain just how untrustworthy Ammon Jerro was. Only Zhjaeve truly seemed to have any knowledge of the King of Shadows and his motives; perhaps she could be of some service in learning what they must from Arvahn.

Qara had been impatiently explaining the art of a well-placed fireball to a group of wide-eyed Many-Starred Cloaks in the practice yard on the north side of the keep. In her frustration, sparks of electricity and little puffs of flame had started to spout from her fingertips with every gesture she made, and the spectacle had gathered a small crowd of curious but increasingly nervous Greycloaks who were not taken up by their practice routines.

The precocious sorcerer had been happy for the distraction when Isaviel offered it, and her eyes lit up at the prospect of going away. However, when she had learned the Ammon Jerro really would not be going with them, some of that light had fled her eyes, a response which truly unsettled Isaviel. After a few moments, Qara had frowned and shaken her head imperiously, turning away. The Moon Elf had not pressed the issue – did she really want the aid of someone who so favoured her mother's betrayer?

Casavir had been easier to deal with, leading the drill of some higher ranking Greycloaks across the yard from Qara's display. As ever, he had been unreadable and apparently anything but excited by the prospect of some more adventure, but nor had he seemed particularly perturbed by the necessity that they walk their way back from Arvahn. Quite the opposite from Qara, Isaviel noted. In the reverse of her sensibilities regarding the sorcerer, she realised grudgingly that she did want the paladin's support in the journey – provided that he tried his hardest not to lecture her about 'justice' and 'righteousness'.

Grobnar had been in his room in the keep, adjusting the gears of his golem's right elbow. He had jumped with a frightened squeak when Isaviel knocked and entered his room, something which she found more than curious, but he had simply nodded with eyes wide as she explained her plan to leave that night. When she had inquired what it was that made him so nervous, he had ignored her question and talked breathlessly of his golem's positive qualities and his need to develop a backup command word for control of the golem. Baffled, the Moon Elf had made a swift exit.

Sand was avoiding her, and she did not try to look for him. At length, she found herself heading for the half-empty banquet hall, doling herself a bowl of soup and grabbing one of the warm ciders from the main table before any of the servants could come and try to offer it to her. In that moment, there was nothing she wanted less than to feel like the Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep, knowing that every moment once she returned from Arvahn would be that way. Would this be her 'last adventure'?

Few guards who were eating here at this time, just before the 'main meal of the day' – which was actually served every six hours, to cater for the twenty-four hour guard rota. Those who were had gathered in isolated groups, their voices echoing in the cavernous room. A few more draperies and banners had been added by the time she had returned from the Ironfist Stronghold, but the hall still felt empty, and their voices carried easily. The rafters were open and vast, sheltering softly warbling birds which had flown through the broad windows high in the wall. The enormous shutters had been partially opened earlier to allow in the brief period of daylight, and no one had bothered to try to remove the animals. If anything, they were the one addition which improved the room for Isaviel – it gave her some entertainment when guards learned the hard way not to eat beneath their perches.

Spying Bishop and Neeshka, both wrapped in their cloaks as if they had been out in the cold, nursing cups of the same warmed cider which she was carrying, she noted they were huddled in the far corner where the deepest shadows had gathered, away from the multitudinous flickering candles. This was hardly atypical for either of them, and though both wore even grimmer expressions than usual she headed straight for them. It was not often that she found a chance to speak to her friends, those who thought most like her and least like the guards – without also having the fiery temper of Qara or the mania of Grobnar – and she hoped to find some comfort in their familiarity.

Neeshka looked up with wary eyes when Isaviel approached. The Tiefling looked pale, and it took the Moon Elf only a moment as she wordlessly slid her bowl and tankard onto the table to recognise the slight angle of her posture. When had Neeshka ever been quiet about an injury before? A high whine alerted Isaviel to Karnwyr's presence beneath the table. Bishop snarled back at the animal, and it fell silent, yellow eyes watching Isaviel as she slid onto the bench beside its master.

