RP:The Night Is Dark And Full Of Terrors, But The Fire Burns Them All Away

Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: The time has come for the final fight with Amarrah and for Khitti to finally find out if the cure, that she's worked so hard for the past few months, will really work.

The Cenril-Kelay Bridge, Cenril

By the time that the LydiaAmarrahMonster tripped one of Onyx’s magic sensors in the middle of the night, there wasn’t much time to react. There’d be no luring of the creature to the nearby cliff north of Gualon, and likewise, no bringing her the old temple of Arkhen in Southern Sage. No, the fused form of Lydia and Amarrah was ambling straight for Cenril, and so Khitti would meet the amalgam head on at the Kelay-Cenril bridge. While it was clear that Lydia was no longer in Vailkrin, both Meri and Lionel had been asked to keep close to Cenril for just such an occasion. Brand would be sent to get them, with as much haste as could be mustered.

Thankfully for Khitti, the bridge was as vast as Larket’s and the abomination had not even made it to the beginnings of the gorge on the west side. Khitti, of course, would not wait for the others; there were preparations to be made in such a short time and besides Lionel, she was the fastest of the four and besides, she could actually see in the dark. The vampiress, surprisingly, actually had a backup plan: that spell Lionel had found in Frostmaw’s forbidden library would come in handy yet again. Several orbs of holy energy had been summoned up with Brand’s help and shoves into jars as makeshift bombs, and though it did weaken her somewhat, the dragonscale armor she often wore helped to keep the holy magic’s burning light at bay as it radiated from inside the satchel at her side.

Working quickly, Khitti summoned up a shadow-ink pen and set to scribbling sigils and runes on various parts of the middle of the bridge. Several sigils and runes glowed bright red and helped to enhance both Brand and Lionel’s respective fires. Others produced a calming blue light, aiming to boost the raw mental energy Meri needed for her own abilities. And finally, a few pulsed in slow, large bursts, giving off natural healing energy when it was required. The sigils only needed a close proximity to work, but they would not last long; it was an unfortunate sacrifice she had to make in order to have less time-consuming work. When it was finished, the glows of each one would die down, their magic hidden in the materials that made up the bridge. Francis would be summoned then and sent to meet with the others as Khitti chose to stay at the center, watching and waiting for the abomination’s approach as she drew her bow Diamond Dust from its place on her back and nocked an arrow onto it carefully.

Brand arrived by Tikifhlee. The great cats of the Shadow Plane had seen little use as mounts up to this point, or at least Brand’s hadn’t, but rarely was time so much of the essence as it was now. He’d arrive along with Lionel and Meri, all three of them easily able to fit on the back of the beast, but Brand was silent for the bulk of the ride. His mind was simply nowhere near the two riding with him. His mind wasn’t even on Khitti; if today was really the day she would get her cure, then the possibilities were vast, and so the number of his worries approached the infinite. She was the -last- one he should think about right now, unless he wanted to be a useless, wet noodle-y bundle of nerves when his mind should be on the fighting the zombie horde that would surely greet them. No, Brand was in fact keeping his mind steadfast on Onyx -- the very Onyx who was nowhere near here. The Onyx who wasn’t even on the Tranquility, but attending to ‘other, equally critical obligations.’ That had been fine, when they’d thought they’d bait the Lydia-Amarrah amalgam to a place Onyx couldn’t go anyway, but now of course the plans had changed and Onyx still could not be here.

Oh, Brand knew enough to trust Onyx’s loyalties -- a difficult feat, that, to satisfy the suspicions of a former Daggers operative, but Onyx had managed it. He knew roughly where they had come from and why, and looking for what, and even had some idea of what they must be doing now. He never would have made them First Mate otherwise. And yet, when the lich Onyx had spent ages tracking resurfaced at the -precise- moment he and Khitti could have used the undead’s expertise the most, Brand’s imagination still went running off its leash. The timing was so perfectly inconvenient -- and after all, Brand hadn’t survived his years in Catal without a healthy sense of paranoia. Imagining what his friends might do as enemies was a habit nearly as ingrained as breathing.

Yes, it was almost paradoxical, but Brand kept his mind clear for the task at hand by keeping it elsewhere. There were no zombies to worry about. The only black-hearted horrors were the ones Onyx hunted. And there was -definitely- no Khitti cure to be concerned with. He willed his worries for her away with distraction, and then let the distraction fade away to useless noise until his mind was only the hum of the adrenaline in his veins. No Khitti. No undead. No nothing. Focus, beat this thing, and worry about the after… after. After they win. Even as the Tikifhlee reached the Cenril bridge and Khitti’s figure stood at the edges of his vision, Brand kept his mind anywhere else but here.

