“Now mark my words,” Mother Moore told her daughter, Adrianna, as she braided winter wildflowers into the young woman’s hair, “There’s not a young lad this side of the moon who wouldn’t have you with him, but many a scoundrel who’d take your maidenhead then leave you alone, so take care who you dance with and where.”

“I’ll be careful, mama.” Adrianna replied. Her mother’s flattery sounded hollow to her, and Adrianna was sure she didn’t need the warning: she had a reputation as an oddball, a wildcat, and the girl who had once killed a devil. So far as Adrianna knew, there was not a man in all the land who’d have her for a bride.

“All the same, take this.” Her mother said, holding out a sheathed old dagger, “If anyone wants to stick you and won’t listen to the word no, you stick them.” Almost as though she had not just advocated stabbing imaginary suitors, the elder Moore continued on “Is this old dress thick enough?” she asked “It’s cold out, and dark. Winter’s upon us and you won’t want to be blue and shaking all festival long.”

“It’s quite warm, mama.” Adrianna said, taking the offered dagger to avoid any further discussion of the subject, “You don’t have to worry.” She looked at the knife – the blade was scratched and beaten from probably decades of use and sharpening, but it was still silvered – glinting with a light all too often forgotten in the depths of the Hunter’s Moon. Adrianna adjusted the loose, decorative belt she wore and hung the sheath from it. Her mother cared about her looks, Adrianna knew there wasn’t a point to them.

“There.” Mother Moore said, “All done. Pretty as an angel, you are. It’d be easier to see if you took a moment’s care of yourself.”

“Thank you, mama.” Adrianna said. As much as she knew she was a lost cause, as much as she felt ridiculous with snow-white blossoms in her crimson hair, it was nice to know there was at least someone in the world who thought the best of her.”

“Now go out there and enjoy yourself!” her mother said, “That’s what celebrations are for.”

There was very little to celebrate. It was the middle of the Hunter’s Moon: the air was freezing, the food stores were low, and the darkness seemed to crowd in all around the little village. Still, somewhere in their history someone had decided that it was a time to rejoice, that they had made it halfway through the darkest moon and were coming out the other side.

And so, in the midst of the worst, leanest times they celebrated. Young men and women throughout the township linked their hands and danced in circles, rows, and pairs around bonfires built to drive away the cold and the dark. For her part, Adrianna sat on a bench a good ways away from the fire. Though she didn’t want to be alone, neither did she want to endure scorn and shunning. Better to watch, and try to be happy imagining herself at the center of it all.

If she had her wish, it would be just like her mother said: she’d dance up next to the bonfire, and all the boys would trip over each other to be there too. She’d not give a one of them more than a coy smile, but she would be there until the moon set and the fires burned low, heart pounding and spirits soaring in the face of the encircling dark.

In reality, Adrianna crossed her arms across her chest and shivered. The thick linen dress and bodice had been practically stifling indoors, but out waiting at the edge of light, every night breeze that came up cut her to the bone.

“Not a dancer?” someone asked. Adrianna looked up – Zachary Ramel, the mayor’s son, was standing next to her. He looked from her to the celebration and back.

“I can dance.” She replied sheepishly.

“Ah… perhaps you’re not too fond of the company then.”

“I’d say it’s not to fond of me.” Adrianna replied, “Talia Kirsch and her miserable harpies can have the floor for all I care.”

“Are you sure?” Zachary asked, “You look like you’re freezing.”

Adrianna was freezing, and a good part of her desperately wanted to take any opportunity to move closer to light and life alike… but the rest of her suspected the mayor’s son. Did he mean to make a fool out of her? To boost his own star even higher with Talia and the rest by offering her up for entertainment?

“I may be cold,” Adrianna answered, “But I’ll take the winter over that lot.”

Zachary laughed.

“You are different.” He said, “I guessed as much.” He extended a hand. “I know another place that’s warm. We’re a bit of a different crowd gathered there.”

Run, part of Adrianna’s mind screamed, run now and don’t look back until you’re home. She ignored it and took Zachary’s hand. “Well,” she said, “I’ll see it at least.”

“Have you ever felt you’re alone?” Zachary asked.

“Of course.” Adrianna replied. They were a decent ways out of town now, but moving alone had helped warm her up a little. She wondered very much where Zachary might be taking her, but as they walked her hand drifted away from the hilt of her dagger, as she felt more and more at ease. “Everyone does sometimes.”

“I mean terribly alone. Like no one understands you, like the Flight of Herons won’t protect you and Flight Alabaster would let you wander as a geist.”

Adrianna did not pray very often… it was always like she was talking to herself.

“Sometimes.” She admitted, “What are you getting at?”

“Just… you’re not the only one who feels that way.”

“Don’t tease me, Zachary.” Adrianna said, “Your father is the mayor. He’s closer to Avacyn and her angels than anyone else in the parish.”

“Even so,” Zachary replied, “I’ve never heard Avacyn speak to me, or seen an angel… present company excepted.”

Adrianna laughed, “Now I know you’re teasing me. Are we at least close to this second little celebration?"

Zachary lifted his head and breathed in deep. “Very close.”

Adrianna mirrored his actions, and caught the faint whiff of rotten eggs on a slightly warm, wet breeze. Unpleasant, but at the same time very curious. A minute later, Zachary had lead her to a clearing. There, a narrow stream tumbled some thirty feet down a cliff face, into a pool of seemingly boiling water that steamed in the night air and stank somewhat of brimstone. It was beautiful to look at, and the air was warm around the pool, but Adrianna could not say she actually enjoyed it.

“This way,” Zachary said, moving around the edge of the pool, “the smell doesn’t get inside, just the heat.”

After he had mentioned inside, Adrianna noticed that there was light shining from behind the waterfall, not just the moon glinting off it’s tumbling surface. Who would reside out here, so far from the safety of town, where the water smelled like a hellmouth?

Upon passing around behind the fall, and into the cave that was there, Adrianna found her answer. There were four other people there: the mayor, Karl Ramel, who must have retired to this out of the way place after announcing and blessing the opening of the main festivities, Harold Kholer the carpenter, his daughter Vivian, and a young priestess who had come from Thraben two years back named Helene Bormann. The Kholers were dressed more or less normally, like Zachary himself, but the mayor wore strange, black robes that Adrianna would have called funerary if not for their crimson trim, and the normally demure Helene a thin black-and-crimson silk robe with a hood and open front over embarrassingly little beneath.

Also in the cave was an altar, but it was not marked with the Collar of Avacyn. Instead, it was a long, flat stone slab, its corners marked with black candles. The only mark on it was a small drain on the front edge, over a large, brass basin. The surface of the stone, especially about that, was covered in dark red-brown stains.

“Zachary…” Adrianna asked, though she knew the answer, “What is this?”

Zachary smiled. “A place for those of us left out in the cold.” He replied.

Helene spoke up after that. “A new devotee for the faith, then?” Helene said, “It’s always better to grow our ranks.” She looked to Adrianna. “And your name?”

“Adrianna.” She answered.

Helene smiled, her grin as cruel as it was kind. “Welcome home, Adrianna.”

Zachary led Adrianna to one of the forward pews and sat her down. She was far too terrified to do anything else. Perhaps, just perhaps if she mimed obedience to whatever they said, she could leave with her life.

“Well I brought a sacrifice.” Vivian Kholer said, “Aren’t you glad I brought a sacrifice, Zachary? After all, we wouldn’t have one with just you around.”

“Shut up, Vivian.” Zachary growled.

Helene stood up. “In any case, now that we’re all here, I think we should begin the festivities.”

Helene went to a corner of the cavern out of sight of the main hall, and dragged a man to the altar. He was bound and gagged, but his garb marked him as a pilgrim, some unhappy traveler whom the mark of Avacyn had not protected from Vivian Kholer – though his bruised face suggested that the fault was not his own.

With Mayor Ramel’s help, the priestess forced the squirming man into position, and held him down. The supposed priestess stood up tall, drawing a wavy-bladed dagger.

“Tonight is the year’s darkest night.” She proclaimed. “Yet while the moon shines, the fools that hide behind Avacyn and her angel flights live in fear. We do not fear! Tonight, we celebrate, and give praise and thanks to Lord Griselbrand, who, for but this petty price, shall deliver the faithful!”

Helene struck the man through the heart with her dagger, and then to make it quicker, cut his throat from ear to ear. The altar drowned in his blood as it flowed to the front and that noisome spout, falling into the basin as the waterfall into the sulfur pool outside.

When the flow from the altar slowed to a trickle, Helene walked in front of it, and filled a golden chalice from the basin.

“The blood is the life.” She proclaimed, “It is the fire that warms our hearts. It is our master’s meat and bread. It is our honeyed ambrosia. Come ye faithful, and receive the communion of our true Lord.”

Helene herself drank first, taking a sip from the chalice that stained her lips. Mayor Ramel followed, and then Harold Kholer and preening Vivian. Finally, Zachary escorted Adrianna towards the altar, and the cup was offered to her. For a moment, she looked inside, staring into her own sanguine reflection. Where was Avacyn? Where was Flight Goldnight to strike down those who kowtowed to demons? Perhaps Zachary was right. Perhaps these people could be the friends she never had, a family under Griselbrand of those forsaken by good, faithful people. She took the chalice, and put her lips to it, but then drew back.

“No.” she whispered, “I can’t.”

“The first time is difficult.” Zachary said behind her, “It was for me too, but soon enough you start to realize that perhaps the reason men are hunted is that there is no sweeter drink.”

“I can’t!” Adrianna said more forcefully, “I won’t!” she tossed the goblet away and it fell with a splash into the basin.

The mayor sighed. “Zachary, my boy, I told you to be careful.”

“I was, father!” Zachary protested

“Clearly not careful enough.”

“I was sure!” Zachary said, “Adrianna, be reasonable! We would be what you’ve always been missing. You could have revenge on Talia and anyone else who’d wronged you.”

“It’s wrong!” Adrianna shouted. “It’s wicked and I will have no part in this!”

Adrianna started to stand, but the mayor struck her across her shoulders, forcing her back to her knees.

“Kill her.” He ordered with a sigh.

Zachary, with Vivian’s help, wrestled Adrianna to the altar. Vivian held her legs there, while Zachary put a hand at her throat and drew a hunting knife of his own.

“You know,” he said, “This wasn’t how I’d hoped to take you to an altar.”

“Shut up, Zachary.” Vivian said, “Just finish it.”

Zachary raised the knife, and in a flash, Adrianna remembered her own. Her hands were still free, she had just stopped fighting.

“For Lord Griselbrand.” Zachary said. In one motion Adrianna pulled the silver knife from her belt and buried it in Zachary’s stomach. The mayor’s son tumbled back, and in the moment of confusion that followed, Adrianna kicked free of Vivian’s grasp and jumped clumsily from the altar, prepared to run for the mouth of the cave.

As she fled, Adrianna ducked, and just in time. A spray of blood sailed over her head, bursting into flames as it flew. While it had missed her, the fire covered the exit paths to both the left and right – only the waterfall itself had smothered some of the flames. Adrianna didn’t dare try to pass through the wall of blazing blood, and so turned around at the precipice.

Helene held the chalice that Adrianna had cast back into the basin, and filled it again with the blood of the sacrificed.

“Nowhere to run, girl.” The priestess said while the Kholers and the mayor attended to Zachary. “Throw away the dagger and I might not kill you too painfully.”

Adrianna weighed her options. If she fought, there was no way she was going to live, outnumbered four to one and at least one of those four possessing dark magic. If she surrendered, she could only guarantee her death, and the only path out was through the waterfall and into the steaming pool.

It was a terrible gamble. Adrianna had been burned before, and had no desire to die in the kind of agony she would suffer if the pool was truly boiling hot. But more than that, Adrianna didn’t want to die, and there was only one slim chance of that.

She jumped.

The pool she fell into was hot, and at first she thought the sensation of bubbles against her skin meant she would boil, but as she first floundered and then swam frantically for some shore, she realized that she had been fortunate – the water was unpleasantly warmer than a hot bath, but it at least posed no threat to her life.

Helene must have known it would not kill her too, because as Adrianna climbed to shore, another chalice worth of liquid flame was flung across her path. Still, she had some little lead, and Helene only so much blood to play with. Hell, or at least its servants, at her heels, Adrianna ran as she had never run before.

When Adrianna finally reached town, disheveled, soaked, and chilled to the bone by the cold night air, all eyes turned to her. Hastily she recounted the doings of the cult, the sacrifice, what she had done and how she had fled. At first, many refused to believe, but when none of those she named could be found, anger soon turned upon the cultists.

The Mayor, clothing changed back to his official garb, came to town not long after, and before seeing her started shouting as to how she had murdered his son in the woods. The townsfolk would not hear him, and before he realized what had happened, the Parish Blades turned upon him and cast him onto the bonfire he had kindled at sunset. The Kholers were taken the next day, and new bonfires built for them. The cave behind the waterfall was also discovered, its foul altar smashed and the bodies and bones of the dead there in, excepting the damned Zachary Ramel, given proper burial. Helene was never found.

All the same, Adrianna and her mother gathered up their few possessions. Though they had a house, a place, it could never again be home.

"There were seven of us left when we found Lukho's body. Seven left, of the thirty who had been sent to build and man Fort Agric, out here, so deep in the wilds. Captain Hask just stood there over that poor boy's body, shaking his head. Jerro, who had first spotted the mangled corpse, was staring so hard his eyes were bulging as he muttered incomprehensibly to himself. I felt like I was going to vomit. Rint actually did. Rella and Typhon were back at the fort, manning the walls. Well, wall, I guess. And Stout? He laughed. The bastard actually laughed. I don't pretend to have known Lukho all that well, but he deserved better than that.

"Fort Agric, as you were probably told, was an experiment. Officially, they wanted to see if a fort this far removed could help tame the wild lands around here and make this place livable for humans. If you ask me, what they really wanted was to see how fast we would get killed off. To be fair, the attacks didn't start right away. We had time to build most of the quarters, about half the dining hall, and, well, you saw how little of the wall. We had less than two sides done when the first attack came. It started with an abrupt howl in the night. Our sentries woke us, and we defended our fort.

"That first attack was vicious. The moon was full, but cloud-covered, and those things were just too fast. We never got an accurate count. I remember Rint and Jerro both thought there were five, Stout said six, Captain Hask swore there were seven, but I say at least eight or nine. However many they started with, we killed three of them that first night. They killed eleven of us. Just one battle, and we lost over a third of our numbers. None of us slept, of course. The next day we buried our dead and frantically tried to finish the wall. Obviously, we couldn't. The second attack came that very night, but I think we had killed their alpha, because this attack was much weaker, much less coordinated. We got two more of them, and lost four more of our own.