"You are hurt," Isaviel noted to her Tiefling friend, after a long look at Bishop failed to gain a response. The ranger stared steadfastly into his drink, spinning the tankard restlessly, "What happened?"

"I…" Neeshka sounded startled, "It's nothing. I went for a walk in the woods and fell on the ice." She paused, her voice sounded worryingly empty of its usual emphasis, "I suppose I learned my lesson."

"You did," Bishop grunted, "This isn't the place for a demongirl like you. All this snow, and all these watching guards," his eyes were hard when they rose at last to meet Isaviel's, his lip curling into a sneer, "I'm surprised you bothered to honour us with your high and mighty presence, Captain."

"Really," Isaviel glared back at him, "Are we going to have this conversation again?"

Karnwyr whined once more, louder this time, and when Bishop kicked the animal it seemed ready for the response, already jumping out of the way and slinking off towards the great hearth nearby with just one plaintive backward glance. That was strange. Bishop was never aggressive towards Karnwyr, for all his brutality towards humanity. He met Isaviel's questioning look with a frown that could not hide a flicker of something else. It reminded her of panic. Was he afraid of the fights to come?

"No," the ranger responded at length, turning to look at her more measuredly this time, a slow smile that was far from kind creeping across his features, though his eyes took in her face with more than a hint of their usual fire. She felt herself starting to blush uncomfortably when he continued to watch her that intently, still with that strange, dark smile, "No, we won't need to have that conversation again…Isaviel," he breathed an overly dramatic sigh, his knee very deliberately touching hers under the table, sending deliberately mixed messages when combined with his cold tone, "I know all the answers already." He was dressed without his usual travelling leathers, in linen trousers and a plain tunic with his leather jerkin open over it, and she could feel the heat of his leg against hers.

"I can't go with you," Neeshka blurted the words in a high voice, a little too loudly, and Isaviel jumped, looking around at the Tiefling as sharply as Bishop did. The Moon Elf was unsettled to realise that she and the ranger had crept subtly closer during their staring match.

"What? Why not?" Isaviel demanded, "I thought you said your injury…"

"It's not that. I can't," there were tears in Neeshka's eyes, and the sight sent a wave of cold panic through the Moon Elf. She had never seen her Tiefling friend in such a state before.

"But…"

"No," Neeshka shook her head, pushing herself to her feet suddenly, as swift and graceful as ever in extricating herself from the table, "Please. Just…I can't…"

"You're pathetic, Tiefling," Bishop sneered, and a little frown appeared on her face.

"No," she snapped back, "That's you, ranger. I am not like you."

"Just wonderful," Isaviel sighed when the Tiefling darted away, ignoring the Moon Elf when she called after her, "Now I have to endure the mind-numbing concoction that is Casavir, Zhjaeve, Grobnar, a golem, Qara and Sand. They all know how to have fun, oh of course they do," she groaned, drinking as much of her cider as she could in one swallow, taking hold of her spoon with some significant force afterwards, steadfastly not looking to the ranger so close beside her, "If Grobnar doesn't get us killed in Arvahn, Casavir and Zhjaeve will probably bore us to voluntary suicide on the walk back."

"Isaviel," Bishop's voice sounded even closer than she expected, his lips stirring against her hair, his breath tickling against her neck. She felt something uncomfortably akin to a rush of relief when his hand settling over hers, stopping her from partaking in any of that unappealing soup. His grip was hardly gentle, but it was hot and left her entirely unable to bring herself to look around at him, "We can't win this battle."

"Why are you…"

"But there might be a fight we can win instead. Don't face the army at all…leave that to the righteous fools."

"What are you saying?"

His voice was so low, so full of feeling, that her heart was pounding. It had been months since he had last suggested they escape, and as much as she had hated the offers for the reminder that she could not take that most-longed for course, she had liked them for the emotion. It made her wonder in those moments if he did love her in some twisted, selfish way. The kind of love that could condemn her to horrors without a backward glance, but which would make her imagine his eyes blazed with a enough passionate fire to shine in the dark.