The pockmarked man grimaces with conviction at the small handcrafted hole in the rubble of Vailkrin’s shantytown outskirts. “He won't be coming out,” he says. “I tell ye true. It's been over an hour and nary a sign of him.” He spits at the roasted debris, dousing smoke. A fat man in a tight-fitting yellow jerkin nods his agreement, and the crowd of displaced townsfolk eruptsinto a din of whispers. “Aye,” the fat man bellows. “That be the last of him.” The pockmarked man approaches the ebony stallion and places a disfigured hand upon the saddle. In response, the horse neighs with uncertainty and takes a careful backward trot. “It be a shame to leave earthly wares behind,” the pockmarked man says as much to the horse as to the crowd. “I reckon it might do to admit he died bravely.” The fat man wipes a bead of humidity-spawned sweat from his thick, curly hair as he rummages through a leather bag beside the horse. “Stupidly… but bravely,” he retorts. His grubby fingers grab the hilt of a terribly serrated black knife and he winces. “Roughing it alone against a devil’s plume wyvern. On her own turf. No man, save a man with a death wish, behaves as such. He didn't even bring a crossbow. To battle with a wyvern, one must needs procure a first-class crossbow.” The pockmarked man looks to the dark moonless sky for a moment for signs of the creature, then goes back to easing the horse. “And I suppose you've fought many wyverns in your day, Maevis, to know this true,” a voice echoes off the wreckage to the near east.

The crowd stirs and falls silent, and Maevis and his companion freeze in their tracks. Lionel emerges from behind a shattered carriage, covered in cuts and bruises. His sword, Hellfire, is held threateningly in two stern grips. He is clad in thin blacks, tattered here and there to reveal further wounds. He does not appear breathless. “Away from the horse, if you please. And you, Jericho. You asked for aid, not trinkets and traveling companions. I have aided you, and now I will take my leave of you.” The men grow pale -- an achievement, to be sure, for they are vampires, the both of them -- and hasten wayward of their would-be prizes. The crowd thins as Vailkrinites vanish into their regional abyss. “What did you do?” Maevis asks quietly, his voice shaken. “I aided you,” Lionel repeats. He sheaths his sword, takes stock of his belongings, and hops up on his horse. “Where will you go?” Lionel studies Maevis briefly, smiling nastily. The fat man trembles. “To end this.” The horse takes off in a purposeful trot out of Vailkrin.

On any other occasion, a trip from Vailkrin and toward anyplace else in Lithrydel would feel like burgeoning dawn following a long twilight struggle. A three-day ride through steep gorges and past verdant hills, this particular trek is scenic and lively with signs of civilization smattered between flourishing flora. Today, however, Lionel feels as if he has left behind some ray of hope in favor of nightfall-by-the-sea. Battle with the shadow’s plume wyvern, for all its hardship, was easier than this. Tracking a horde of undead alongside faithful Rorin, for all the gloomy judgmental stares cast upon him not only by the townsfolk but -- he could have sworn -- by Rorin himself, was easier than this. Everything was easier than this. Each night, Lionel dreams of all the things that led to this, and each day, he attempts to piece together that which he has dreamt. Clashes with Amarrah in a cave where the dragon Raiez was slain blend together in his subconscious with promises made beside an icy lake. Four words plague him as surely as the insectoid menace plagued a long-forgotten people, as surely as anything ever plagues anyone: “We’ll find a cure.” His own words, twisted over time and across his dreams into a harsher bite, a darker delivery. Maybe his wounds, healing quickly but still a burden, play a role in his fever dreams. Perhaps they would have come just the same. Looking back on his promise to Khitti with the benefit of arduous hindsight, the line between physical and psychological pain has blurred. The only way out is through; the only way to make amends is to see this to its completion, no matter the cost. By the time Lionel climbs atop Brand’s Tikifhlee, he’s feeling far more winded than the wyvern ever left him.

Meri has arrived on the back of an over-sized cat thing, which she was really not pleased about for the record. As a human, Meri has a preference for human-like-things. Dragons? No. Eff that, no dragon rides for Meri. No aerial battles. And over-sized cats from another dimension are not suitable mounts in her opinion. Out of all the mounts she could have selected for herself, she picked a dang horse for a reason. Brand's choice of ride is tolerated at best, and only because this is an emergency situation -- she will NOT be leaving on the cat-beast when this is over. No. Anyway. Khitti is doing her thing, Brand is doing his, same with Lionel. As is fairly customary for Meri, she is not really interested in making small talk in a situation that she needs to be focused in. So...she just hangs out and stares off into the distance...waiting for the approach of this LydiaAmarrah thing, and a moment where she is actually going to be of some use.

A not so distant and rather disturbing-sounding howl rang out as Brand, Lionel, and Meri would close in on Khitti’s position. Khitti’s stance would not ease, even as the thing that used to be her sister approached. It felt… off. Where were the other undead? There’d been so many between here and Vailkrin--and IN Vailkrin--so where were they now? Surely they hadn’t all been taken care of so quickly. The bridge shook with every step Amarrah took; the great booming thuds were even starting to unnerve Khitti. As the night’s fog cleared thanks to Amarrah’s approach, it became clear that she had mutated further. The abomination had grown larger than she was before--nearly reaching ten feet--and discolored flesh was ripped here and there to show off protruding bone and wounds that oozed putrid black blood gave off quite the smell. Even the ugliest flesh golem might seem like an adorable kitten in comparison.