"Down half our numbers in the span of two nights, Captain Hask knew we couldn't last. He sent four of those of us who remained on a run back to civilization, to call for reinforcements, which I suppose you already know, since it's why you're here. Jerro and I found the first one the day after they left, and it looked like his body had been dragged a fair distance back toward the fort. I hate to admit it, but I don't even remember his name. He was one of the veterans who got stuck with the rest of us. That night, we were attacked for the third time. This time, there were definitely three of them. They didn't even try to disguise their numbers. They came straight on, killing three more of us. We killed two outright, and the third was bleeding so badly it couldn't have lived through the night. We had won.

"Or, at least, that's what we told ourselves. For the first few nights, nothing happened. We would still hear the howls in the night, but they could have easily been normal wolves, not the monsters that had killed so many of us. Then, the night before we found Lukho, another attack, but different, this time. All we heard was Bakard's scream, and by the time we got to his post, whatever killed him was gone. Like I said, that left us with seven when we found Lukho, and our spirits, as I'm sure you can imagine, were pretty low.

"But then Hask noticed the letter Lukho's belt. The reverse side of the parchment was stained with the young man's blood, but the words on the other side were still legible. Captain Hask usually wasn't an emotion man, but as he read, I noticed that grin cross his face. It was the letter your command sent us, saying that the runners had made it through and that you were sending us our reinforcements. I can't even describe how that felt. It was the only hope we had been allowed, like a miracle from Avacyn herself. Then I watched as Hask's grin melted away as he read the last line. 'Expect our arrival in a fortnight.'"

"We all just stared at one another. I think Rint would have vomited again if he had had anything left in his stomach. Jerro just kept muttering, Stout just kept laughing. I don't even remember my reaction. I hate to admit it, but I think I cried. All I remember is eventually Captain Hask was shaking my shoulders and saying 'Snap out of it, Allo.' Eventually, I did. I knew I had to be strong, we all did. There were seven of us, and twice as many days to survive.

"That first night after we found Lukho, no one spoke much. Rella, the only woman left in the fort, had always been the talkative sort before, always dependable to break the boredom with a joke or a story. That night, I don't think she said a thing. Not one word. At times, Stout, Typhon and Hask would try to get some conversation going, but it didn't take. Things looked pretty bleak, and we went to sleep that night praying for a real miracle. When we woke in the morning, Rint was gone. Just gone. No body, no blood, just nothing. He had been the youngest of us that remained, possibly the youngest of those sent, and it was he and Jerro on watch. Jerro said he never heard a thing. We searched every room in the half-constructed Fort Agric, and we found nothing. There was only one conclusion. Rint had deserted.

"Typhon was furious, and I think Stout was, too, but it was harder to tell with him, owing to all the laughing. Rella and I shared a look that, at least to me, wished the poor kid well. We were mounting up to go hunt for him when Captain Hask told us to just let him go. He said that if Rint was unwilling to die with us, we should just let him die on his own. The day wore on, and no one spoke. Well, Jerro did, nonstop, actually, but only ever to himself. The only other noise we had to break the silence was Stout's laughter, which he broke into at random moments for reasons known only to him, or not even. Fortunately, that night, there was no attack.

"The next day was even more strained. Tempers were getting frayed, and we were all starting to falter, both from fear and lack of sleep. Rella continued her uncharacteristic silence, speaking only on those rare occasions where Hask demanded an answer from her. Stout seemed occasionally to be trying to stifle his laughter, but the effect made it all the more insufferable. Jerro's constant mumbling finally pushed Typhon over the edge, and Hask, Stout and I had to break up a fistfight between the two. We all avoided each other for the rest of that day.

"That night, the creature hounding us attacked again. It was just like it had been with Bakard, we heard the scream, but we got there too late. Typhon was dead, his body mangled and torn apart by teeth and claws and who knows what. There was no sign of his killer. I mean it, no sign whatsoever. When morning came, we looked all around the camp, and there was nothing. No tracks of any kind. Rella, Jerro and Captain Hask were all superb trackers, and Stout and I were both passable, and none of us found anything. I remember how we all looked at each other when we reported in, how we all seemed to realize at the same moment what that meant. If that damnable monstrosity hadn't attacked from outside the fort, it must have attacked from within.

"No one said anything, but I know I wasn't the only one thinking it. One of us was a werewolf. One of the five remaining soldiers of Fort Agric was a cursed beast who had killed at least two of our friends, if not a lot more than that. I tried to think back to the battles we had had with the monsters, tried to remember if I had specifically seen any of my remaining comrades in those chaotic frays. I couldn't. Too much had happened, and too many of those I stood with had died. I tried desperately to think of any reason why it couldn't have been any one of them. Even if I could clear one of them in my mind, I might have an ally I could trust. But I couldn't. We had all been sleeping in different rooms since our numbers had thinned, and even when there were two of us on watch, we rarely saw the other one. I had reason to doubt any one of them, as I soon learned they had reason to doubt me.

"It was at dinner that night when everything collapsed. We were eating quietly in the dining hall, the wind rolling through the sections of the wall we hadn't finished yet. Hask and I exchanged half-hearted pleasantries, Rella sat in silence, and Jerro mumbled on and on. Stout was laughing nearly constantly now, and that's why it caught my attention so much when he suddenly stopped. Then, in a tone of voice that was almost hauntingly conversational, he said 'You know, I've heard that during the day, some werewolves don't even know they're werewolves.' He looked around at each of us, and then laughed. Again, louder and longer this time. As I desperately tried to fall asleep that night, I cursed Stout. At that moment, I hated him worse than the werewolf in our ranks.

"When Captain Hask wasn't at breakfast the next morning, we knew something was horribly wrong. When we went to his quarters, we found out what. The room was something out of a nightmare, just blood and body parts everywhere. His window had been completely ripped out from the outside, and this time the beast hadn't even left enough of its victim's body to recognize. It was probably the most vile thing I've ever had to do, but we gathered up what we could of Captain Hask and buried him with the rest of his men who would never leave Fort Agric alive.

"I'll be the first to admit that with Hask dead, we gave up. Four of us left, and most of the fortnight before us, we never thought we'd make it. For the next three days straight, it was the same thing. Stout laughed, Jerro talked, Rella didn't. I spent most of my time walking around the half-build fort, wondering who was next, and who was the killer. Jerro took the brunt of my blame. He was the one who had gotten into the fight with Typhon the day he was killed. He was the one on watch when Rint disappeared, and he was the one who found Lukho. Perhaps he knew where the messenger was because he, himself, had dragged him there.

"Although Jerro was my most likely suspect, I didn't trust Rella or Stout any more than that. Both had changed immensely almost from the moment we discovered Lukho's corpse. Why was Rella so uncannily silent? Was she hiding something? And what the hell was Stout always laughing about? Was this all some sort of massive joke his twisted mind was playing on us? There was also the possibility that it wasn't any of us, that somehow one of the werewolves who had attacked was somehow able to disguise its tracks. Or perhaps one of the others was working with a werewolf, covering its trail for it, and thus, buying life. The thought of working with one of those vile beasts to feed their unholy hunger turned my stomach, and I found myself hoping it was one of the other possibilities.

"But as the days wore on, what bothered me most was Stout's comment at dinner. Could such a thing be possible, that one of us was the werewolf and didn't even know it? It was a bad enough thought that it could have been one of the others, but the thought that the killer might actually be me was maddening. I found myself mentally retracing my steps, wondering if somehow I could have done all the monstrous things that had been happening around Fort Agric. I began to doubt myself, and as the days wore on, more and more, I became my own prime suspect.

"When Stout was killed on the eighth night, I was more convinced than ever. Of all of us, I had wanted Stout dead the most, his constant, nagging, cruel laughter had been cutting through me for more than a week, and I was almost at the point of killing him in broad daylight. I was ashamed of this thought the moment I had it, and wished it away, but that very night he was torn to shreds, and in the morning I found myself staring down at his remains, wondering with growing fear if I had done that to him. In my heart, I knew I couldn't have, but in my mind, I had to wonder. We buried Stout, and went off to continue our private descends into madness.

"The next few days were agonizing. We barely ate, we never spoke, except for Jerro to himself, of course. I debated suicide, or asking one of the others to finish me, but I admit it, I fear death. And besides, I kept telling myself that maybe it wasn't me. Jerro was still possible, Rella could have done it, some other force we didn't know might yet be lurking, but I couldn't shake the fear it was me. Each night I fell asleep with Stout's words haunting me, and a whispered prayer to Avacyn seeping from my lips.

"Three days after Stout passed into death, Rella joined him. I would describe her corpse to you, but it was no different from the others I've told you about. I'm sorry to admit, her death brought me a little comfort, strange as that may be. I believed that if I were the werewolf, and my mind had even the slightest influence over the demented beast, then I would have killed Jerro, not Rella. Of course, even if I were right, it would still leave me with the killer anyway, but though I fear death, I would prefer it to that curse. I didn't know if I was ready to die if Jerro was the werewolf, but I knew I wasn't ready to live if I was.

"Have you ever lived, shared the same space, the same food, with the shadow of your own death? Of course you haven't, but that's what Jerro and I had to do. For the next two days, we were the only living occupants of this cursed Fort Agric. For two long, miserable days, we stared at one another, his voice droning ceaselessly onward, mine never leaving my mouth except in prayer. Together but apart, we counted down the hours until you arrived, until we could be saved from this torment. Last night, before our fire died and we moved off to our opposite corners, we locked eyes, wondering if there was any chance. Any hope.

"I woke up this morning. Jerro didn't. He was killed just last night, mere hours ago, and mere hours from his salvation. He was destroyed by a frightening monster, something I cannot control, something that cannot be stopped. Please! You have to end this! I can't be allowed to live! The things it's done with my body can't be allowed to continued! Please! You were called here to help destroy the werewolves of Fort Agric! Well I'm the last one! Kill me! Please!"

Paterus, the commander of the reinforcement force looked down at the pitiful man in front of him, trying to decide if he was dangerous, or just insane. They had arrived just an hour ago to find the place incomplete and in shambles, with this lone madman wandering the grounds. His story seemed fantastic, but it matched what the messengers had said, at least up to the point when they had been dispatched. Paterus took another hard look at Allo before he called over his second in command.

"Urith! Have you scouted the place?"

"Yes, sir," the younger man said. "Seems empty."

The commander nodded. "Did you find a working cell?"

"A cell, sir? No, but the Captain's Quarters can be barred from either side."

Paterus glanced over at the window of Captain Hask's quarters, still ripped from the frame. "Not ideal," he muttered, then looked at his men. As he spoke, he pointed at three of them. "You, you and you! You three will be staying here, under Urith's command. Get to work repairing this wall. Stronger than before! Urith?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Place this soldier in the former captain's quarters and lock him there. See to it he goes nowhere. I'm leaving it up to you to watch Fort Agric."

"Yes, sir," Urith exclaimed. "Where will you be, sir?"

"Me?" The brash commander said with a smile. "I'll be taking my men on a good, old-fashioned werewolf hunt. No matter what we find, we'll return in three days, to begin work on this shameful excuse for a fort!"

"No!" Allo exclaimed. "Please, you have to kill me before you leave! You have..."

Without a word, Commander Paterus drew his sword and struck Allo in the temple with the hilt, knocking him unconscious. "I don't take orders from lunatics."

Several hours later, Allo briefly woke to the sound of screaming. He couldn't make out a direction, tell whose voices they were or how far away. But it was most certainly screaming, that much was undeniable. It was pitch black, and Allo couldn't see a single thing. He closed his eyes again, if indeed they had been open, and said another vain prayer to Avacyn that it wasn't him causing them.

When he woke again, it was to the sound of the bar being lifted from outside the door. The repairs to the wall had evidently removed the window entirely, because it was still pitch black in the room. It wasn't until the door swung slowly open that Allo realized it was day. The figure who had opened the door stepped inside, but the light behind it cast his face in shadows. It stood there for a moment before it spoke familiar words in a familiar voice.

"Snap out of it, Allo."

Allo shook his head and stammered as he responded. "H-h-h-Hask? We thought you were...dead."

"Hardly," the Captain said with a laugh. He took another step into the room, allowing his same old face to be fully illuminated. "What gave you that idea?"

"W-well," Allo began, looking around at the blood-stained room. "All the blood. We found you here, we buried you!"

"You found someone here. Didn't you ever wonder what happened to Rint?"

Allo slumped lower to the ground. "Rint?"

"You didn't really think he deserted, did you? Not that one. Besides, where would he go, out here? No, I grabbed him that night and stuck him in here. Cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream."

"I thought we searched your quarters."

"No, I searched my quarters. Remember?"

"B-but, why?"

"I knew I couldn't hide it from you forever. Eventually you'd see me coming or going. I needed to fool you. It was easier than I thought it'd be."

"You were infected in that first battle?"

Hask laughed. "Of course not! I've been this way for years!"

Allo struggled to grasp all of this. "So you were helping them this whole time?"

"You still don't see," Hask said with a sigh. "Those werewolves that attacked us were weak, a lesser breed. No control, no skill. Me, I much prefer the hunt. Those werewolves had to go, because this is my ground, now. And now I have so many more to hunt."

"The reinforcements? You brought them here to hunt them? What about the guards?"

Hask frowned slightly. "All four dead. I hate killing so many in one night. Wasteful, you know. But I needed time to have this little chat with you."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"That's one option. Another is to rip this door off its hinges and wait for that idiot Paterus to come back, then he'll kill you for sure."

"Are there any other options?"

"One more," the Captain said with a grin. "If I leave you in here until the Commander returns, doors, windows and walls intact, your innocence will be proven. Even Paterus will have to spare your life and set you free."

"You would do that for me? Why?"

"I've always liked you Allo, you followed orders, didn't talk too much, and tried to be a good man, for all the good that's done you. If any of those fools I brought with me deserved to live, it was you. And let's face it, eventually I'll run out of game. I could use someone like you to, well, help me catch more."

"You want me to help you?"

Hask shrugged. "You heard the options."

The thought of working with one of those vile beasts to feed their unholy hunger turned my stomach, Allo's mind echoed from days earlier, but another thought snuck in there, as well, and much, much louder. I fear death. That's all there was to it. Allo looked up at his captain and spoke in a shaking voice.

"And you won't kill me?" Allo watched as Hask simply shook his head. "What do you want me to do?"

The explosion echoed through the graveyard, shards of granite fell like rain. In the dark night, Lew could see the man sized hole in the side of the mausoleum. His partner was already running up to the monument brandishing a crowbar.