"I'm saying," he hissed his words now, leaning closer, his hand moving up to rest against her neck, his thumb idly brushing over her skin as he ducked his head to hers, for all the world as if he meant to kiss her at that moment, deliberately waiting until she tilted her lips to his in expectation before speaking instead, so softly she could barely hear him, "That you get that wretched sword any way you can. Go to Arvahn, piece it together. But don't come back here. Go the long way round. Let Casavir and Khelgar handle the death that they'll face here. Move in on the Mere from the south, kill the King of Shadows when he's not expecting you."

"There's no way to survive in this weather alone," she responded automatically, her eyes fixed on his with a kind of confused longing. He had ignored her ever since they had left the Ironfist Clanhold, and now this? "And the Mere is impassable from the south in winter. Whatever our enemy is doing to the weather now, it will be worse than normal there for sure. It wouldn't work, Bishop. I hate this place as much as you do, but…"

"I won't die here," he told her, kissing her with a sudden firmness that stole her breath, his hand moving to her lower back and holding her tightly against him as if he expected she might pull away, "You shouldn't either."

He did not allow her to respond, kissing her again even in plain view of the rest of those in the banquet hall. She cared no more than he did, almost believing that she understood his reasons. Whatever happened after this, there would always be this.

"We're going to my room," she told him breathlessly between his kisses, "And then we're going to Arvahn. Don't' abandon me to those fools like Neeshka."

"Never, Captain," he mocked her with a smirk as cold as the northern winds, but his gaze and his touch were like fire on her skin, and nothing seemed amiss.

"If I'm not exactly as I was before this, warlock, you're a dead man," Bishop growled as Isaviel and all of her 'companions', with the notable exception of Neeshka, stood shivering atop Crossroad Keep, on the roof space above the Knight-Captain's chambers.

"Ha!" Qara spluttered theatrically from her place by Ammon Jerro's side, her eyes glinting like green jewels in the flickering red light of the torch she held, "Any change would be an improvement, ranger."

"Watch your tongue you mindless b-" Bishop started to spit right back, predictably, but Zhjaeve interrupted.

"Now is not the time for quarrelling," the Githzerai noted, her voice resonating strangely even in the gusting wind of the icy early evening. The sky was a deep purple behind her, almost black, and the stars were glinting in a cloudless sky. It was only going to grow colder at the keep…how much worse would it be in mountainous Arvahn, far to the north east?

Bishop was surprisingly yielding to Zhjaeve's suggestion, standing there with a glare, his bow an arc of darkness across his back with just its glowing red jewels to give him away. All of them were dressed for the winter road, with furs and leathers, hardy, broad snow boots and several cloaks each. Isaviel was almost as surprised to see that Zhjaeve had dressed for the weather as she was to see that Grobnar had refrained from bedecking his beloved golem with the same attire. He spoke to it as if it were a pet, or even a friend, and every cooing word had Sand rolling his eyes in intellectual agony.

The wizard was still ignoring her, though his furtive glances her way had grown more frequent. He had been the first to her quarters for the appointed meeting on this rooftop, and he had evidently noticed that Bishop was already with her. If the knowledge that she was still sleeping with the ranger had irked him, Sand had not shown it. He had simply raised his mobile eyebrows in a mockery of disapproval and strode past her up the ladders and through the trap door to set up the necessary runes for Ammon Jerro's teleportation spell, Aldanon shortly in his wake. Watching Sand now as she moved up into the group beside him, Ammon Jerro beginning to chant the first words of his spell, Isaviel could not deny that she felt a pang of…something. What was she supposed to do? He could not give her the passion that Bishop did, any more than Bishop could care about her as reliably as Sand.

"Gods be with you, all of you!" Aldanon cried as Jerro's gruff voice rose, his hands making the appropriate arcane gestures as bursts of light began to rise from the runes in the snow around their feet, "I hope you don't die!"

"Always useful advice," Sand sighed.