“Looking good, Amarrah. I’m glad you vent and got yourself all prettied up for zhis.” Sarcasm; it was a good cover for the calm that had long since started unraveling. “Come on, zhen. Just you and me. Just like always.” But, when the trio of humans and their arachnid companion would show up, the monstrosity would let out an irate growl. “Okay. So I lied. I brought friends,” Khitti added with a grin. “I need you to die now, alright? I’ve done a hell of a lot of vork and I’m ready for my cure.” She was done playing this waiting game, though, and quickly fired off several arrows, the ice magic from Diamond Dust causing the arrows to explode on the ground around Amarrah, sharp spikes of ice shooting up from the ground in an attempt to create a makeshift cage. Amarrah… was not pleased. The monster roared and flailed and broke away at her cage, but this was what Khitti wanted. That distraction was needed for what was to come next: the holy bombs that were retrieved from her bag and lobbed at Amarrah. All that were made was used, the area filling with holy magic, the radiant light strengthening each time a bomb was used.

This should be simple enough, right? One horrific creature against these fantastic four? The horrific Lydia-Amarrah amalgam was outnumbered, outwitted, and soon to be outlasted. That didn’t mean Brand would underestimate their foe, though. He raced to cut off any escape into Kelay for the creature, and once at its backside he produced great flame-tipped spears to lob at it. The tips would rupture as they pierced flesh, boiling blood and melting putrid skin wherever they touched. What better way to destroy an undead than with fire and holy light?

Lionel rolls nimbly off of his feline steed with fittingly catlike reflexes. His left hand grips a thin and balanced steel spear, which he hoists into the hard stone bridge as he crouches. Examining the abomination with sharp eyes, he holds his breath, keeps his muscles loose, and maintains position. Khitti unloads, then Brand unloads, and the fire-and-light show flickers bright red and brighter white like a drumbeat. The bridge sparks and rattles violently. Lionel remains in place, observing. A few breaths later, he digs the point of his spear between cracks in the stone, then forces both arms around its opposing edge and lifts himself into an acrobatic hoist. His entire body is hoisted and sprung no fewer than ten meters ahead and directly behind the creature. The spear is left behind, its purpose served, and in each hand the Catalian grips a flame-kissed serrated dagger. A single step is taken -- enough for a lunge, enough for two white-hot stabs. On the far edge of the Cenril side of the bridge, a shaven-headed elf sits at the ready behind a collection of crates, clutching a frosty metallic orb.

When Khitti had requested Meri's assistance with this, it was not made entirely clear to her what they would be fighting and once the opponent has made itself known, there is a slow nod of acceptance. Alright, it's a zombie thing thing this time. She would take it over....how big was that spider again? The one that was able to shoot out electricity? And fire? AND spikes? Yeah. A ten-foot zombie seemed...okay. Watch LydiaAmarrah prove her wrong. And just like that they begin, but with this bunch Meri was not surprised. Nothing about this group could surprise her at this point, okay maybe not nothing. That was an exaggerated statement. Meri of course was more than capable of rushing head first into battle, but she frankly did not see the point in putting herself in physical harms way when she did not need to. That the perk of being a psion, with a mind amplified (for better or for worse) by runes and sigils. Her sword is pulled from her metal scabbard, the friction of metal running against metal causing a spark and igniting the blade of the weapon as it was designed to. The sword is taken and thrown like a spear though, which is guided and projected by her telekinetic abilities. It's course is set for LydiaAmarrah's back, hoping to make a clean blow but if Amarrah steps left, or right...well Meri can adjust accordingly, with a thought. That was not the only object that is sent flying through the air at Amarrah. The stone railing on the bridge is already suffering minor damage as the bridge rattles and shakes over the chasm, causing a few chunk of rock to break away from the railing and hit the bridge. A couple of the larger hunks of stone are also sent on a crash course for Amarrah. And yes, Meri is -trying- to be mindful of where her comrades are, so that she does not impale or stone either of them by accident. Hopefully. Apologies in advance, psions. Those jerks.

The light from the holy magic would fade and yet both undead would remain. Khitti, while protected by her dragonscale and an aura of shadows, would be singed somewhat, though it was nothing near the burns she acquired from Rorin many months ago. Flesh burned, and peeled, and smoked on Amarrah’s mutated form as the combined might of the four was unleashed onto the abomination. Quit a bit of damage was done, but she was not defeated--and unfortunately for the group, it only further pissed her off. Amarrah let loose another howl, but this one… this one was significantly different than the rest.

The ground began to quake, and with it the bridge as well, as shadow portals spawned everywhere. Three opened up to the east, just behind Khitti and company, and three others behind Amarrah. More appeared along the walls of the gorge, just on either side of the bridge, and for a few moments, it seemed like nothing would come of it, nothing would show. And then, without warning, thousands of undead began to pour from the doorways that led to the Shadow Plane. Facilier was definitely still helping his daughter it seemed, though he would not make an appearance. Perhaps he was still a bit sour about being stabbed in the junk. Thanks, Lionel. The legion of undead scurried and clawed their way up the bridge, quickly overwhelming the group. Some were sentient enough to use weapons, others were the mindless type whose only care was devour flesh; however the undead went about it, their intent was clear: to kill everything in their path that wasn’t Amarrah. Khitti tried to keep as many as she could away, but it was no use; the undead got within close-quarters distance much sooner than she anticipated and her bow was practically useless.