Lew grabbed his tools, and rushed for the hole as well. They hadn’t much time. In the distance, dogs barked at the shock of the explosion, and the cold midnight air would only slow people’s investigation of the noise for so long.

Lew stepped into the tomb, and slipped a crowbar under the casket cover. Together, him and his partner pushed the cover from the tomb. Within, a simpler wooden coffin rested, much more fitting for a holy man. Lew took out a hatchet and cut the ropes that bound the box. Lifting the coffin’s lid, they found their prize. The body of Nicolai, the priest of the city of Erdwal.

Lew’s partner started the delicate task of removing the head while Lew stepped out for a moment. The city had come alive with lights and noise. Off near the graveyard gate, he heard a bird call. The signal from his other co-conspirator to wrap up the robbery. Lew could see why. Spilling out of the city and onto the road that led to the cemetery were dozens of people. Each held a torch high. The lookout gave another call.

Lew went back inside just as his partner finished the deed, stuffing the priest’s head into a black bag. “We’re done here,” he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

The three conspirators met up on the other side of the cemetery and slipped out into the forest.

The three thieves caught their breaths a little ways into the forest. Dimka, Lew’s male partner, still gripped the black bag with a vice. Lew had picked him because of his strength and intelligence. Dimka hailed from a rich trading family in Nephalia, yet he choose to live the life of a thief.

“We have to start moving,” Fanya said “It will be many days of travel before we reach Kessig.” Fanya was a guide and a survivalist. Her expertise was indispensable on the journey. Her keen eyes also made her the best lookout.

“You’re right,” Lew said, “we’ll hike through the night, and make camp in the morning.”

Lew didn’t fancy himself a grave robber. Most of his marks were still living socialites, and on occasion a vampire or two. But money is money, and the money was good.

They traveled for many days, until they reached the borderland of Kessig. That’s where the danger began. Stopping at a kill site, Fanya examined a dead deer. “Werewolves,” she concluded “Five or six, a pack”. The beasts were prevalent in Kessig, forming hunting packs that rip and tear through the forest. “We should put distance between us and this deer,” she concluded.

Fanya kept a watchful eye as the trio progressed through the deep forest. Every snapped twig or bird call set them on edge. Fanya carried a cross bow, but such a device would do little to stop a rampaging werewolf. For his part, Dimka held onto the head like it was solid silver.

When the three had reached a river bend, with dusk fast approaching they decided to make camp. Fanya drew from her pack a thin chain. Every tenth link was blessed silver. Enough to discourage a werewolf she hoped. She placed the chain around her bedding.

It started with a growl. Faint at first, at the edge of the clearing. Fanya was the first to wake. Then shuffling around the outskirts, staying out of the firelight. Dimka and Lew woke. Dimka was the first to act, grabbing his blade, he slashed at the darkness.

It was just the opening needed, and a second werewolf leapt from the shadows and clawed into Dimka’s back. Lew reacted instantly, swinging his saber at the werewolf’s exposed flank. Fanya had loaded her cross bow and took aim at the shadows. Her keen eyes caught a glimpse of fur and lodged an arrow into the first werewolf. “A hunting pair,” she said loading another bolt.

Dimka was feeling light headed as he fought back his werewolf attacker. Blood was pouring from his back. He threw the head down, and ran the werewolf through with his blade. The werewolf, swept up in blood lust, did nothing to avoid the blade, and instead sunk it’s fangs into Dimka’s neck. The two fell where they stood. Dead.

Fanya locked her target onto the other wolf still prowling at a distance. Not as bold as the other, it skirted the camp site. She followed its movement around the camp and when it hesitated, she fired. The shot imbedded itself just above its heart. The beast’s apprehension broke, and it charged at Fanya, tackling her to the ground, and clawing. Lew ran his sword through the thing, ending its miserable life. Lew helped Fanya to her feet. The woman was shaken to her core, bloodied with claw marks, clothing in tatters, but alive.

Lew looked at the werewolves. In death, freed from their curse. They were men, nothing remarkable about them at all.

Neither Lew nor Fanya knew whether Dimka belonged to the Avacyn Church, but decided a decent burial was called for. They found a natural depression in the forest floor and placed Dimka and the two men there. After a pray, loose soil was thrown over the three. And a wooden stake hammered in the mark the site.

It was another day before they arrived at Travis’s house. The hermetic alchemist lived in a simple hovel. One that belied his vast wealth. The man was once the most powerful alchemist in Erdwal now spent his time in solitude.

“You have done well,” he said examining the head, “He is just as I remember him.”

Lew and Fanya sat uncomfortably in Travis’s workshop. “As promised, twenty pounds of silver split two ways.” He handed them a sack each.

“What are you going to do with the head?” Fanya asked. “Build a skabb with it?”

“Oh no,” Travis chuckled, “I never want to see this face again.” He placed the head in a jar of embalming fluid. “Nicolai was the one who drove me from Erdwal, forced me into this god forsaken place.”

He opened a cupboard, and placed the jar on the shelf, “But I take great joy in knowing that as long as his head is with me, he’ll never enjoy the blessed sleep.” He closed the cupboard door.

“Now neither of us will get what we want.“

Picture a man, Daniel Lehrer -- a lean and lanky fellow somewhere north of twenty years of age, if only by a fortnight and some extra days. Customarily, he wore a tailed long coat that was too large for him over a waistcoat that was too short and a white shirt beneath that was at once well-fitted, favoring along with that the breeches, high white stockings, and buckled shoes that had been considered high fashion before he was born, a three-cornered hat perched upon his high brow and small half-moon glasses on his thin but somewhat prominent nose.

Daniel, or Dan as he preferred to be called, was an exercise in contradictions of terms. Though he was a youthful man, hardly more than a boy, the fellow preferred to consider himself a pedagogue and instructor to the young. The world, however, was not mad enough to permit one with such little experience to make his way in the world as a schoolmaster, and thus he found himself more often engaging in the craft of the sainted and respectable alchemist – not the dirty and godless work of a Skaberen, mind, but the sort of practice that had been done in years past by the likes of Theodora Glick.

That itself would not be so strange, but his choice of friends certainly was, for the frail, bookish, and usually reserved Daniel found himself more often in the company of the sort of ruffians who you would expect to rob him if he dared step a toe into a back alley than around other scholarly sorts. Few of his acquaintances were respectable men, and those that were less respectable for knowing Daniel’s other friends – those being the mercenaries, drinkers, womanizers, and other unsavory sorts with which the young alchemist did not desire to sever his ties despite not by in large sharing their interests.

One of those few respectable friends of Daniel Lehrer was Nathaniel Strauss. It was probably no accident that while a year Daniel’s senior, Nathan (as he was known to his friends) was one of the younger of that boyhood circle that had by and large come to bad existences, if not yet to bad ends, for seeing by the example of his elder friends what a sinful life was like, Nathaniel had joined the clergy.

Except in both being of more strident morality than the rest of their associates, Nathaniel was the opposite of Daniel in many vital ways. Where Daniel had the physique of a scarecrow, Nathan was a well-built young man, broad of arm and chest and shoulder, though not great of girth nor hulking. His dress, rather than speaking to an antiquated sensibility, marked his office and his station: greatcoat, tricorne, tabard over light but protective armor and hobnailed jackboots made him instantly recognizable as one of Innistrad’s finest: a parish-blade Cathar sworn to uphold the laws of man and god alike, though warding against inhuman menaces ranked somewhat higher on his priorities than ensuring his friends of years past did not themselves sin. Additionally, while Daniel was a self-avowed dreamer and notorious lightweight when it came time to pass the bottle, Nathaniel had grown into a stoic teetotaler, who was not usually given to flights of fancy.

Thus when, in the early hours of night, Dan came to visit his friend at his post along the wall of their Nephalian town, he was quite shocked to see Nathan not standing at attention with one hand upon the hilt of his sword, but instead staring into the distance beyond, resting his head in his hands.

“Nathan?” he said, “Is something wrong?”

“Oh.” Nathan said standing tall and proud now that he knew his reputation was on the line, “Dan. You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

“I meant no offense.” Dan said, “I just thought I might talk to you some time, what with the hubbub and fuss in town today.”

“What fuss would that be?”

“The visit – Thraben colors, and seemingly someone important, though I couldn’t figure out exactly who. I thought you might know.”

“Thalia.” Nathan said with a sigh before composing himself. “I mean to say Knight-Cathar Thalia of Thraben is who came. The notable, that is. The one you asked about.”

“You’re awfully different tonight.” Daniel said. “Is it bad news?” He looked out over the darkened countryside beyond the wall, attempting to make out the familiar curves of hillsides and boundaries of fields by starlight. Though they were almost certainly unchanged, as Dan would have heard had the enemy come in number enough to reshape the land within sight of the walls, those features always took on dark and terrible new associations when shrouded in the dark blanket of night. What geists might lurk out in the mist, or what ghouls, shambling out of their seagrafs to cast hooks and nets over unwary travelers in the fields or along the shore?

“I don’t know.” Nathan replied with a candor more like his normal self, “She’s here on orders from Lothar, Thraben’s guardian. On one hand, Thraben needs more men it seems. Parish-blades and inquisitors are being recalled from all over the provinces.”

“That does sound worrisome.” Dan admitted. The parishes were already hard-pressed. If Thraben needed their defenders, how bad must have the state of the world become? When did triage become an acceptable option, allowing parishes to die that the Holy City might live?

“Well,” Nathan said, “What’s not all bad is that I’ll be going to Thraben as one of them. Not that they aren’t taking half the force-“

“Half?!”

“But mind you I’ve got recommendations, from my commander and my teachers at Elgaud. I’m going to be a guard of the Helvault, Dan!”

That half explained Nathan’s strangeness, in Dan’s mind. He had always longed to do some great service for Innistrad, to achieve some higher posting than gazing from the wall of his home town in the dead of night, and for one who was not inclined to go out alone to hunt down evil, but to protect simple folk from it, there could be no more honorable posting than the Cathedral of Thraben.

But it was only half the answer.

“That’s great, Nathan.” Dan said, “I really am happy for you, but I doubt you made that place by staring into the night sky.”

“It’s not just that, Dan – she talked to me. Me, personally!”

“She?”

“Thalia! Weren’t you listening, Dan?”

Nathan sighed again. “I hope I never meet an angel, not until Flight Alabaster comes to take me to the blessed sleep, because it just won’t compare.”

Dan adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and forced himself to look away from his friend for a moment so he did not shout in astonishment at what he had just heard.

“Nathan,” Daniel said, “Am I right to guess that you’re a little taken with this Thalia?”

“Taken? Who wouldn’t be?”

“Very few men, if she’s had this effect on you.” Dan said, inwardly suspecting that the opposite was more the case –if Nathaniel Strauss was head over heels for this woman, she was quite certainly like no other. Nathan’s tastes were not demanding so much as they were peculiar.

Nathan caught the hint of sarcasm in his friends words. “You haven’t met her, Dan! You haven’t seen her, or heard her!”

“Yes,” Dan said, “Certainly besotted. You won’t let this be a problem, if you’re to be working with her?”

“I’m no more besotted than you are with Jon’s sister.” Nathan replied

“I,” Dan stammered, “Now I just… Well that was uncalled for, and quite far from the point!”

“Which was?”

“If you’re mooning in Thraben like you were when I showed up, you might not guard the Halvault for long.”

Nathan sighed. “I’m sorry, Dan. It’s-“

There was a sinister sound from below, as though something was knocking at the gate.

“Duty.” Nathan said, a transformed man. “Most of the officers are off tonight. Come down with me?”

Daniel nodded, and followed Nathan down the stairs to the inside of the wall, and the wooden foot gate from whence the knocking sound had issued.

Slowly, Nathan approached the gate. First, he brandished his sword at it, in case it leapt open at their approach. After that, he opened the thin window in the gate to look at it, brandishing at that as well in case the red eyes of a werewolf were there to greet him. But there was nothing but darkness. He closed the window, turned to Dan, then back to the door.

“Going to go out to check.” He said, “If anything bad happens, slam it shut.”

“Shouldn’t we get someone for this?” Daniel asked, “I’m not a guard, I’m hardly even qualified to slam a door and most certainly wouldn’t be able to help you.”

“If it’s real, that would waste time.” Nathan said, “If it’s a false alarm, everyone else’s time. We’re here; I’m going out.”

And with that, he opened the gate and walked out into the darkness of the foggy night, lost no more than a few steps beyond that portal. For some time, Daniel Lehrer peered into that darkness, deep, waiting for some sound, some sign to come. Then, he heard a mighty shout, and after it strained to hear a distant thud. He wanted to reach for the door then – something had happened, and while he hoped his friend had prevailed, he guessed that he could simply open the gate if Nathan came up to it, while he might not be quick enough to close it if some horror did.

However, Dan’s muscles would not at first obey him, and he stood listening in rapt attention for any hint of what would be coming towards him, as he had no doubt that someone or something soon would soon be approaching. Tense seconds passed, became moments of dread, became relief when the familiar outline of Nathaniel Strauss became visible in the mist.

Relief was transformed to horror when, coming closer, he lifted his head revealing a hellish light in his eyes and a gaping wound at his throat.

At this new shock, Daniel honored his friend’s last request, and slammed shut the gate, setting it’s lock. A cathar’s hand, now grey with death and dark magic, reached through the small window in the door, and a freshly unhallowed Nathan moaned and clawed at it, As the wiry alchemist attempted to find some method of securing the gate against undead intrusion, an errant swing tore his hat from his head, which he took as a signal to run as fast as he could for someone more prepared to handle combat.

He reached the nearest post along the wall, and tried the door only to find it locked. This did not deter Daniel, who then began to beat upon it with all his significant fervor and quite insignificant strength, at last screaming, in fear of a shambling pursuit if the minor gate had not held, “For the love of Avacyn, open this door!”

At this, the door swung open, and Dan stumbled almost into a youthful woman with platinum hair. Thalia, he guessed, for her Thraben garb and the fact that she radiated a grave and terrible stern demeanor that spoke both to having military command and that judging by her state – soaked hair, sodden and hastily donned clothing, lacking belt and boots alike – he had likely interrupted her bathing.

“Well?” She demanded, “What is it?”

“I-“ Daniel stammered, still quite in shock from the horror of the events that had transpired as well as the presence of his new company, “Well-“

“Out with it, man!”

Dan swallowed, and managed six coherent words

“The unhallowed are at the gates.”

Thalia (for that was indeed who she was) did not hesitate, but quickly grasped a belt and sword and strode barefoot out the door, presumably piecing together from Daniel’s stammering just which gate he had meant.

