After a number of weeks trying to get back in touch with my understanding of what this story is supposed to stand for, I return to you (somewhat) refreshed. As mentioned in another update, a member of my family has been in the hospital, so I hope I may be forgiven for at least a part of my disappearance.

That said, every story needs a villain. And trust me, this one is no different. The "big bad" for Sythius and his merry band is a character that's loomed large in my head for years, and is probably the first character that ever manifested in my head.

I'd like to introduce you. Play nice.


The place was dank, dreary, with moisture dripping down the bricks like slow, descending dread—just the right sort for the work he felt most at home doing.

Certainly, he had grown accustomed to a…particular lifestyle. He had grown accustomed to fine clothes, finer surroundings, and quality wine. He had never been much for pretentious palaces or serene forests, but he did enjoy what the vernacular tended to call "the good life." But he also preferred, in stark contrast to his sun-drunk brethren, darkness. He preferred moody torches and dancing shadows.

Perhaps that was why he didn't despair in this prison, where so many lesser men had been broken.

He was not like his kaldorei cousins, who worshiped the night. It was not a sky full of stars and a moon staring down at him like a delirious blind eyeball that felt romantic to him. He did not require such things. He did not require much, when the truth came right out. He was a simple man, with a taste for simple pleasures, and he had simple ambitions.

Not that anyone knew what those ambitions were, of course.

Perhaps it was the mystery with which he enshrouded himself that had initially caught the eye of the King, whose direct attention often spelled oblivion—again, of course, for lesser men.

He was kept in a cage. Cramped, tossed aside, encapsulated in impenetrable dark. His captors often forgot to feed him—the undead should, of course, be forgiven for neglecting the needs of the living; they simply did not know any better—but he was resourceful. He made do, as the saying went.

He continued his work.

He had to give credit to the druid. Sythius Sil'nathin was nothing short of a remarkable specimen, and so far had performed most admirably. He was most pleased in that regard. The same could certainly be said for the druid's sister, most luminous was she in the grace of Elune. And the dwarf. Who could have expected the dwarf?

Everything, so far, had gone swimmingly.

But then, he was old. Older than many of his captors. Older than the King. Older than every king. He was wise, he was crafty, and he knew better than to trust in plans. They did not always come to fruition.

The key to a well-laid operation was not in drawing out a line in hopes of it coming out straight. The key was to keep one's mind always centered upon the destination, and to see every possible pathway. It was a series of tunnels, all leading to the same nest. He had thrived on connecting tunnel after tunnel, string after string, web after web. It was almost a game to him.

He did not trust in the druid to do everything. He did not even trust the druid's allies to pick up the slack. No. He was not nearly as pedestrian a thinker as that. He expected nothing. Expectations would eventually lead to disappointment, and he did not have time for disappointment.

It was not safe to say that he planned anything.

His power was in suggestion.

Why do you smile?

He had caught the knight's attention; his personal jailer. The one who kept watch over him, and ensured that he did not escape. Exquisite. He lifted his eyes to the darkness surrounding his cage. He could not see any of the undead creatures that stood sentinel over him; it was too dark for that. But he could sense them.

Whenever he tried to speak these days, his throat seemed to collapse upon itself. Truly, he was in no shape to look at; though he had never been especially large, and in fact had always been thin, months in this prison had reduced him to almost nothing. He very closely resembled the shambling, racketing skeletons that made patrol throughout the city.

So he did not answer audibly.

He did, however, keep the smile on his face. The knight seemed to find it offensive; the knight found many things offensive. It seemed to think that he was an affront to existence, stepping on the toes of some dark god by daring to live this long.

But he was old. If there was one singular thing he had learned to do in the thousands upon thousands of years since the birth of the world, it was to live. Drinking moisture from the floor and eating whatever maggot-infested scraps a wayward zombie might leave behind after whatever served it for a meal—these things were not going to end him.

He stared blindly in the direction of the knight's heady bulk, still with that defiant smile, until he felt that he had made his point. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and returned to his work.

He reached out to the boy.

Kin, were they calling him now?

…A fitting name.