“FRANCIS!” The redhead called to that eight-legged child of hers as she threw her bow up into the air, letting him catch it with a bit of webbing and pin it to a spot on the bridge for safe-keeping before he went off to help cull the horde. The elements of the Black Tides were conjured up around her swords moments after she unsheathed them and the vampiress was quick to start sticking the undead with the pointy ends and doing her best to keep them off the tasty humans that she called friends.

Even before the undead mob came rushing forth, Brand realized the portals were not of Khitti’s design. He’d never seen her create so many at once -- no, this was beyond her power, and probably even Amarrah’s. Brand’s position at the amalgam’s back and separated from Khitti and Meri was now disadvantageous. Calling to Lionel, he dashed forward to rejoin them.

The mutated Lydia-Amarrah may have been slow-moving, but Brand was still not fast enough when it counted. The outpouring of undead overcame him too soon. He was caught isolated from his comrades, streaming curses and crushing zombie bones and dodging bites and axes and acid spittle. And even now, he kept his head as empty as the wights he torched with arc after searing arc of flame. All his focus went to maintaining the barrage so thoroughly as to be both offense and shield. No thoughts toward survival except for the very next instant. And the next. And the next. No thoughts toward the future. There was only the here, the now, each breath an act of resistance. But against this many, he could only keep it up for so long...

Lionel has a thought to withdraw his daggers from Amarrah’s innards, but decides against it. Better to leave them with the flesh, pulsing and igniting Halycanos’ raging fire. He leaps back in preparation for a retaliatory strike that simply does not come. Then, there is static and silence. The feeling of electricity slated to discharge. Instinctively, he tilts his chin skyward in search of storm clouds, after which he quickly scans the abomination. Nothing hails from anywhere. It occurs to him, with startling realization, that this is a sensation he has felt from portals to the Shadow Plane. Yet he has never felt it so thoroughly. “They’re coming,” he calls out sharply, taking another step away from his opponent and breaking into a flame-streaked sprint toward his allies. The portals appear by the dozens, from every corner of the nocturnal horizon, and a moment later the creatures descend. Hundreds would have been bad. Thousands is suicide. But thousands have been suicide before, and somehow, Lionel and his cohorts have survived. The thought cannot erase the fear; the fear that they’ve come so close, but they’ll be erased from the pages of history here on this quaking bridge, their only true crime a crime of compassion, a hope for a cure. A cure whose search has caused this tumult, whose guilt rests upon Lionel’s ever-burdened twice-be-damned shoulders. It’s enough to make his head spin as he rushes beside the others and -- finally -- pulls Hellfire free from its prismatic scabbard. With undead closing in from every angle, Cenril’s gates abruptly swing closed with a thud, and in a small measure of mercy for the betterment of the realm not a single one of these things seems to take notice of the city beside them. They’re all so focused on the four stray souls who thought to change the laws of gods and men, the permanence of vampirism. They claw and bellow and swing their hammers and axes and scythes, and Lionel takes a deep breath. “Just so you know,” he tells Khitti, who may or may not even hear him, “no matter what happens now, I wouldn’t have changed a thing along the way.” For all his nightmares, this is the decision he has made. Here, staring into the abyss, he will not go quietly. Hellfire bursts into a blaze as green as emeralds, blasts a volley of that liquid agony in an arc upon a horde, and the man who wields it spins his whole body like a corkscrew to wind the sword into a cyclone. They come, they fall, they’re gone. And, standing atop the ramparts beside the shutting Cenril gate, Esche oversees the onslaught and tosses his orb into the fray, launching shapely shards of ice into the howling masses.

Meri sort of regrets throwing her sword, just a touch. It would be nice to have in her hands at this exact moment, but not all is lost for the psionic woman. It's not like she could not summon it back toward herself, it would just take a few precious seconds of time for it to be reclaimed from the general direction of LydiaAmarrah. Her shield would have to serve as her weapon during time it took for her sword to fly back into the grasp of her hand. The flaming sword be utilized to cut down any undead creatures that come barreling out of the portal and toward her. It would be nice of Meri would be able to use her psionic abilities to build a barrier of telekinetic energy in front of those portals, effectively walling them off. Alas, that would turn Meri into a sitting duck all over again, having to maintain that level of concentration and that very nearly did not work out for her in the deserts of Gualon. Who had to save her neck in that situation? Lionel and Rorin. Plus there are six portals to one Meri. The odds were that if she had even tried (and failed), she would have fried that mind of hers beyond repair. Meri had enough sense and experience to know what was beyond her limits, boost from Khitti's rune/sigil magic or not. The focus would be on fighting with her blade as she could, taking on what enemies that she can, well trying to use blasts of energy to push the undead back into the portal. Back where they came from. Even just temporarily. She might even manage to take out a few that way, or at the very least cause one of their rotted limbs to fall off from the force of the blast. Maybe.

As the horde continued their onslaught, Amarrah would stand and watch, towering above her undead brothers and sisters. She watched as Khitti and the others fought with every ounce of strength they had and then some. Amarrah was a lot like her father when spite factored into things; she loved to savor in the events that would lead up to the eventual demise of her enemies. Meanwhile, Khitti did hear Lionel, and while she’d not respond verbally, she managed a distracted smile and a nod before shoving one of her swords through the skull of the nearest ghoul.