The rest of the night was a blur – more cathars were summoned, but apparently the fight was not a long one, and at the end of it half a dozen souls were sent to the blessed sleep, or whatever else awaited them after life and unlife alike. Nathan, who must have been surprised and outnumbered four to one by the unhallowed alone, was the sole casualty.

That was little comfort when his friends and fellow cathars alike buried him the next day. Loyal, brave, and true the holy soldiers called him. A fine friend, said those who knew him. But when Thalia left the day after, and took half the parish-blades with her, Daniel Lehrer wondered if his friend’s sacrifice would be in vain.

Eristaf traversed the forest silently, his black cape billowing behind him. To his right, mountains loomed. Above him, a full moon bathed the world in its milky radiance. Somewhere, a wolf howled. To another man, Eristaf might have been mistaken for a spirit, doomed to wander its woods until such a day that it could be released. In a way, Eristaf was a spirit. A spirit bound to flesh, doomed to Innistrad’s darkness until such a night that it could be delivered from its prison of a body.

And that night was tonight.

In front of him, swiftly moving by his side as he strode through the trees, a wolf growled and bared its teeth, slavering over what would soon be its dinner. But nothing would harm Eristaf tonight. That had been assured.

Eristaf thought of his parents as he traveled. Ever so high nobility of humans, they were. They were raised inside the walls of Thraben, just as they had raised him there. Fortunes were made and prayers were given, and they had sat on their wealth for forty-five years. Their lives had been without purpose.

Eristaf thought of his brother as he traveled. He’d joined the guards of Thraben at a young age, hoping to find his purpose. Oaths were taken, and he was assigned to a city watch position. And his life had been without purpose.

Eristaf thought of himself as he traveled. He’d taken to scholaring when he’d been old enough to read, hoping to find answers to questions long asked. Books had been read, and knowledge gained. But still, his life had been without purpose.

Eristaf thought of when he’d left home, leaving the rules behind for the first time in his seventeen years. His mother had been up, and asked where he was going. He remembered his mother’s breath leaving her body as his hands clenched at her throat.

Eristaf thought of when he’d escaped from Thraben, freedom for the first time in his seventeen years. His brother had been on watch. He remembered his brother’s blood flowing around his dagger as it pierced his heart.

Eristaf thought of when he’d walked through the valley and found his father, ignoring his commands for the first time in his seventeen years. He had been blessing a grave in a graf that was within sight of the city. He remembered his father slowly going silent as his throat was slit.

They’d been without purpose. He had been without purpose. But now, he had a purpose.

He reached the edge of the forest, standing at the base of a mountain cave, and a red glow welcomed him inside.

He reached the edge of a deep pit, rimmed by fire and illuminated by a fire too deep for any to see.

He reached his end, when a hand appeared from behind him and pushed him in.

“Welcome, servant of Griselbrand, to your destiny.”

Cynthia strode quickly but quietly through the alleyway, paused to peer around the corner at the main drag, then passed on behind barrels abandoned in haste as the first warning klaxons sounded. No ghouls, thank Avacyn, or thank her own scheming. The town's impending doom hovered like skiff gloom and in the distance sounds of screams and cracking wood echoed. Cynthia half-smiled, stepped lightly around an abandoned tram, and peered out at the nearest gate. Three gates broke the walls, stupidly, and now two were swarming with ghouls, but Cynthia had it on good authority the third way was, as of yet, free.

There was, of course, a slight lag between her recollections and the events, but she had taken that into account, and this time when a ghoul staggered into the waning afternoon light from a side alley, she was well prepared. Ah, there, from her original vantage point in the timeline she missed the abomination's movements, but with that slight delay (and her own foreknowledge) she was well prepared.

The town butcher, on the other hand, was not aware of the ghoul. He was hidden behind a box outside his store and, while most of the road was clear to his vision, the box obscured his view of the alley. As before, he caught sight of her and gestured emphatically for her to join him. Strength in numbers, she supposed, went the logic. This time, she did not take those foolish, unwary steps across the divide, only to feel the ghoul's tongues lap at her, its teeth cracking her bones. This time she waited while the man gestured and hissed. She watched as he heard, too late, the shuffling of the ghoul, and stood unflinching as the thing screeched and fell up him, its mouth opening impossibly large, its tongues wrapping like lovers' hands around the hapless butcher's face. His scream was cut short as one of the decayed tongues slid down his throat, and then the thing slowly crunched its way through the front of the butcher's skull, blood drizzling down on the pavement mixed with a brackish drool.

Cynthia gingerly glanced down the alleyway for more ghouls, and then ducked quietly to the other side of the road, leaving the ghoul to its meal.

The gate loomed, thirty paces away. Twenty. Ten. Five.

"H-halt!" a stammering voice squeaked. Cynthia nearly jumped out of her skin, but realized in a moment that the sound emanated not from some necromancer's spawn but from a quavering ladling guard who had, she now remembered, just recently been conscripted to guard this gate. She quickly took in the scene outside the guard shack--two ghouls on the ground, several crossbow bolts littering faces that then, for good measure, had been pulped by some large object. The gate stood open a crack, and Gerold--for this was the lad's name--stood shaking in it, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead and obscuring his vision.

"Gerold," Cynthia called softly, "It's Cynthia Scalwode, the notary. You remember me, Gerold?"

The boy, his hand shaking, quickly wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to clear away the blood, then just as quickly replaced it on the crossbow. He nodded and swallowed, hard.

"We've got to get out of the village, Gerold," Cynthia continued, slowly moving toward him, her hands up in a gesture of peace. "There's nothing more we can do here, we've got to run. Do you understand me?"

"I've g-got to... w-watch the post..." the boy stammered, clearly on the verge of tears. For Avacyn's sake, you would think his own mother had been among the ghouls!

Cynthia glanced at the two second-time corpses.

Oh, there she was.

Cynthia grimaced and kept moving forward. Her stomach writhed. She was out of foresight and insight, and the cold, raw plains of the uncontrolled future were opening hungrily before her. She had to be so careful, so, so careful...

"Come on, Gerold. Just put the crossbow down and let me through. We have to move, Gerold. More of them are coming."

Gerold licked his lips, choked back a sob, and then did something very stupid.

He raised his hand to wipe his eyes once more, and, in his haste to return it to the crossbow that was now his only friend in the world, he jostled the firing mechanism.

Cynthia fell to the ground, a bolt sticking jauntily from her breasts, panic rising within her. She felt herself drown in blood, her vision going murky, her mind screaming out recriminations toward the stupid, stupid boy who had just ruined all her careful planning with his clumsiness. Her bitterest recriminations however were reserved for herself. She had failed. She could have made a perfect escape, and she had failed. Stupid, stupid.

Gerold's stupid worried face faded from view.

Cynthia died.

Cynthia gasped for breath and steadied herself on her desk, still managing, in her delirium, to avoid knocking over the precious jar that sat next to her, the jar she had labored so carefully over in which sat a single eyeball, staring at her judgmentally. Her chest heaved as she recovered from the sensation of having her vital organs pierced through and filled with blood. She sat down heavily on the nearby chair and began to reconstruct her recent past.

She must have taken... how many? Two, at least. She had, in the rush of the moment, forgotten, so great was her haste to be gone from the besieged town. Warning klaxons still sounded--in fact, had barely begun sounding. The whole trip from her studio, where she added illuminations and the seal of official approval to town documents, to the safe edge of town must have taken twenty minutes at most. So, she was back, slightly less than twenty minutes earlier, taking into account the time lost while she dreamed her way through her own future paths.

Cynthia, you see, had constructed for herself an item of great power. Well, perhaps modest power, but great power in the hands of someone as clever and cautious as she.

It was just a jar, actually. A pickle jar, in a sense, for pickling things. Eyeballs. It was for pickling eyeballs. She glanced at the current resident of the jar. It gazed back, hazel, passive, expressionless. Each eyeball, when placed in the jar and left to stew for a short period of time, would come out a pickled ticket to what Cynthia thought of as spectral timelines. She took the eyes--bought secretly from butchers and, on occasion, morgues--popped the juicy future fruit into her mouth, and was able to explore her own future in extensive detail not once but twice. It was her way of ensuring that her real timeline--the one that mattered--would run smoothly. She could use her foreknowledge to plan, and plot, and adjust her life endlessly in minor ways.

And now, as she knew eventually she must, she was using her jar to plot an escape from her besieged town.

Except... she had apparently eaten more than one of the eyeballs at once. Her memory was a jumbled mess--she could feel stress and the experience of multiple iterations of her own life tossing her thoughts this way and that. With a pounding tempo accelerating in her chest, she realized that in a moment of panic she had turned her life into a set of nested experiences, like the dolls that the people of Stensia made, one doll within another doll within another doll, a life within a life within a life.

And she couldn't quite remember how many eyes she had plucked from her precious jar and swallowed down.

Attempting to quell the rising tide of panic, Cynthia closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She opened them and, feeling more relaxed, looked around the room for insights into her current conundrum.

The first thing she noticed was the corpse on the floor, the back of its head a bloody pulp and its eyes missing.

"Ah," she thought distantly, "yes, I'll start there."

She did so.

It was perhaps two hours ago when the first word spread through the village like wildfire that one of the ghoulcaller armies was amassing near the village. Although some hoped for a miracle, Cynthia knew better, and had instantly begun organizing a few essential belongings in preparation for an escape.

Her hasty packing was interrupted, however, by a booming knock on her door and a booming, jovial voice calling her name. She cursed at the delay, but strode down the steps from her quarters, to the first story where she typically received her clients. The voice had revealed, before she even opened the door, who had interrupted her--Grutus Whipplethwaite, the town's undertaker. Still, as she opened the door she could not suppress an inward wince, as though some part of her mind hoped the voice had been a hallucination. But no, the corpulent man stood there, dressed in a once-classy black, a grin like the waning moon, and a half dozen mismatched emblems around his neck of Avacyn's collar symbol.

"Cynthia, my dear!" Grutus bellowed, shaking the frame of the house with each exclamation and each step he took, uninvited, into her home. "All ready for the oncoming siege?!" He guffawed. "Only joking, scribe, only joking!! I'm sure this will pass us right by!!! What do we have to offer a ghoulcaller?!!!!"

Cynthia mentally inserted a series of exclamation points, increasing in number as Grutus's moronic patter increased in volume in a horribly shallow attempt at what he presumably felt was brilliant playacting. Cynthia shut the door, against her better instincts, and followed Grutus as he trudged at a surprisingly fast clip up the steps, calling out behind him, "These steps are maddeningly steep, dear, I want to warn you about that, you could break your neck!!!"

"What do you want, Grutus?" she snapped as she ascended the staircase.

"Oh my, what do I want?" Grutus said in, again, poorly feigned surprise. "Can't your fellow official simply join you in these dark times for a friendly word or two?"

His tiny piggish eyes belied his statements--they were casting around the room rapidly in search of something, two wandering stars dodging across the expansive sky of his face above the lunar gape of his mouth. Finally they settled back on Cynthia. Slowly his mind processed her glare and spat out the realization that she wasn't buying his antics. His grin faded slightly and he harrumphed.

"Well, if you must know, I'm just a little curious about some things. Well, two things, really. First! (he flourished one hand, his jowls wriggling as he did so) how is it that you seem to have such impeccable luck? Always at the right place at the right time, you are. And second! (flourish; wriggle) how is it that every time a person dies in this village, you're there pressing coin into my palms asking me for their eyeballs?"

His grin took on a nasty, predatory edge.

"It's none of your concern," Cynthia spat. "I give you enough coin to cover the components I need; that's all you'll get from me, undertaker."

"Now, now, Cynthia, don't be stingy! After all, I've kept your secret alchemical meddlings from the other townsfolk so long, and I needn't have done that for you." Grutus took a lumbering bear's step toward her, his fingers twitching greedily. "That could change, you know."

Cynthia barked a barking laugh. "You know as well as I that in an hour there will be no townsfolk left to tell your black secrets to. That army will devour the town whole."

"Oh, I know, I know," Grutus closed his eyes solemnly, fingered his amulets reverently, and took another lumbering step forward. She could smell the stink of sweaty terror on him, he was so close. "This prophecy, I think, will not come true for you, scribe. And that's why I'm here--I want in on your little game of luck. I want you to help me get out of this doomed town in one piece. Now..." he opened his eyes once more, "Where are you keeping your toys?"

Her eyes betrayed her, glancing for a moment at the wall of pinned illumination tests, behind which sat her precious jar. In a split second, she knew she was lost. She dove for the illustrations, but Grutus punched her out of the way and she fell hard on her side as he lumbered over to the wall. He tore the illustrations wantonly down and grinned greedily as he caressed the waiting jar in fat fingers. Cynthia stood, slowly, glaring at him bitterly. She had fallen near the fireplace, however, and slowly, ever so slowly, she edged backward to where she kept a shovel for ashes...

"So this is what you've been doing, Cynthia darling," Grutus murmured, continuing to caress the jar. "How does it work? No, you won't tell me yet. You're too mad. But you'll see it my way, dear. I'll make sure you do, dear." His smile stretched across his face cheerfully.

But she wouldn't, and she couldn't. There were, in fact, just three eyeballs tossing around in the jar. The thought of sharing them made her lungs tighten, her muscles lock up, and the ever-present din of panicked cries that existed always inside her head grow louder and louder. They were her only way of navigating the terrifying, hostile world outside her skull, and she couldn't afford to lose a single one.

There was a way, however, that she could increase her stock.

At that moment, the klaxons started, and a great crash rolled through the town. Cynthia supposed that the dead must have broken through the gate in some suitably dramatic fashion. Grutus, however, was surprised. He stomped over to the window and looked out, turning his back to her.

In an instant, she brought the shovel down upon his thick skull. There was a crack and a gout of blood, and a grotesque expulsion of air from Grutus's lungs, and he crumpled to the floor--mercifully, slow enough that the thick glass of the jar did not shatter upon the wood. Cynthia raised the shovel again and smashed it against his hateful, upturned face. His nose shattered as the side of the shovel dug a deep furrow across his cheekbones, expelling more blood. His eyes stared upward, reason leaving them, the grin still plastered on his stupid fat face.

She knelt and scrabbled at his face, carefully, even in her panic, sliding her thin fingers into Grutus's eye cavity, first the left, then the right. The eyes, despite the fat around the lids, popped out easily with some careful jimmying, and Cynthia held, in her bloody hands, two hazel peepers, her precious tickets to salvation.

Cradling the precious jewels in her dress, she used one hand to unscrew the lid of her jar and she plopped the two eyes in. Then, she washed her hands in the basin, and changed her clothes. This took ten minutes, during which time the sounds of mayhem slowly drew closer, but not close enough yet to pose a real threat. Not, she felt, like the future, which always loomed, a dead-eyed predatory thing, which must be placated and bargained with at all cost. She was aware of a certain hysteria that had overtaken her, but she didn't care--she had all she needed to plot an escape.