There was no more time for speech then as the lights enveloped the group, and Qara's sneering face was blotted out along with Jerro and the fur-bundled Aldanon…and a great searing pain tore through Isaviel's chest. Reflexively, she took hold of Sand's wrist, and had time only to see him look around at her in surprise before the ground vanished from their feet and the air turned pure white, both before and behind her eyes.

When vision returned to Isaviel, she did not see her companions and could no longer feel the velvet cuff of Sand's sleeve against her palm. She could hear his voice, dimly, calling her name, and had the sense of a night sky and cold, cold air on her face. But all she could see was a pale grey void…and ahead of her an undefined form, perhaps of a man dressed in armour with a sword strapped to his broad back.

Her thoughts sluggish, as if in a dream, she still reached automatically for her weapons – half-expecting none to be to hand – and was surprised when she gripped a pair of kukri hilts. These were not her belongings. Looking down at herself, she saw that she was dressed in the grey robes of an apprentice monk, and when she took a step forward something brushed her cheek. Jumping in surprise, she twisted around, feeling oddly overbalanced as if she had already shouldered her pack for travelling. Instead, she saw a mass of grey feathers and it took a moment of shock to realise that these were wings. Her wings.

Her breath coming in frightened gasps, she span around fully, her thoughts as fogged as the formless world around her, and beheld a tall oval of blue light ahead. It shimmered like rippling water, and seemed just as incorporeal as the rest of this sensationless world. There was nothing to hear, but the echo of Sand's voice far away, and nothing to smell or taste, not a breath of wind or a hint of warmth or cold. But she was not alone, she reminded herself.

Moving more quickly now, Isaviel forced herself to look back around, though the thought filled with the heavy-legged dread of a child in a nightmare, and stiffened in alarm when she beheld a masked man directly before her. His eyes shone gold, a brighter, deeper gold than her own, and his hair curled darkly about his head behind the elaborate mask. It looked to be made of red and black feathers, covering his cheeks and nose as well as his forehead, but leaving his chin free. She could see that his mouth was set into a grim line, and he advanced even as she retreated, her kukris ringing free from their sheaths.

Hunger. The word exploded into the air about them, a thought not spoken with her voice but shared between them, and his eyes flashed red. Biting off a scream, Isaviel leapt back reflexively…and once more the ground whirled beneath her feet in a blaze of pale blue light.

"Isaviel!"

The Moon Elf's eyes flew open, adjusting quickly to the low light even as she gasped in a sharp breath of air so icy that she all but choked on it. Sand was shaking her shoulders, a fearful look still etched into his sharp features as she continued to blink up at him, momentarily thoroughly disorientated.

Her other companions had gathered around them on the bare, uneven rocky ground, looks ranging from concern to pure confusion – with the exception of Bishop, who was notably absent from this throng of staring faces. Casavir's hammer would have illuminated the scene for her just well enough to avoid perceiving them with nightvision, but as she sat up this could not help her fully take in her surroundings.

"How long have I been…unconscious?" Isaviel asked warily as Sand helped her on to her feet. Her pack was at her feet, alongside his, and she reflexively checked that she still had possession of the shard and Lord Halueth Never's sword before looking around.

She turned about on the spot, seeing the inky black sky dotted with glittering silver stars, feeling the wind biting icily against her cheeks, whipping her hair around as she made out the jagged stone descent below the outcropping upon which they stood. Ahead of her stretched a rippling multitude of mountains and more distant hills, the hint of forests and perhaps a lake or two far below. This was a step beyond even the isolation of Ammon Jerro's Haven, though they stood in the same mountain range as they had those tendays before. The rest of the world was further away, and the air was colder and fiercer. She had never been this far north, nor this far east. Northerly Mirabar was their closest major city.

"You were in that…state… only for a short time," Sand told her after a pause, letting her take in her bearings first, "Only long enough to worry us, I'm afraid."

"Still too long if you ask me," Bishop called from further up, and Isaviel turned back around to see him standing on a rise of rock on the other side of their outcropping, the wind setting his cloak flapping back out from him in the breeze like a black flag. He had left Karnwyr at the keep for this journey, and his deliberate isolation from the rest of the group set him starkly against the cold, hard earth.