The monster, Lydia’s twisted physical form and Amarrah’s soul within it, would bide her time and wait for an opening. Then the opening came and she fixed her attention on her target: Brand. What else would there be for Amarrah to do to completely ruin Khitti’s life? Killing Brand, of course, would be it. The big IT. That could very well shift things in the right direction for that dream of Khitti’s to come true--becoming a lich was not exactly something that Khitti wanted to do, however. The massive undead began her charge towards the Catalian, barreling through the rest of the undead to try to get to him with the intent of grabbing him and literally breaking him in half. Khitti sensed the change in movement on the ground beneath them, Amarrah’s footsteps practically like a herd of elephants. The dots connected in Khitti’s head and without hesitation, the redhead shadow-stepped in between Brand and Amarrah just as Amarrah were about to reach him, and the two undead disappeared in that typical fashion that came with Khitti’s portal magic. They were just… gone. A scream echoed above the din of the zombies that threaten to kill the humans, but one couldn’t be certain just yet where it came from.

Brand heard nothing above the din of battle but the creature’s lumbering footsteps, and saw nothing but a flash of Khitti’s crimson hair -- and then both were gone. Brand was left once again with the chaos of the undead masses. They seemed no fewer in number than before. He’d briefly spared a glance toward one of the portals, and nearly lost an eye for the effort. The army was still marching. For every one he turned to ashes, another scrambled onto the bridge. There was no end to them. There was no end to them, but Brand was approaching the end of his limits. Even with the aid of Khitti’s runes he could feel his magic failing him. His stamina waned. His muscles burned, acid-filled like the slobbering skeletal hound Brand had cut down only moments before. Acid and fire and ash and bones and dust -- he was surrounded by them. All his sight filled with them. His nose was clobbered by the stench. He flailed against the waves and swallowed their assaults like air until he was drowning in them. Soon, he’d be the same. Acid. Fire. Ash. Bones. Dust.

Catal. The Field of Fire. 1013 Royal Reckoning. Thousands burn. From one end of the country to the last, souls are extinguished. The emerald flames of Hellfire make a rather splendid rendition of the Emerald Keep wreathed in oblivion, the senate’s screams, the soldiers’ screams, the children’s screams, the low and throaty laughter emanating from the Fist of the Empire, the devoted worshippers of Khasad dispatched to send an entire kingdom into ashes. Lionel loses sight of something precious in his peripheral, surrounded as he is by a zigzag ragtag army of the dead that seems to spin up and down with the tempo of his blade’s maelstrom. Khitti is gone. The Field of Fire, the horrors of four years past, overwhelm his senses and he spits and shrieks and falls back-first into the vibrating stone bridge. The army, in turn, senses his wounded apprehension and leaps above him into a crush. They reach out with their hooks and claws to skewer and dismember him, and if it weren’t for runic magics and Ishaarite magics and Brand’s own magics and whatever else might be compelling him, he’d be torn to ribbons here and now. Instead, his arms are littered with blood and his shins get the skin kicked clean off, but the Catalian has taken off in a blinding frenzied race toward Khitti’s last known location, cleaving his pursuers behind him. “No!” Catal. The Field of Fire. 1013 Royal Reckoning. A bit younger and considerably cockier. Lionel stands in the center of it all, as he stands there now. The Fist of the Empire, the Undead of the Shadow Plane. An entire kingdom, a single woman. In his foolish heart, it seems to make little enough difference. Lionel stands in the center of two worlds, two tragedies, tears burning behind his azure eyes but not yet obscuring vision. He’ll need his vision, after all, because he’ll be frakked if he isn’t keeping the world’s most careful eye on Meri and Brand. “Get behind me,” he rasps, flinging Hellfire up horizontally. A cloak of flames licks the stone surrounding the three combatants, rises up defensively, and wards off what it can. Some rush in; they’re ashes. “This won’t hold for long, and I won’t stay here for long, besides. We find her.”

Meri was right there with Brand. Each exertion of the psion's mind was pushing her closer and closer to the end of her limits, but she would press on. The end had to be somewhere close, right? Just 'kill' one more undead...and then another...and then another. Soon there would be no more and they would have their victory, because surely they could not have -all- come this far with assisting Khitti only to fail in the end? No cure? Death for all of them? Right here on the bridge in between Cenril and Kelay? Except it did not seem that the hordes of undead coming through the portal were slowing down in the slightest. With each one that was felled, it felt like ten more appeared -- or perhaps that was Meri's mind starting to get the better of her and taking a turn for the negative and gloomy. Meri was surrounded and in the end, she was not even fully aware that Khitti and Amarrah had both disappeared from the field of battle. Her attention was consumed and the slightest slip in another direction could cost her gravely, and just like Brand and Lionel she herself is not getting out of this scratch free. Far from. She had her own share of cuts, bites, scrapes and bruises. It's by sheer will that Meri very narrowly manages to get behind Lionel as he has commanded, rather than pulled back into the horde of undead. It's also at this moment that she comes to the realization that both Khitti and Amarrah are missing, well effing hell.