In that moment, reentering the room and seeing Grutus's hazel eyes taking on the characteristic chromatic sheen of the properly stewed eyeballs, she hatched a plan that was not so much a plan as an impulsive way to staunch the rising tide of terror choking her.

Five eyeballs.

Five nested timelines.

One by one, she popped them into her mouth, experiencing the momentary dislocation that came with the creation of the spectral dream five times.

Which led her to the present. She had burned through two eyes--two spectral timelines--and now she had three left to go through, and one eyeball. Which struck her as odd at first, but as she pondered it over it made a certain sort of sense. She had eaten the final eyeball in the spectral timeline that the idiot gatekeeper had ended with his crossbow. In this current spectral timeline, she had never eaten that eyeball, she had only eaten the second-to-last eyeball and fell into the fugue of the time dream. Naturally, she had one left in this spectral timeline--one of Grutus's two hazel eyes.

Perfect. This gave her an extra shot at finding a perfect outcome. In fact, the number of eyeballs available to her would continue compounding as she slid in and out of spectral timelines. It was perfect! She laughed briefly, joyfully. Why had she never tried this before? She could live countless lives and barely ever run out, so long as she took care to remember how many of the eyes she ate. And that wouldn't be difficult for a mind such as hers.

But now, she had more important things to worry about. She needed to find a correct way out of the town. She was so close, now, all she needed to do was change her interaction with the fool gatekeeper.

And to do that, she would utilize her newfound power.

Carefully, gleefully, Cynthia picked the final eye out of the jar for the second time--and certainly not the last!--time. As though eating a sweet grape, she closed her own eyes and popped the cool, slimy sphere into her mouth. She pressed it, with her tongue, against the roof of her mouth, feeling its give. Then, she directed it to the left side of her mouth, to her waiting teeth, which clamped down forcefully, bursting the vitriol of the eye down her throat. She quickly took a swig of water to help her swallow the outer flesh of the eye and chase out the somewhat unpleasant aftertaste. Then came the shuddering strange impression of stepping briefly outside of herself...

And she was off, down the steps, out the door, and down the street, making her predetermined path, already run twice. She felt her own shadow rise to meet her in the fading of day, as though her other selves danced before her, leading the way, waving her on.

The sun was lower in the sky than she had remembered--stupid, stupid, her dallying had cost her precious time--but the roads on this side of town were still clear to the point of being eerily deserted. People were either hiding in the village church, or staving off the inevitable with the militia. She dodged down the road, secure in her foreknowledge, until--Ah! There, before her, was the ghoul that had cost her her first spectral timeline, happily sucking on the butcher's head as though it were an oversized sweet. It was still preoccupied, in short, and she was able to dodge past. She took some comfort in the fact that even without her meddling the man was, apparently, doomed in all timelines. Nothing she could do, anyway. She had been right to watch out for her own skin.

There was the gate. Perfect. And there, inside the gatehouse, was Gerold, dangling from a noose that he had apparently hung himself. Poorly, it seemed--the color of his face suggested he had strangled slowly, rather than experiencing the short, sharp, shock that he had designed. Oh well. No matter. Her delay was, it seemed, fortuitous--she wouldn't have to deal with the lad's shattered nerves and second-hand crossbow.

The way was clear.

Cynthia poked her head cautiously through the still open door. Careless of Gerold to leave it hanging that way. (She giggled at her own joke. It felt so good to be making progress!) The way outside was clear. They hadn't even bothered to surround the town, electing instead to carve furrows of destruction through the town like a great plough of dead matter. More evidence supporting her impulse to save herself in the face of assured destruction.

Cynthia cautiously, then more resolutely, strode forward across the fields, toward the woods.

And then stumbled and fell to her hands and knees as a stab of pain emanated from her stomach.

She retched, and tore open her overcoat, then her undercoat, then her shirt as the pain intensified. Her stomach was turning blue. Her legs went numb. There was, she thought, some backlash here. It felt as though blood was being pumped desperately to her heart, and then the pressure stopped as the veins in her stomach were drained.

She had speculated to herself what might happen if the temporal magic of her toys ever were to go awry, so the fact that her abdomen was now accelerating rapidly through time while the rest of her body stayed put came as less surprise to her than one might expect. Some measure of understanding, however, did not allow her to escape the pain of having her stomach die from lack of blood and rot in a matter of excruciating minutes. She gagged at the pain and at the sight of her own rotting torso, and vomited up black sludge--the remains of her organs. The eye sat there, undissolved, as though it had never been bitten, glowering at her silently. Ten minutes, she noted, was not long enough to leave an eye in the jar. Or perhaps this was just Grutus seeking one final revenge.

"Oh well," she thought vaguely as her heart shuddered to a stop and her upper body fell away, to a wet sound, from her lower body, "Let him have one last revenge."

"After all, I needed to die to get back to the prime timeline, anyway."

Cynthia vomited into her wash basin. This took roughly five minutes as she expelled her breakfast and her lunch and tried studiously not to think about the sight of her own spine slipping free of her rotted hips. Of course, she did, repeatedly, which set her to vomiting again, and on and on it went for about five minutes all told.

That was fine, though. The roads were surely still clear, given the dallying she had done earlier. Probably, she was only a couple of minutes behind her previous timeline now. Not an issue at all.

She turned around--

--And stared at the grin of Grutus Whipplethwaite, who stood, eyeless, bloodless, and grinning jovially, in front of her. His grin opened impossibly wide--the moon swelled from crescent, to first quarter, gibbous, and finally full, a black eclipse moon with not a heron but a worm of a tongue lapping with it, not silver presence but dark absence, not salvation but damnation, and Grutus's corpse bore her to the ground, grinding against her, perversely cold despite its blubbery mass, pressing her down, and then the moon waned once more, its cycle complete, gibbous, third quarter, crescent again, and she screamed, her vision turning black as his teeth, imbued with undead strength, closed upon her head and broke her skull and popped her eyes like ripe grapes.

and Cynthia took a deep gasping breath. She turned slowly to gaze at the corpse of the undertaker. Shakily, she reached out a hand and her fingers found the shovel. Hesitantly, she raised it. Then, she brought it down with a bone cracking thud.

It became much easier after that first swing.

By the end, Grutus was a blubberous mass with a pulped wreck of a head. There was, she felt, very little chance that he would cause her trouble again.

Her clothes were quite bloody now, and she quickly changed once more. Stupid, stupid, so many delays! She rushed to put on her new shirt and trousers, tossed on a coat and overcoat, and hesitated on the steps. What if, once she came to the forest, she was confronted with branching paths? What if multiple possibilities presented themselves again? She had navigated the city fine, but after this who knew what was in store. She had two eyes left, and while they were the tainted eyes of Grutus, she could use them, pass through her deathly time illness, and come back with even greater foreknowledge.

She bit her lip, indecisive. Finally, she ran into the room, grabbed her precious jar, and headed for the stairs, as rapidly as she could. She nearly leapt down them, eager to make up for lost time. This turned out to be a mistake, as a loop on her hastily donned coat caught on the hastily passed banister, and before Cynthia knew it, she was tumbling down the steps. Grutus had, she remembered as she fell, warned her about stairs. The bastard. She did not, however, break her neck. Instead, she impaled herself upon the bottom newel cap.

Cynthia took a deep breath and screamed in frustration, then, slowly, calmed herself. She needed to die anyway, after all, to get back to the primary timeline. That death was necessary. And now all she had to do was run the predetermined path successfully, and she would be free. She mourned the loss of those extra lives, certainly, but really, what did it matter? She was on the right path now, on the prime timeline, and nothing could stand in her way.

And nothing did. She did not even bother to brutalize Grutus's corpse once more--she would be gone soon enough. The sounds of destruction were worryingly close now--the zombies would be here in just a few more minutes, without a doubt--but the streets where she was going were still clear. There was the butcher, still being used as a lolly by the multi-tongued horror. There was Gerold, swinging jauntily back and forth. There was the open gate. There were the fields. There was the woods. There was escape.

She ran for what seemed like hours, deep into the woods, deep into the safe bosom of the old darkness. The sun came down and she stopped, out of breath from running and from laughing. She lit a lantern and sat down on the soft pine needle floor of the dark woods. Lovingly, she looked over at her jar, her precious jar that had saved her from a death far more permanent than the countless she had experienced. She would gladly die a thousand deaths more hideous than those already experienced, so long as she could keep on dying, keep on running, keep on outsmarting the world.

And she had. She had outsmarted the very world, and it had only taken but one of her precious eyes, in the end. There were still three left.

Her stomach suddenly felt as though it was full of writhing centipedes. A choked, keening sound threatened to rise in her throat. This was not the feeling of magical backlash, though. This was far worse: it was panic, rising in the depths of her body. It was the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, she had made a horrible mistake.

There were three eyes left.

There should have been four.

She scrabbled desperately in her pockets and pulled out a broken piece of drafting charcoal and a scrap of parchment, in better times used to plot illuminations. She slowly, painstakingly drew out a chart, and then another, and then another, tracing back the twists and turns she had taken through time.

And at the end, she could not escape the truth she had feared above all else:

Cynthia had not made it back to the prime timeline at all.

She had escaped, but she had escaped as a spectre, in a spectral timeline.

And now the keening wail broke free, turned into bitter sobs, and Cynthia wept openly. Tears streaming down her face, she stood, walked over to her precious, beloved, traitorous jar, picked it up, and hurled it against a sturdy pine. It shattered and, kneeling, she roughly sifted through the glass shards for something suitably sharp. Sniffling to herself, Cynthia took the shard she had found and pulled it roughly along one arm, and then along the other. She was no stranger, of course, to suicide--it was, in fact, how she was able to live her life multiple times over. Each night concluded with a bloodletting ritual that in the morning was undone as she returned to the dawn of a previous day. But now she slit her veins hating herself the whole time, carving at herself viciously, despising her failure, despising her stupidity, despising her inability to think things through. In her last moments, Cynthia painted the green forest red with hate.

Cynthia numbly took a breath and walked over to the shovel, picking it up and bringing it down upon the head of Grutus's corpse, which was even now stirring. Fine. She would do it again. It was later than she had hoped--she had lost so much time running through the woods like a fool--but she could still make it if she tried.

There was a booming knock on the door, and Cynthia glanced down at Grutus's corpse once more. But the knock continued, and now it was coming from the back of the house, and from the sides as well. She wandered over to the window and looked outside, already knowing what she would find.

She had delayed too long. Hadn't she thought to herself, in another time, in another life, that the ghouls would be at her doorstep in just a few more minutes?

She had wasted a few more minutes, and now they were here, a tide of them, a flood of them, and endless sea of rot.

Glass shattered below. Their moans were quite audible now. Dimly, in the back of her mind, Cynthia wondered if she shouldn't try to make a break for it. For a single, mad moment she considered the idea of rushing out to an uncertain future. Perhaps, perhaps she could escape if she did not hesitate or plan or scheme.

She unscrewed the lid of her jar, however, and one by one she plucked four eyes--the proper number, now, thank Avacyn!--and popped each one, like a grape, into her mouth.

Cynthia took a deep breath, and in a moment she was running, she was flying, on through the future, her shadow rising to meet her, willing to die a hundred thousand deaths if only she could just pretend, for a little while, that she would always rise once more, a specter of the might-have-been.

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Norin doused his torch as he approached the ruins of the Pfalzgraf estate. The crumbling mansion had stood for a mere century, which wasn’t terribly old by the standards of Kessig. The noble families in Kessig did not favor the mansions and palaces that were typical in the other three provinces, preferring to build their homes with walls of solid stone, the better to keep out the werewolves and beasts that stalked the province’s forests, and their forts and castles lasted just about forever as long as there was someone to maintain them. The Pfalzgraf’s were not originally from Kessig, however, and had been given their lands as a reward for some long forgotten act of heroism. The original Pfalzgraf might have been quick with a blade, but he hadn’t been so quick with his wits, and had chosen style over substance. The mansion he had built had been a regal affair, decorated by the finest artisans working with the most expensive materials. It had also been built in the middle of an open field, only a few hundred feet from the Ulvenwald, and without a single fence to protect it.

File comment: art by James Paick

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Fifty years later, the Pfalzgraf’s were dead, and the vampires moved in, and everything changed.

The vampires had been sired by one of the minor lines, and had fled to Kessig to escape the wrath of an accidentally slighted Falkenrath heir. Their leader, a man named Viens, had been a rather intelligent fellow, and insisted that his followers leave the locals alone. Instead the clan preyed entirely on those traveling the nearby road, relying on those they kidnapped as thralls to dispose of the bodies, trade with the nearby villages for extra supplies, and generally maintain the appearance of the mansion. They even managed to recruit a trio of errant werewolves to serve as extra muscle.

Then Avacyn vanished, and everything changed.

The vampires had been doing well for themselves at first, but as the roads became more dangerous and the wards began to fail, the howlpacks to the north became emboldened. They began to raid the roads as well, and soon fewer travelers were making it as far south as the territory the vampires had claimed. Prey became scarce, but Viens still refused to let his clan attack the locals, afraid of how they would retaliate. Individually the vampires were stronger and faster, and while the sun was up the werewolves provided them with a modicum of protection against wandering cathars or Inquisitors. At the same time, it wouldn’t be hard for a dedicated mob to fight their way into the mansion during the day, and all of those wonderful pieces of art and decorated carvings would have made for a spectacular bonfire. Instead the clan began to feed on their thralls, until there were no more thralls to feed from.

Viens still hesitated to attack the villagers, worried about their reactions. Desperate peasants were dangerous peasants, after all. At the same time, his family was starving. In the end, his wife made the decision for him by having the werewolves cut off his head and burn the body during the midday hour. That night, she seized control of the clan, and ordered an attack on the nearest village.

That night, Avacyn returned, and things changed. Again.

The villagers actually had been getting ready to fight the vampires, but not in the way Viens had expected. Once their magic had begun to fail they had refused to take the vampires head-on. Instead the villagers had spent the past several months fortifying their homes and village, hoping that the few still functioning wards might give them a slight edge over their opponents. The fighting had been poised to go either way when suddenly the wards flared to life, binding the vampires in place. Unable to fight, unable to run, they were easy targets for the surviving villagers.