"Starting to care all of a sudden, Bishop?" Isaviel mocked, showing more bitterness than she had intended as she moved past Sand, a little unsteady on her feet at first but determined not to be outdone.

"We aren't alone in these mountains, Captain," the ranger sneered as she climbed up to join him, flinching away from the torch he held as he brandished it unhelpfully to emphasise his point, "You could have got us killed."

"Well by great Mystra," Sand breathed in awe as he pulled himself up to join them, and only then did Isaviel look ahead and take in the sight below them.

The ruins of Arvahn soared in broken arches and half-crumbling spires within a rocky basin maybe half as big again as the area of Neverwinter, stone of unfamiliar kinds glittering eerily in the starlight. It looked as if an enormous palace or cathedral complex of some sort had once stood there, along with an assortment of other stately buildings. Something spherical and silver glimmered in the distant depths of that predominantly aerial construction, giving off a pale light of its own that helped to illuminate the apparently abandoned city.

Smaller constructions fanned out in spirals along glinting walkways and down plainer granite roads. Beyond them, an unsettlingly large outline in the opposite stone face of the basin, stood a set mighty gates. The stone doors had collapsed outwards and broken into massive pieces, leaving a gaping black voice beyond, leading to the fabled underground labyrinth of the city proper. And in the distance Isaviel at last saw that to which Bishop referred; the shift of a broad shadow over the moon, on the furthest reaches of the basin.

"Ammon Jerro spoke of dragons," Isaviel breathed, her heart rising into her throat and momentarily clearing her thoughts of the image of Akachi's masked face, of her own wings…of the hunger which drove the soul of her grandfather to try to steal her body.

"He did," Sand agreed ruefully by her side when Bishop just grunted and hopped down onto the broad path ahead, stamping out his torch as he did so. The city was illuminated well enough without him carrying a definitive marker of their presence as well.

"They should pose no threat to us, so long as we do not disturb this place. The spirit who dwells here is an idol theirs. His resting place has become a place of pilgrimage for his kind," Zhjaeve put in now, coming up to join them from behind as Casavir, and Grobnar – with his surprisingly agile golem in tow – picked their way over the stones and past them, joining Bishop on the carven road, "Remember that Ammon Jerro once came this way, and he yet lives."

"Yes, but he had an army of demons and devils at his command," Isaviel complained under her breath as the Githzerai moved ahead, and Sand snorted at her tone, glancing sidelong at her when she turned to him.

"You were not in this realm were you?" he noted softly, "I saw something…strange in your eyes before we were teleported here. A flash of light…"

"Akachi came to me in some kind of…dream world. Some kind of shared space, I think," Isaviel admitted as they began to make their way down the rocks to the others. Grobnar was peering at the elaborate patterns in the walls of the road, chattering excitedly to Zhjaeve. Bishop was already halfway to the next curve in the path, bow in hand, letting the moonlight guide his human eyesight.

"Then he wanted to kill you – your soul, that is. In that shared space," Sand agreed softly, looking unexpectedly thoughtful rather than perturbed, "There is something important…"

"I sense much sorrow in this place," Zhjaeve was saying, inadvertently interrupting their conversation, "Long ago a battle was waged here, between two mighty forces. It created the ruin which we will soon see before us, and finally destroyed Arvahn for good."

"There is great evil here, my lady," Casavir put in gravely now, his hammer shining pale blue in his hands, casting strange shadows against his face – sometimes it was hard to remember that the weapon's light was not visible to those with evil intent in their hearts, "Be on your guard."

"I'm always on my guard, Casavir," Isaviel promised.

With a grin that she wished was more than half-hearted, the Moon Elf began to set off down the road after Bishop, pulling her cloaks about her to fight off the bitter chill. In truth, this excuse to be so far from 'home', with the threat of dragon fire and the soaring beauty of a long-lost city, made her feel more exhilarated than she had in a long time. With any luck, there might be some answers to be found in all of this, and that way lay hope as well.