Despite Khitti and Amarrah’s disappearance, the undead didn’t let up. All seemed lost--until a roar sounded in the distance. The dragon mother Khitti and Brand had encountered in Rynvale with Bradyn, the terrifying RuthSheila, finally made her presence known. It would have taken a hell of a lot of energy for Khitti to summon that frost wyrm, and yet she was still nowhere to be found. A wide arc of shadow-frost breath came to the aid of the humans, the horde frozen solid and made to crumble with the force of the breath itself. The dragon continued its assault on all of the undead, freezing portals and forcing them closed as well in the process, but it was clear that the dragon was losing steam. The dragon was losing energy and that meant wherever Khitti was, she was as well.

With the horde silenced, the screams from before were much clearer, and very obviously Khitti’s, the sounds of struggling and roars from Amarrah accompanying it on the northern side of the bridge. Upon re-entry into this world, after her attempt at saving Brand from certain doom, the strap from Khitti’s satchel had gotten stuck, and there both of them hung, Khitti desperately clinging to bottom of her bag as Amarrah flailed and tried to climb her way up the vampiress. Amarrah showed no mercy as she tore into Khitti’s back, ripping through the dragonscale armor in vain efforts to keep hold onto the redhead, the quiver that had been there at the start of this mess was long since gone thanks to the monster. Khitti was near hysterical, tears and all; she looked so tired, her magic drained, panic clearly setting in. To make matters worse, the strap to the satchel was starting to tear.

Not far away, the dragon was finishing off the undead, but the unlife given to it had nearly waned as Khitti’s own magic became depleted. It very nearly crashed into the side of the gorge several times, until it finally did and the once again lifeless dragon fell to whatever depths awaited it below.

Brand was not immediately conscious that the course of the battle had changed. He had long since spent the entirety of his magicks; he’d resorted instead to the knives sheathed in his boots and stuck within Lionel’s shielding ring of fire. And yet, he was beginning to meet frozen wights as often as he was mobile or flaming ones. He didn’t notice Esche with his magic orb of ice, didn’t even notice the dragon overhead until he ran out of undead flesh to gouge. And almost as soon as he’d realized what had happened, the dragon was stumbling, crashing into the cliffs, dying.

Khitti’s scream. That was Khitti’s scream. Brand’s muscles found renewed vigor as a second wave of adrenaline rampaged through him. Khitti’s screams, and the pounding of his heart in his ears -- he could hear nothing else. His legs brought him to the edge of the bridge before he could even tell them to run. Khitti’s tears streaked from emerald eyes, and Khitti’s grip strained white-knuckled against the fabric of her satchel. Brand heard himself calling to Lionel and Meri, trying to coordinate their assistance, but he wasn’t even truly aware of his own words. He called out for Francis, if he was even still alive, if he was still here to perhaps pull his mother up with some silken spider webbing. Brand reached out, fingers splayed, but only touched empty space. The truth was, she was too far for him to reach -- for any of them to reach. His attention held with laser focus on Khitti’s eyes, as if he could bring her closer through will alone. There had to be a way. There must be a way to get her back up here. He screamed it out to Khitti: there had to be a way.

Esche peers out from the ramparts to survey the battlefield. “That does it, that does it, that bloody well does it,” the mustached Cenrilian guard beside him mutters. “No more waiting, you pointy-eared bastard, we’re moving in.” Esche lifts a finger in protest, but an ear-piercing screech and a cylindrical halberd of shadow-flame overhead silences them both into hiding. “As I told you,” Esche replies after regaining what he can muster of his composure, “we have it under control.” The guard’s eyes could not possibly go wider, first at Esche’s ridiculous proclamation, next at the dragon’s crowd-clearing wrath, and finally at the rematerialization of a certain woman and her nemesis at the edge of the bridge. He stumbles backwards into a crate and lets himself fall against the wall behind it. “You people are insane.” Esche chuckles dryly. “Of true insanity, my dear friend, you have no idea.”

Lionel watches in quiet shock as the dragon soars overhead, saving them just as Halycanos’ cone of fire flickers out like a snuffed candle. His magical strength is all but depleted, his wounds too grievous to maintain this without a willingness to sacrifice himself in totality. Khitti’s ill-timed and death-dangling arrival makes these thoughts abruptly appealing. Lionel narrows his eyes, draws his focus, slices nearby wights to pieces en route to the Dhavislaavian. Catal. The Field of Fire. 1013 Royal Reckoning. A woman hangs from a burning rope, her corpse swaying over the Veritas Bridge. “No,” Lionel repeats, willfully. In this shrouded darkness, the abomination could be any member of the Fist. “I’ve come for you.” He slams Hellfire tip-first into the stone, hobbling forward to gain his optimal vantage point, his greatest trajectory, his last best hope to intervene. “I’ve come for you. I’ve come for you, you sick, twisted, vain and baleful bitch. I’ve come to end you, Amarrah. I’ve come to frakking end you.” And just like that, Lionel’s will so inclines toward sacrifice. He braces his hands together and centers his mind on the fiery daggers lodged inside the foe’s backside. They ignite, metal shards into whatever fresh hell passes for flesh, shrapnel streaking through and piercing and billowing into smoke and torture. “Brand, Meri, dragon, if you’re going to do something, do it now, now, now!” The dragon falls to its death, rocketing the bridge. “Nevermind, dragon, you may leave, but the point still stands for the rest of you!”