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At that point many of the villagers argued in favor of burning the mansion down, to prevent anything else from moving in. The majority, however, saw the building as cursed, and so it was decided that it would be left alone rather than risk the ire of any spirits that might be haunting it. Instead it was abandoned, in the hopes that nature might do the job for them. And, for a time, nature did just that. Without anyone to keep it in check, the forest began growing closer and closer to the mansion. Vines climbed its walls and wormed their way into the cracks between windows. Rats, birds, and other small animals nibbled their way through the facades as they sought shelter from predators. The wind and rain exploited these breaches spreading mold and warping wood.

For all that, though, there were still those who were more than happy to make it their home. Skaberan had always been an all too human problem, with their undead creations being as much a product of mad science as they were of mad sorcery. Fortunately, the rivalries between the skaberan were intense, often self-destructive affairs. More than one had skaberan had perished at the hands of a ‘masterpiece’ intended to be the doom of a hated opponent, and the noxious state of their laboratories made it simple to track down the rest. Only the very skilled, very cautious, or very lucky had any lasting success, and three names had stood out over all: the siblings Gisa and Geralf of Trostad, and Ludevic, the Necro-Alchemist. During the year of Avacyn’s absence their fame and power rose to unparalleled heights, only for it all to come crashing down once the Archangel returned. Gisa had been arrested and sentenced to prison for her part in the siege of Thraben, while Ludevic had gone on the run, and was believed to hiding somewhere deep in the forests of Kessig. Geralf had vanished entirely, with rumors whispering that he had been slain by his sister’s hand for the siege’s failure.

With the three most prominent skaberan eliminated from their thrones, all the rest began scrambling to position themselves as the next lord of the undead, risk of holy wrath be damned. This caught the Church somewhat flat-footed. Avacyn’s return had marked the start of a new war against the Stensian vampire clans, one which the Church hadn’t been prepared for. It had started as small pockets of fighting that had eventually merged into one bigger front when it became apparent that not only were the human forces winning, but that the vampires seemed to be fighting some sort of internal war amongst themselves at the same time. The sudden surge of skaberan activity effectively opened a second front in that war, but the Church leadership absolutely refused to give up the gains they had earned against the clans. That left only regional forces and individual Inquisitors to deal with the skaberan, and the forces of light were as much a mixed bag as the forces of darkness, forcing a stalemate between the two.

Norin felt he was up the challenge. He had fought, and nearly died, in the Battle of Thraben, and had been present when Thalia had sundered the Helvault and freed Avacyn from her imprisonment. Before that he had operated on his own in his native wilds of Kessig, tracking and exterminating the smaller howlpacks that had been preying on the villages there. Once he had been handsome, with chiseled features that had made the girls swoon, but now his face was a tangled mess of scars. He could still be considered attractive, in a broken sort of way, but as far as he was concerned his looks were of no importance. Each scar was a prized reminder of life saved or an innocent avenged, and there was nothing in the world that he would think to trade them for.

At that moment he was tracking a skaberan known only as Privolat. Privolat had been making a reputation for himself by attacking smaller villages during the full moon. He didn’t seem to want anything specific from the villages, but was more inclined to take whatever he wanted. Sometimes he took money, jewelry, and any other object of value he found, while other times he merely took food and equipment. The only thing all the attacks had in common were that the village’s church was always burned to the ground, and the villagers reported that the skaabs Privolat used were based primarily on parts harvested from animals.

‘I wonder if that is a deliberate choice based on aesthetics, or something he was forced into,’ Norin pondered as he drew his swords. The one in his right was an old, simple design that had been passed down through his family for generations. The one in his left hand was only a few days old, and had been a gift from his wife. Ayla had had it specially made for him as a replacement for the one had lost during the fighting in Thraben. ‘Maybe I should have gone to look for her. What harm would a few more days have been?’

The last thought made him frown. Ayla had been acting oddly for the past few months, often disappearing for days at a time, and when he had gently asked her why she had dismissed the question without actually answering it.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she had said, and then kissed him on the forehead. ‘I promise that everything is fine. I just needed to look into some things, that is all.’

A more suspicious man might have suspected his wife was having an affair, but Norin doubted that was what was happening. He doted on Ayla, and she on him. Then there was the matter of her condition. They made sure to take the proper precautions, of course, to make sure she stayed safe. Ayla would often accompany her husband on his hunts to back the strength of his blades with the power of her spells, and had saved his life more than once. The only times she stayed home was when there was a risk of her having one of her fits. The last time, however, she almost hadn’t made it back in time. She had recently disappeared again, this time with only a few days to spare. Norin wanted to convince himself that she was safe, but he had been forced to leave before she had returned and the thought of her being out there, alone, without him to help her…

Norin shook his head to banish the thought. He had reached the mansion’s front porch, and there was no telling what might be waiting for him inside. He needed to make sure that he had his wits about him, as even the least distraction could prove fatal. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he nudged the door open with the toe of his boot. The hinges squealed in protest as the door swung into large, blacked out foyer. Shattered furniture was spread all over a carpet that looked as if it had been shredded by something with claws. Norin took a step into the room, turning his head to keep an eye on his surroundings as he approached one of the larger rips. He knelt down and ran his hand along the frayed edge, trying to get a sense of just how old the damage was. He picked up one of the larger splinters and rubbed it back and forth between his fingers until it crumbled. The wood was soft, with a touch of damp, and smelled slightly of rot. ‘Not done recently, then.’

He had just begun to rise to his feet when something wet plopped onto his shoulder. Norin froze, his stomach clenching with fear as he watched the thick, sticky liquid slid down the front of his coat. ‘Damn. I forgot to check the ceiling-‘

Something heavy landed on his back, and the world vanished into darkness.

The only reassurance Norin had that he was not, in fact, dead was the fact that his body felt like it had been run over by a drover’s cart. He could have sworn that his bruises had bruises, and it was difficult to tell if the reason everything looked so dark because his eye had been glued shut by blood, or if the room he was trapped in was just that poorly lit. His shoulders ached, the result of someone tying his arms at an awkward angle to the back of the chair he was sitting in.

He pulled at the ropes until the skin around his wrists began to burn from the friction. The ropes were good and thick, but he had a small amount of wiggle room to work with. Whoever had tied him up hadn’t done a very good job of it. There was a certain trick to tying someone up; if you just tried wrapping them in as much rope as possible the rope would get in the way of itself, weakening the entire affair. Unfortunately, the knots were still good and tight. Working them loose would probably take an hour of on again, off again squirming to get them to the point where he could pick at them. The wood of the chair was curved and had been smoothed to a fine finish, so he wouldn’t be able to sever the ropes that way. The legs on the chair did wobble a bit, though. That could prove useful later.

Norin sighed and tilted his head back. There was a crack in the ceiling, about a foot long or so, and he could just make out the pale light of the full moon as it started passing by overhead.He started to laugh, but choked it down to a derisive snort instead. ‘It would be tonight, wouldn’t it?’

There was a crack and a hiss as a devil’s stick flared to life in the shadows. The flame briefly illuminated the pasty, wrinkled face of an old man dressed in a smock before disappearing into the bowl of the bone pipe the man held clenched between his teeth. He breathed out a ring of thin blue smoke as he disappeared back into the darkness, then asked, “Is there something you find amusing, Inquisitor?”

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Norin tried to shake his head, but it hurt too much to do so. Instead he simply said, “No, just thinking about poor choices.”

“Ah, I see! I am afraid I am no priest, but if you wish to confess your last regrets while we wait for my assistants to return with my tools, I suppose I might listen to them. I would hate for you to think me to be uncivilized, after all. And who knows? I’ve never heard the woes of an Inquisitor before. They just might prove entertaining.”

“Why not just get it over with?” Norin asked instead. “If all you are planning on doing is chopping me up for spare parts then just kill me.”

“Oh, but that would be so wasteful,” Priovalt tsked. “The human body is a fascinating thing, and I get so few chances to observe it in action. Skinning you alive will give me plenty of time to study the way your muscles work, and if I move fast enough I might even be able to see your digestive system in action! Wouldn’t that be grand? Besides, if I kill you too quickly I’ll just be denying myself the pleasure of your screams. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“Aren’t you worried I might escape?” Norin was fishing for information, and was hoping that the skaberan wouldn’t catch on.

Priovalt smiled, though his captive couldn’t see it. "I’m sure Mikaeus will be more than enough to keep you where you belong.”

“Mikaeus?”

The creature that walked out of the shadows was quite possibly the ugliest combination of creatures that Norin had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Most skaberans tried for at least some form of elegance in their forms, trying to achieve whatever warped idea of perfection their broken mind had latched onto. Priovalt, on the other hand, seemed to have made his creation out of whatever spare parts just happened to be lying around. The creature had three heads, none of which were identical. The one on the left had been taken from a wolf, while the one on the right had the floppy ears and short fur of a hunting dog. Stuck in between them was the head of a calico cat, with all three connected to a pony’s neck and body. The pony’s legs had been removed, and replaced with a spider’s spindly limbs in the front and stumpy bear paws in the back.

It might have been terrifying if its creator had stuck to mixing only one or two forms, but as it was Norin had to choke back a laugh before he accidentally provoked his captor into doing something dangerous. He managed to turn it into a weak gasp that he hoped sounded appropriately shocked. The problem was that the creature looked too much like something out of a child’s drawing. The little bit of drool hanging from the cat’s lips wasn’t helping.

“Is she not the most impressive thing you have ever seen?” Priovalt asked. “I built her from only the finest specimens. Soon I shall have an army of such creatures at my command, and by the time I am done all of Innistrad will tremble at the merest whisper of my name.”

“I can honestly say that I have never seen anything like it before,” Norin said. ‘Angel’s wings. How could I let myself get captured by someone so incompetent? Ayla is never going to let me forget this.’

“Thank you.” Priovlat took honest pleasure from the Inquisitor’s words, even if they hadn’t been meant as a compliment. “But I believe we are straying from the topic. You were going to confess to me?”

Norin’s fingers continued to tease the ropes binding his wrists. “Well, if you insist. It all started almost six months ago, when Avacyn returned…”

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It had been only a few heartbeats since Thalia had sundered the Helvault, but the undead that had been menacing them just a few seconds prior had already been destroyed by the Avacyn. It hadn’t even been a proper fight. There was a blinding flash of light, and then all that was left of several dozen ghouls were the dents in the grass where they had been standing.

Ayla shook nervously as the Archangel hovered over her and Norin. She had forced herself back into her pure wolf form, but she could feel the eyes of the gathered cathars and Inquisitors staring at the two of them, wondering what would happen next. Technically, she was a Repentant, so by all accounts the Church was obligated to show her mercy until she went back on her word. On the other hand, the men and women staring at her had just watched her tear apart the corpses of some of their most revered figures with her bare claws. The only reason they hadn’t attacked yet is because they were wondering if Avacyn was going to do it for them.

Instead she announced the Cursemute Decree.

Ayla was equally as shocked when Avacyn descended to ask the question of her personally. It was a minor effort of the Archangel’s will to force Ayla back to her natural shape, at least temporarily. Ayla swallowed nervously and glanced about, unable to decide where to look. Should she meet the Archangel’s gaze, or would it be more respectful to keep her eyes on her feet? Should she kneel, bow, or stand? She had been kicked out of her village at an early age, so hadn’t received the full education the Church normally provided, but even then she doubted this was something they normally covered.

The question wasn’t a simple one. Ayla closed her eyes to shut out the rest of the world, but she could still feel Norin’s fingers entwined with hers. It was tempting. Freedom from the curse, freedom from never knowing if the beast would win…only at the cost of everything that made her human. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She would still be able to think and feel. Her soul would be her own again. She would still be Ayla all the way down to the very essence of her being. But there was more to being human than just owning one’s soul.

What good was knowledge if you could never share a conversation with friends? How could she enjoy the pleasure of the warm water on her bare skin if she couldn’t share the moment with the one she loved? She would never be able to raise a family, never be able to watch her children grow and raise her grandchildren. Would she still hear music the same? Would she be able to appreciate all the vibrant colors of the sun setting through the trees, or watching it climb over the mountains?

There was only a small quaver in her voice as she answered. “I refuse.”

There were a few who lacked the self-control to stifle their gasps, but Avacyn ignored them. She simply nodded once before rising back into the air and vanishing into the clouds. The enchantment that bound Ayla to her human form lasted for another two hours, which was plenty of time for Norin to return her to the Repenant’s cells. It was simply safer that way. Many parts of the city were still on fire, but there were also enough bigots who would have happily seen a dozen families lose their homes if it meant one more dead howler, even one the Archangel had chosen to spare.

Ayla spent the next week meditating in her cell as Norin made the preparations for their journey home. It was going to take them at least a month and half if they didn’t face any interruptions, which was doubtful. Norin’s position as an Inquisitor meant he was always on duty, even on personal business. They would be stopping in various villages along their route, and if there were any problems they would stay as long as it took to resolve them.

Ayla had no doubt that Norin would be able to handle things by himself if he had to, but that was no reason to let him. She hadn’t managed to learn everything her old teacher had known before he had been torn apart by the howlpack that had cursed her, but neither was she some addle brained apprentice who still needed to sweep the floor in order to learn how to focus. Norin might have known more about tracking, but Ayla reckoned she knew more about wood lore in general. She was also fairly adept with several bindings and healing spells, as well as a minor charm for extra strength that proved useful for chopping firewood. They would also be accompanied by Lyall, the young wolf that had appointed himself as Ayla’s traveling companion, and she was sure that working together they would make for a very effective team.

What worried her, however, was the subtle change in her powers that had accompanied her transformation into a werewolf. They were growing, changing, and it she was scared by her inability to predict how or why. Not only did her spells seem more powerful, but she had gained the ability to shapeshift into the true form of a wolf, which her old teacher had never been able to do. On one hand, it was a small blessing. Shifting from her werewolf form into that of a pure wolf gave her more control over her actions, but she couldn’t hold the change for more than two hours before losing control of it. On the other hand, it had also put her in contact with…something, a spirit, an essence, that she had dubbed the Wyld. It was an ancient, primal thing and even though it wasn’t intelligent it had taken notice of her as well. It hated being trapped by the stone walls and silvered bars of her cell almost as much as it hated being trapped by her mind. Whenever she lost control of her wolf form she would also lose control of the Wyld, which would fly into a berserk rage. The first time it had escaped her, its rage had absolutely terrified the guards who had been watching, provoking them into summoning reinforcements. Ayla had awoken the next morning only to find herself lying in the wreckage of her cell, with two full squads of cathars hiding behind tower shields on the other side of the bars. The bars were dented where she had thrown herself against them, and the cathars refused to lower their crossbows even as they slid her breakfast through the gaps. The only way to appease the Wyld was with constant motion, and Ayla found herself exercising almost any time she wasn’t eating. It was fortunate, then, that she now had more energy than ever, even if she wasn’t sleeping as long as she used to before the change.

And yet, none of that was nearly so terrifying as the thought of meeting Norin’s parent’s at the end of their trip.

“I captured a survivor of Thraben?” Priovalt asked, though it sounded more like a smug statement to Norin. “I would be impressed, if I weren’t finding that hard to believe. Do you really expect me to believe that an Inquisitor would fall in love with a howler? Please, spare me. Do you think me fool enough to fall for that star crossed lovers nonsense? That sort of melodrama belongs in cheap plays, not real life!”

Norin shrugged as he stared up at the crack in the ceiling. The crack was now filled by the moon, but he could have sworn that he heard something moving around up there. His eyes narrowed as a puff of dust was knocked loose and began to drift down through the moonbeams. A shadow blocked out the moon as…something looked back at him, but then it was gone.

“OW!” Norin yelped as something sharp stabbed him in the calf. He looked down just in time to see Mikaeus withdrawing one of its spider’s limbs.

“Pay attention,” Priovalt ordered with an added tsk. “Don’t think that refusing to answer my questions or trying to drag out your story will buy you any extra time. This is purely for my own amusement, and I will be entertained, one way or another. If that means watching as my pet pulls you apart instead, then so be it.”

“I’m not sure I would consider that all that entertaining,” Norin said, shaking his head. “But I wasn’t trying to stall. Just…gathering my thoughts.”

It took nearly two months for them to reach Norin’s familial lands. The Ucitel estate, unlike the Pfalzgraf, was built like a small fortress. The stone wall that surrounded the manor was three times the height of a normal man and had been built out of granite blocks containing a core of field stones so that anything capable of breaking through the outer layer would find itself buried under the contents of the inner. It was wide enough across the top for two men to stand side by side, and it was patrolled day and night by two dozen men operating in four man squads. Two of the men carried heavy crossbows, the other pair carried long pikes designed to stab downwards from the top of the wall, and all four carried a sword as a spare weapon just in case. Most were retired cathars, though a few were family or friends of family who had been trained by the veterans before assuming their posts.

Another fifty men were stationed in the central keep proper. The keep was formed from three crossed halls, designed to funnel enemies into the narrow points where the doors were located. The lowest windows were fifteen feet off the ground and were just wide enough to pass a book through if held so the spine was vertical. On the other hand, they had not been meant to serve as windows, but as additional murder holes for the defenders.

It had, in fact, been designed by a somewhat eccentric mage who had initially founded the Ucitel line. Kouzelnik Ucitel had been a pyromancer of some renown, and while the local villagers were more than happy to see him torch whatever monster had chosen them as its weekly snack, the surrounding lords were always quick to condemn what they considered to be pagan deviltry. Every once in a while a particularly brave fool would decide to end the “menace” of posed by the mage. Kouzelnik, strangely, welcomed these sieges more often than not, and often treated them as a game. He would summon his retainers, and they would seal themselves off in his fortress while the besieging nobles dug in and generally made a mess of the front lawns. Kouzelnik’s soldiers would fend off wave after wave of attack, confident that their master would deal with any pesky siege weapons that might be brought to bear. The sieges would often last for several weeks, until either the local villagers started to complain about the ruckus or Kouzelnik got bored, whichever came first. At that point Kouzelnik would step out on to the battlements, and begin carefully raining fire and brimstone down on the besiegers. He made a point of ensuring that his spells never landing amongst the rank and file, targeting only the tents of the commanders, nobles, and those few soldiers the villagers complained the most about.

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This continued for close to thirty years, until the Church finally had enough and declared that, since Kouzelnik made a habit of killing monsters in his spare time, anyone who chose to interfere with that free time would be making an enemy of the Church. That left Kouzelnik, now slightly paranoid after three decades of on and off warfare, free to add even more defenses and traps to his bastion. That would become a tradition that his descendants would happily continue, even as they continued to aggressively defend their villages and townships, just as Norin was now doing.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Ayla said as she watched the black iron gates that sealed the estate begin to swing open. She couldn’t stop herself from plucking at a loose thread that was dangling from the sleeve of her blouse.

“You’re just nervous,” Norin replied, placing his hand over hers. “Everything will be fine, trust me.”

“Of course I’m nervous!” Ayla snapped. “I’m a mess! My clothes are so beaten that I look like one of those ghouls that Hallow dragged through the mud!”

Norin just shrugged. Ayla had taken her cue from him and only packed a small handful of outfits for their trip, but she hadn’t counted on just how much damage those clothes would take. She had lost her last whole shirt a week ago, when they had stopped at a hamlet that had been having troubles with a nearby necromancer. The boy hadn’t even been old enough to shave, but he had found a grimoire that more than made up for his inexperience. He’d managed to murder and raise five different families before they had gotten there, and while the ghouls hadn’t been particularly strong, their numbers had made it a near run thing. Hallow, Norin’s loyal and somewhat battle happy horse, had managed to catch two of the undead in a tangle of rope and then proceeded to drag them several hundred feet through the woods until their heads tore off. That hadn’t stopped another three from getting to Ayla, and while she had managed to slay them without a problem, there was nothing her healing spells could do about the tears in her shirt.

“My family has been protecting these parts for some time,” Norin reminded her. “My father came home in plenty of torn rags when he was younger. I am sure that we could turn up bloody and naked as the day we were born and my parents wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“Easy for you to say.” Ayla snorted. “You are their son. They have to like you.”

Norin sighed. “Your clothes aren’t what is bothering you.”

Ayla shook her head. “The full moon starts in two days.”

Norin patted her hand. “You aren’t the first Repentant to stay here, you know. We can make sure that you are safe.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you are not the only one.”

As it turned out, both of their worries were unfounded. Norin’s mother was a fairly grounded woman, if a bit headstrong, and her husband had learned long ago to let her have a free rein when it came to running their household. When she found out that her prospective daughter-in-law was a werewolf, she had only had one question: “Pork or lamb?”

“I’m…sorry?” Ayla replied. She looked at Norin, but he had no more idea what his mother was going on about than Ayla did.

“For dinner, darling,” Mrs. Ucitel said as she took Ayla by the arm and began leading her away. “I understand that the change can be somewhat intensive, and I suppose you’ll be hungry. I’d offer beef, but I’m not sure we could get a cow down to the chambers, the stairwell is a bit too narrow. A sheep or a pig would make it, though. Unless you would prefer it cooked? I think we could arrange some steaks in that case. Oh, and let me show you some of old leathers. I can tell you’ve been fighting recently, but you’d be amazed at how much you can save once you get some proper armor. We might need to let it out a bit, you seem more top heavy than I was at your age…”

Norin blinked as he watched his mother half-walk, half drag Ayla up to her chamber. His mother’s reaction hadn’t even been close to what he had been expecting. He had simply been hoping she wouldn’t pitch a fit. The idea of her treating Ayla like a long lost daughter never would have occurred to him. He jumped as his father clapped him on the shoulder.

“Your mother always wanted more children, but we never quite got around to it,” the older man explained after dragging his son into the study. “And she was absolutely terrified that you would get killed before having a chance to settle down.”

“But…she’s a werewolf,” Norin reminded his father. “Doesn’t that concern you in the least bit?”

“She wouldn’t be the first one in the family,” his father replied. There was a hint of mischief in the old man’s eye. “Don’t forget, this is Kessig. Most families around here have had one or two somewhere along the branches of their family trees. More so amongst the villages, I would expect, and most of the nobility would scoff at the notion if you mentioned it to them, but they are there. Why do you think we have the cells in the first place? I know they are handy for keeping the rare Repentant that comes in from the villages, but they were originally built to hold old Kouzelnik’s youngest sister. It was the reason he was such a fanatic for hunting down the ones that terrorized the villages. He was absolutely convinced that if he could kill the one responsible for turning her that she would go back to normal. It didn’t work, alas, if he ever did find the culprit. His journals were a bit vague on that score. But he doted on the girl, and the thought of her dying at the hands of some torch wielding mob was his worst nightmare. So he had the cells built to keep her safe, both from herself and others.”

“I never realized,” Norin said, shaking his head with amazement.

Ayla and Norin were married three weeks later.

“That was moving rather quickly, wasn’t it?” Priovlat asked. He started to yawn, but it quickly turned into a frown. “And where are my minions? They should have been back by now.”

“Well, we wanted to make sure there was enough time for a honeymoon before the full moon,” Norin hastily explained. There was definitely something moving around above them, but so far the skaberan hadn’t noticed and Norin wanted to keep it that way. “Of course, no honeymoon lasts forever…”

The month after their wedding had been surprisingly quiet, at least as far as the supernatural was concerned. There had been one accusation of witchcraft in the village of Drevisnic, but it had turned out the woman’s only ‘crime’ was sleeping with the same man another woman was besotted with. Norin gave the accuser five lashes for causing a disturbance, then had her left in the stocks for a day to drive the point home to the rest of the villagers. It was, perhaps, a little harsher than the woman deserved, but then that had been the idea. It would have been impossible for one idiot’s humiliation to put an end to people getting jealous, but at least the villages would be sure Norin would tolerate as little nonsense as possible. There were real enough dangers out there that he and Ayla simply didn’t have the time to waste on false alarms.

Spring turned to summer, and as the nights grew short they also grew more dangerous. There were many creatures that hunted only after the moon had risen, and while their prey was more plentiful their time to hunt was more limited. The more desperate turned towards the villages and outlying farms in hopes of a steady supply of fresh human meat.

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The newlyweds spent their second month’s anniversary hunting one such beast. It had been going from farmhouse to farmhouse and slaughtering the inhabitants, leaving behind only their heads and limbs. Ayla, Lyall, and Norin eventually managed to track it back to the cave it had been storing the torsos in. The fight was long and vicious. The monster hadn’t really been alive, as far as they could tell, but had instead been formed of stones and bones wrapped in moss and vines. It was slow and clumsy, but had no vulnerabilities for Norin to exploit. It didn’t bleed and had neither brain nor heart. Stabbing it was pointless, and any time he cut a limb off the creature simply picked it up and put it back or grew a new one. Ayla eventually managed to entangle it in the roots that had been growing through the roof of the cave, ensuring it couldn’t escape as Lyall and Norin triggered an avalanche to seal the cave. By the end of it they were all filthy, bruised, and bleeding from half a dozen cuts, but Norin thought they had otherwise come out of it fine.

At least, that was, until the next morning when Ayla bolted out of bed, raced for the chamber pot, and quickly filled it with what had remained of last night’s dinner. Norin knelt down next to her and began to rub her back in gentle circles, just as he remembered his mother doing for him when he had gotten sick as a child. “Is everything all right?”

Ayla swallowed and nodded. “I just felt a little nauseous is all. Dinner must not have been as fresh as we thought.”

Norin nodded in agreement, but he wasn’t sure whether or not be believed her. He had gotten food poisoning more than a few times, and it had never taken so long to affect him. On the other hand, the healers who instructed him at the Elgaud training grounds had spoken at great length about the number of ways a fighting man might die while appearing healthy. Many creatures were toxic one way or another, whether it was a natural poison or the various diseases that clung to the undead. Humans were also pretty fragile; a strong enough blow might just leave bruised skin on the outside while leaving a ruptured stomach or worse on the inside, and of course any wound could end up getting infected if not treated properly.

Worry ate at him for the next hour, but Ayla was already back to her old self by the time breakfast was served. It could have been that she was right, and she had just gotten a bad piece of meat or something else that he had been spared, because if it was something more serious then there was no way he was going to allow her to accompany him the next time he was called out for a hunt. He also hoped it was just bad food, because he was equally sure there was no possible chance of her accepting the idea that she should stay behind while he was in danger.

The next week they were back at Ucitel for the full moon. Norin tried to make it a point to keep an eye on her, until Ayla snapped at him for hovering. Her transformations had always left her somewhat irritable, but he could have sworn there was something different. She was not necessarily angrier, but more quick tempered and likely to snap. She spent several days in bed with a headache, and his parents had just been about to call a healer when the fit passed. Ayla began spending more time in the library than training with him. Norin didn’t mind, as he had taught her as much as he could already, and simply assumed that she was researching lore on the monsters that called Kessig home or looking for new ways to improve her magic.

Then the trips began. Ayla would pack a lunch for her and Lyall, then they would set off to visit the villages that were within riding distance. That in itself didn’t worry Norin; by then they were well known amongst the villages, and if anyone was stupid enough to attack the Lord’s daughter they would find themselves facing an experienced combat mage and battle tested wolf. The problem was that it felt like she was avoiding him, and he didn’t understand why. Then one night she made it back with less than an hour before the rise of the full moon. At that point Norin couldn’t put it off any longer. He waited for her to shift back the next morning and then asked her where she had been going. But all Ayla did was stand up on her toes to kiss him on the forehead. “I promise that everything is fine. I just needed to look into some things, that is all.”

Norin was still baffled, so he decided to ask his parents what to do.

“Could be the girl just wants to get some exercise,” his father suggested as they were sparring one morning. “She seems to have picked up a spare pound or two while she was going through Kouzelnik’s journals. It’s a silly enough thing to get worked up about, but then I’ve known folks to be bothered by stranger. Just make sure to give her a kind word every so often and she’ll cheer up again.”

His mother had been even less helpful when he had asked for her advice. She had just tilted her head back and began cackling madly. It had actually been rather creepy. One of the maids had been nearby and dropped the vase she had been cleaning. It shattered, despite landing on the rug, and his mother was still giggling as she knelt down to help poor girl clean it up. She whispered something into the maid’s ear, and then the maid was laughing too.

Norin frowned as Priovalt began to laugh. “I don’t see what is so funny.”

“Of course you don’t!” the skaberan chortled. “And that my dear Inquisitor, is the entire joke right there! For all your schooling and training, you really are just a simply country lad at heart, aren’t you? I have always found it to be extraordinarily entertaining how oblivious people can be to what is going on in the world around them!”

Three things then happened in very rapid succession.

First, the wall behind Priovalt exploded as an undead combination of bear and human smashed face first through the thin plaster. It hurtled across the room and splattered against the wall behind Norin, its ruptured body showering the Inquisitor in glowing blue chemicals. Its head was crushed by the collision with the thicker load bearing wall, killing the skaab instantly. There was a large crescent scar on the werewolf’s shoulder. Ayla.

As it slid to a stop the werewolf that had been responsible for its entry stepped into the room and immediately grabbed Priovalt by both arms and pulled. The skaberan screamed as his limbs were torn off, blood gushing from the empty sockets. His features were still frozen mid laugh as he slumped to the ground and died.