A dragon. They had a dragon on their side and this beast was just now getting pieced onto the battle field? Okay, no time to dwell on that. Ignore the dragon, Meri. Don't get shocked stupid. Focus on finding Khitti. Which proves to be fairly easy, her screams help them pinpoint the redhead. Getting Khitti back onto solid ground was the easy part as far as the psion was considered. Khitti was still a tangible thing and if Meri -really- wanted to, she could exert force upon the weapon and bring her safely back to bridge....If Amarrah was not still alive and clinging to Khitti, that was the part that was presenting a problem. How in the hell do we separate the two? Brand is not the only one panicking, Meri's mind is racing through scenarios of what to do. She could...try and psionically attack both Khitti and Amarrah with the hope that the force of the blast might separate the two? Yes, Khitti might fall, but Meri could catch her. What if Meri hurt her though? The guilt that Meri would feel, but surely Khitti could forgive her as long as she lived? She could...levitate both Amarrah and Khitti to the bridge and then once the both of them are on solid surface they could deal with Amarrah then? Ohgodsohgodswutdowutdo. Someone (Lionel) has the sense to do -something- while also yelling at Brand and Meri, which is enough to spur Meri into some amount of decision. A sort of middle of the road attempt, so to speak. At first it would seem as though Meri were trying to lift both Amarrah and Khitti upwards, trying to keep them both from falling to certain doom but nah. Meri -was- also trying to free Khitti from Amarrah, in a bit of a gruesome fashion, putting her focus on trying to separate Amarrah's arms from her body. If she did not have use of her arms, she could not cling to Khitti, and would certainly find her death that way...? Like the dragon. Success pending. Bare minimum Khitti would not fall to her death? Meri would be a fail of a psion of that happened in her presence.

Precious seconds would pass as Khitti clearly deliberated on things. It didn’t matter if they were able to get her back up there, for Amarrah would be brought up there too. It was highly unlikely that even the three humans could, however, with the massive size that Amarrah had acquired. Francis, for all the energy that puppy-like spider always seemed in constant supply of, was just as tired as everyone else, his own wounds visible to all. Khitti let out another painful cry as Amarrah neared the top of her back, the bag strap tearing even more, though she’s given a few moments of rest as the daggers Lionel left inside Amarrah tear apart at the abomination’s insides. “Guys…?” The redhead bit back her tears as she looked up at the blonde trio, doing her best to put on a brave face--there was even a bit of a smile, albeit a sad one. They all looked so tired. So tired, and hurt, and it was her fault. “Everything--everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” It was so unlike her to be positive, so reassuring, unless things were truly awful and these three would likely be the ones to know that the most. Despite her efforts, the tears still came as she looked down at the chasm beneath her briefly, then shifted her attention back up top, red brows knitted together, “I love you.” Khitti peered up at Brand, her stare fixed on him for what seemed like forever before moving to Lionel and Meri. “All of you. It's going to be okay. It’s over and you’re safe and zhat’s all zhat matters.”

Khitti’s verdant stare would linger on them for a few moments more and then... she’d just let go. The bag was left hanging and the two undead, the last remaining remnants of the von Schreier bloodline would fall. Khitti and Lydia would finally be reunited in true death and Amarrah would, almost certainly, meet her well-deserved end. For Khitti, the descent to the bottom would feel like forever, but she wasn’t going out with a fight. With the last of her strength, she managed to tear herself away from Amarrah long enough to turn around, her hand finding its way into the undead’s chest, just as it had in the Shadow Plane. There was no plucking of hearts this time, however; Khitti would grab the heart itself, and instead of ripping it free, she set it flame. The fire would not cease, not until Amarrah was well and truly dead this time. The flames would spread, from one undead to the other, Khitti’s own shadow-fire turning against her.

Up top, there was no way to tell if Khitti was alright, if she might make it through after such a fall. There were things that would begin to occur around Brand, Lionel, and Meri though, as if signaling the vampiress’ death. Whatever remained of her runes and sigils along the bridge would simultaneously glow as one and then immediately snuff themselves out. The runes that covered Francis, her magical link to the spider, faded away. He did not return to the Shadow Plane, but even he seemed to sense something was wrong as he moved to Brand’s side, letting out a sad, blurbled whine. And lastly, a bright purple light shined from within the bag. The source? The bracelet Dominic--and ultimately Brand--had given her. The bond she had created between the bracelet and the fire ruby ring she’d given Brand to hold on to, for the emergency portal, was now dead too. Anything connected to her magic was gone. Khitti… was gone.

Brand agreed, it was going to be okay -- but only because he was still in denial. Yes, it was going to be okay. Pull yourself up just a little further, Khitti, and he can grab you. Meri, could you psion-lift her? Yeah, like that. Tear Lydi-Amarrah’s frakkin’ arms off. Francis? Esche? Lionel, perform the impossible as you so often do? Surely with all their combined efforts, they could manage to rescue her?

Brand’s eyes registered Khitti’s words and Khitti’s grip slipping away from her bag and Khitti’s fall as she became smaller, smaller, smaller; his mind, however, would have none of it. He was screaming as she fell, throat stripped raw by his cries, and yet his mind shied away in desperation back to thoughts of Onyx. They could still appear somehow, materialize in the chasm and save her from her long tumble downward, bring her back safe. Brand counted on them. Brand relied on them, nearly as much as he did on Khitti. There was still hope. Still hope. There had to be.

But of course, Onyx never materialized, and the longer Brand lingered at the edge of the bridge the more his denial began to erode. Francis warbled at Brand’s side, and it was the sight of his runeless body that finally brought Brand fully out of his stupor. Onyx wasn’t coming. Brand wasn’t going to save Khitti, nor was Lionel or Meri or anyone else. There was no deus ex machina to be found here, only an abyss staring back at him as he stared into it, helpless.

It was funny how simple it was for them to rescue Khitti’s satchel from where it had been caught -- funny in a ‘twist your acrid insides and salt your gaping wounds’ sort of way. Francis, with a lot of help, pulled it up eventually. Not nearly soon enough. Not while they still could have rescued the woman clinging to it.

Brand clung to the bag as tightly as if it were Khitti herself. He thumbed over the fraying strap, traced the design on the front flap, ran the pads of his fingers along the seams. He couldn’t bring himself to search its contents just yet -- that seemed tantamount to admitting the vampiress was gone, and any hope of her cure with her.

“Thank you for your efforts,” he said at long last, urging the words past the lump quivering in his throat. Lionel and Meri, Francis and Esche deserved at least that shred of gratitude. “We’re done here.” Indeed, the dragon had not left any threats left alive on the bridge. They all had Khitti to thank for that -- and if there’d been anything left, Brand didn’t know that he’d even have the will to fight it. He was drained of magic, of strength, and what was left of hope was fading fast, an optimist’s dream already only half-remembered. Twice now he’d dared to love, and twice now he’d lost. It would be a long, stumbling walk back to the Cenril gates, to the Tikifhlee tied up safely beyond them. It would be a longer ride back to the Tranquility, if he’d even head back there now. Maybe he’d forego the ship entirely and ride straight into the sea. Maybe he’d wander along the shore, aimless and adrift. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Faces blaze through Lionel’s mind as his hands catch fire. His eyes don’t seem to shift in the least as his body rolls away from the consequences of a spell cast without energy to wield it. His fingers are scorched, but his lips are pursed and the scream cannot be heard. His arms twitch, his bloodied legs collapse to the bridge, he watches as the faces blaze. Morivan, Alexia, Valaria, Shogo, Demont, Briar, a hundred thousand -- and one -- more. A new face emerges in the hellfire of Lionel’s thoughts, a redheaded vampire who tried to live. And she did. It occurs to him as the numbness overwhelms him, as he sits there at the edge, staring into the abyss again, this time for true. She lived.

Faces blaze through Esche’s mind as he closes his eyes and sighs. Ishaara. 2262 After Unison. The Cataclysm. Everyone he ever knew, gone. In that blinding light, the elf sees Khitti, as if she had always been there. As if she had been alive all those hundreds of years ago, at the final edge of his once-great civilization. A sickening thought shoots up like an ember in his mind: at least she will never need to see the end of -this- civilization. At least she has been spared from Esche’s terrible purpose. “She was a wonderful woman,” he tells the guard, who turns toward him with a start. “And she will be avenged.” The guard shakes his head, sad but confused. “How can she be? Isn’t the… that… thing…? Isn’t it dead now?” Esche opens his eyes and places a delicate hand to his chest. “Is the world not still entropy from shore to seedy shore?” The guard stammers, unsure how to reply. “It will not always be this way. There will come a day it will not be this way.”

Faces blaze through Lionel’s mind as his resolve buckles and he succumbs to the moonless night. If only he could will them to appear peaceful, yet they were all so full of life. Brand speaks his piece, then Brand begins to move. Lionel remains, an injured, cracked and crying statue, unable to comply. Somewhere swirling inside him is the knowledge that he needs to be strong for his friend. That knowledge remains locked away within a dungeon of his own design. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I’m…”

There are a few places that Meri likes to escape to, sit behind herself and let her mind roam. Many travelers have often found Meri sitting on this bridge, posted up on the rail with her legs dangling over, so that all it would take is one unsuspected shove. Obviously that never happened to her, most ended up preoccupied with what she was drawing in that sketchbook of hers. She had quite a few memories in this place, and this one would forever taint this spot for Meri. Brand speaks his part, wishes them his thanks, and then leaves. There might have been a time that Meri would have judged him for his stoic and almost cold response, but she has come to understand better -- even if only a little. Inside he was probably more broken up than Meri and Lionel combined. Khitti, you have basically broken the lot of them and two of them are definitely reduced to sniveling tears. Which says a lot for Meri. She does not like crying, especially in front of people, she's tough, okay? Except right now. She's a snotty, teary-eyed mess right now. About the only solace that Lionel would get from Meri is an offered hand, to help him back to his own feet, and then a nod toward Brand. Trying to signal that perhaps Lionel should go after the guy. And would would Meri do? Probably go the other opposite direction, away from Cenril. To...?