Finally, Norin realized he was now trapped in a small room with a homicidal howler and a murderous skaab, which was definitely not a good place to find oneself tied to a chair. He shoved himself backwards while yanking as hard as possible on the ropes. Had the chair been new it might have survived the crash, but between the weight pulling on it and the weight landing on it the chair had no chance. The legs gave out as the back cracked loose, leaving the ropes slack enough for Norin to pull his arms free. That still left the legs of the chair tied to the inside of his calves, but the good news was that they weren’t long enough to hobble him. He pulled one free for a club, and quickly wrapped the excess rope around his other arm for what little protection it offered.

That meant he was now trapped in a room with a homicidal howler and a murderous skaab while armed with a stick and a length of rope, which was definitely an improvement. Sort of. Norin did what any trapped animal does when it finds itself trapped between two larger predators: he hunkered down and waited to see who was going to come out on top.

Mikaeus was larger, and was over all better armed. Ayla had the advantage of speed, strength, and intelligence. It wasn’t much of a fight. First she tore off one of the skaab’s spider legs and shoved it into the cat’s face. That left the skaab unbalanced as it reared back on its hind legs to try so that it could slash her with the remaining spider’s leg. The floor around them began to crack and splinter as the two monsters danced around each other, pounding the narrow boards in ways they had never been intended to bear.

Ayla charged forward, ducking inside the reach of the skaab’s longer limbs. She miscalculated, however, and let out a howl as the wolf’s teeth closed on her shoulder. Blood poured from between its teeth, but she made no effort to escape. Instead she rammed her claw’s into the flesh of the horse’s neck until she had a grip on the skaab’s spine. She yanked, twisted, and pulled until it came free in her claws. Hot, sticky blood gushed onto her fur, matting it against her body as the skaab began to spasm. It finally rolled onto its side and went still.

The Wyld’s fury wasn’t sated. Ayla turned around and her eye’s met Norin’s. ‘If this was the right kind of story, she would take two steps forward and then collapse into my arms,’ Norin thought. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of it. ‘I would whisper sweet nothings into her ear as we fall asleep together, and in the morning she would awake human in my embrace.’

Ayla screamed a challenge and charged.

‘Thought so.’

Norin twisted as her claws flashed past his face. She was too quick to escape, and he had to raise his arm to block as she lunged forward. Her jaws closed around his forearm and her fangs sank into his skin. It would have been worse had the rope not been so thick. Blood oozed between its coils, but she didn’t manage to crack the bone as she had intended.

Norin didn’t wait for her to recover her footing. He wasn’t thinking about the fight as that would just get him killed. He was relying purely on experience as he thrust the chair leg into her chest, striking hard enough to take the wind out of her. Ayla gasped, releasing his arm from her mouth, and took a step backwards. Norin kept his momentum going and whacked her under the chin. The stick splintered and Ayla stumbled even farther back. She tripped over the Mikaeus’s corpse and fell hard. At that point the floor had had enough it. It broke with one last final groan of protest, dropping both skaab and werewolf to the floor below.

Norin hobbled over to the hole and looked down. Ayla had landed on her side, but wasn’t moving. His heart demanded he go down and check on her, but his head knew better. It was possible she was dead, but that wasn’t something he could dwell on. He had no idea where his swords were, or if he would be able to find them. If she was still alive, and woke up while he was down there, unarmed, there would be nothing he could do to stop her.

Instead he crept out of the room as quietly as possible, praying to all the Angels that Priovalt hadn’t brought any more skaabs with him or that Ayla had gotten them all. He went from room to room, looking for a way out. On the third try he found a window with a small ledge underneath it. It was wide enough for him to crawl out, and the ledge was only about ten feet off the ground so he didn’t need to worry about the drop. He began to run as soon as his boots touched the grass, and he didn’t stop until his lungs burned and his legs could carry him no farther. Only then did he stop and cry.

When Norin woke the next morning his mouth was dry and sour. His entire body ached from sleeping on the cold ground and it didn’t help that the sun was horrendously bright. He groaned as picked himself up out of the dew. The mansion was a small speck in the distance and the grass around him was nearly waist high, so he probably wasn’t anywhere near the road.

Norin tried not to think as he began to trudge back towards the mansion. It was easier that way. If he didn’t think then he couldn’t hope or worry. His mind had other ideas and kept replaying one scene in particular. He had hit his wife with a stick. He had hit his wife with a stick. He had hit his wife with a stick. He had hit his wife with a stick. He had hit his wife with a stick. It just sounded bad no matter how he tried to parse it. He decided she would be angry with him, but only because he wasn’t poetic enough to use a phrase like, ‘boiling over with incandescent rage’. Why hadn’t he tried to tie her up? He should have tried to tie her up.

He paused and wondered if he was in shock. Either that, or denial.

Someone was walking across the field towards him, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized it was Ayla. She wasn’t wearing anything except for his sword belt, which she had to keep in place with one hand to keep it from slipping down her hips. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder where she had found it. There was a moment of silence when they met, both wondering whether they should speak or let the other go first.

“Sorry about last night,” they finally both said at the same time.

“I hope you aren’t too mad that I hit you with stick?” Norin asked.

Ayla stared at him, her eyes wide with confusion. Then she began to laugh. “You’re worried about that? I tried to eat you!”

Norin shrugged. “That sort of thing happens.”

Ayla pulled the sword belt over her head and handed it to him and smiled. “I found these in the kitchen. You should keep a better eye on them next time you won’t need to hit me with a stick.”

“I suppose so,” Norin said as he put the belt on. He too was smiling.

Helene Bormann stalked across the misty flatlands, grumbling at the fate that had brought her here. The way she reckoned it, the Skirsdag might be finished as an organization, but the powers they served were eternal. As long as she survived, hopefully along with some of her followers despite the lackluster nature of her current band, the power that had been within Lord Griselbrand would rise again and again without cease. Eventually, Avacyn would be overwhelmed, and Helene would rejoice upon the graves of all of Thraben and the church as their souls were torn through everlasting fire and the faithful rewarded for their sacrifices.

“Are we there yet?” Sara Jung complained. Most of those left following Helene were constant frustrations: the more intelligent and more devoted Skirsdag had died, proclaimed themselves leaders, or turned on the cause. Sara, however, was more frustrating than most, a vapid woman paying lip-service to the cause, her only asset was her looks, which she often used to distract followers who were more useful than she was.

“Almost.” Helene growled.

Sara hugged herself closer, trying to make up for the deficiencies of her garment in the clinging cold of the fog. Helene smiled a little – she had warned Sara that what was barely appropriate for Skirsdag functions wouldn’t be good for travel.

Helene took the moment to survey the rest of her band. Bruno Koch was a halfwit who couldn’t be trusted with anything and Rupert Weber she feared was too clever and liable to turn on her the moment he found the opportunity. The other two, Ilsa Kuster and Klaus Amsel, were somewhat less terrible to have around. Ilsa was raised into the Skirsdag and Klaus’ only failing was perhaps enjoying inflicting pain and performing sacrifices a bit too much.

Bruno began to hum, badly and out of tune. What was worse, he chose an avacynian hymnal, the fact he had likely forgotten the words if he had ever known them making it no less grating to hear.

Mercifully, Klaus struck him on the back of the head. Unmercifully, the two of them began to talk.

“What did you do that for?” Bruno asked in his drawling, obnoxious voice.

“Do I need a reason?” Klaus asked, laughing.

They were like children. Bratty, horrible children. If they came across a Hellmouth, Helene swore to herself she’d either throw them in, or herself if that was the only way to escape their idiocy.

Rupert picked up the pace alongside Helene.

“So,” he whispered, “You’re sure about this lot?”

“As sure as ever.” Helene replied. If there was one thing she didn’t like, it was being questioned.

“Well, if you ever stop being sure, I could… make arrangements for you. You know where to find me.”

Rupert, Helene decided, she would throw in first.

The manor was exactly as Helene expected it to be. A piecemeal place, once haunted and then abandoned when its final owner died some twenty years before, its boarded windows concealed an interior that was still warm, dry, and most importantly would not be searched, given that it had remained unmolested even when hordes of ghouls had tromped across the moorland.

The new Skirsdag residents went about converting the place for their habitation: setting a fire in the grand fireplace in the central hall, placing the stores of provisions they had brought, examining the treasures that had remained within the manor, and desecrating the Chapel of Avacyn by smashing all its holy icons, save those that would be better traded for food and drink in a nearby town, which were placed in a large sack for that purpose.

Beyond that, they made themselves at home in little ways, selecting rooms, changing clothes, praying to their dark masters and hoping their lack of a sacrifice would not be taken badly. Having arrived in the late morning, Helene’s band was, by the early evening, quite comfortable. Helene herself reclined in the parlor, giving an impromptu and informal sermon to Klaus, Ilsa, and Bruno.

Sara and Rupert were elsewhere, and if Sara had anything to say about it likely otherwise engaged. In Helene’s mind, this was a blessing. She didn’t care for Sara and wished to have Rupert around even less. She might have found it dangerous, except Helene knew that Sara held no ambitions for greater power or station within the cult, and thus was unlikely to collude with Rupert in any scheme he might have.

Helene was just thinking about when she might see those two when she heard a crash above and a distinct thud outside. Slowly she stood up, turned around, and looked to see Rupert, quite clearly dead from a nasty fall, blood pooling around his broken body on the flagstones.

While Klaus hissed with anticipation, Ilsa gasped with horror, and Bruno stared blankly, Helene merely smiled. Perhaps Sara wasn’t as stupid as she had thought… and some offering, at least, could now be made.

Sara Jung stalked moodily through the upper halls of the mansion. Everyone seemed to think she’d killed Rupert the day before. It was almost worse still that Helene seemed to think that was a good thing. Rupert may have been a wormy man, but he had still been one of the few Skirsdag left, and that had to count for something.

Sara herself would never betray the Skirsdag – they were all she had left, the only people who would take her in. Her village had laughed at her behind her back, the church had hated her, her family… she had gotten sweet revenge on that score, offering the hearts of her father and brother to Griselbrand before the fall. That time, at least, sacrifice had been its own reward.

The Skirsdag didn’t care what she liked, who she’d been… the church said they were slaves to the demons, but as Sara reckoned it, they were free.

Sara was broken from her moody pacing when she noticed Klaus. He had a special place in his heart for pain, but that was fine – Sara badly needed something to take her mind off what had happened, and had found she could stand or even enjoy a little.

“Klaus,” She called, “Klaus, over here.”

Klaus turned. “Sara.” He said, bitterness in his voice, acknowledging her presence.

“It’s good to see you, Klaus.” She said, walking over close to him, “This big house can get so… lonely… at times.”

“It’d be a little fuller,” Klaus growled, “If we still had Rupert about.”

Sara flinched. Did he have to remind her? Did he have to make it so clear that he thought she was responsible?

“Yes,” She said, “It would. But it’s just the two of us up here right now. I’m sure you can think of all sorts of interesting things to do with that.”

Klaus spat on her. For a moment, Sara stood in unreasoning shock, her mind lost to former, even unhappier days. Then, as Kaus turned away, she ran. She ran down the hall, down the stairs, found some old cloister, its furnishings gone and purpose unknown, and locked herself in so the other cultists would not see her cry.

The Skirsdag were her family, the only family that she’d ever been comfortable with. To have one of them treat her like her old family did… It was hours before Sara finally emerged, eyes dry and evidence of her tears wiped away, ready to accept that one bad moment didn’t mean things were going to go bad. They’d get over Rupert, Lord Griselbrand would be reborn, and they would follow their new master to a glorious future.

Sara found the others – Ilsa, Helene, and Bruno, at least – in the great hall, with Ilsa attempting to conjure through the fireplace and Helene reading some old book she must have found.

“You.” Helene said, “Where is Klaus?”

“I don’t know.” Sara said, now worried, “I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

“Hm.” Helene growled, “I had assumed he was with you.”

“He wasn’t.”

Helene sighed, “I’d hoped for a quiet evening, trying to piece together the history of this place. But, it seems we must locate our sadist.”

Sara hoped nothing had happened to him, but didn’t say it outloud. As she thought, she realized why the others suspected her: when Rupert had been cast from the upstairs window, she had been the only one not in the parlor. But if she hadn’t killed him, and none of the others could have… That was a very distressing thought.

“Maybe… we should all look?”

“Safety in numbers.” Helene said, seeming to agree. She motioned, and the others rose to begin looking through the nooks and crannies of the massive house.

They searched the attic first, and the upstairs which was the last place he had been seen. Finally, they began to look through the downstairs. It was Ilsa who found him there: she opened a broom closet and let out a horrified shriek before stumbling back away.

It was easy to see why: there was Klaus, propped up inside the closet. Carving knives were rammed through his wrists and into the wood behind, while fireplace pokers and a shattered broom handle braced his body against the walls of the closet, feet dangling in air, several inches off the floor. It was a horrific sight, and all of them had seen the blood sacrifices given over to demons and the brutality when one of the masters got his hands on living prey. The worst part of all was the head, which was decidedly not on Klaus’ neck, but sitting on the small shelf above, next to a dustbin, cruel eyes staring blindly down upon whoever dared to gaze upon the scene.

Sara noticed eyes darting to her, and then back to the corpse, and to her again. They had to know she couldn’t, wouldn’t have done it – of the lot of them, Klaus was her closest friend, and she hadn’t the strength to mutilate his body in such a hideous way even if she had the inclination.

Their eyes drifted back to the body before Helene slammed the closet shut. No one said anything until she spoke.

“Well,” she said grimly, “We found him.”

“We should leave.” Sara said. “This isn’t a safe place for us.”

“We are not leaving.” Helene replied, voice stern as stone. “This manor is ours, and we will take it.”

“But look what happened!” Sara protested.

“If something can kill,” Helene said, “It can be killed. If someone is a traitor, they can be dealt with. This house will be a cathedral to our dark masters, no matter what gets in my way of making it so.”

Sara looked down at her feet. She wanted to argue, but Helene outranked her. She wanted to run, but she had nowhere to go. All she could do was hope that someone smarter than her found the answer.

Ilsa Kuster knelt down in the chapel they had desecrated in the name of the Dark masters, at the cracked and bloodied altar once devoted to Avacyn, and began to pray as she had done since she was small

“We thank the darkness for all its blessings. For concealment against the light that burns. For blanketing out deeds. For revealing the true hearts of men. To the masters, I pledge my soul and my service.”

Ilsa shivered, feeling a sudden chill in the air of that space.

“In the name of Lord… the Lord of that which is Dark, I offer this.” Despite stumbling over the changing of the demonic guard, she drew her ceremonial knife. “Blood that gives life, I offer.” She pricked her finger, and let a few drops fall onto the altar stone. “In the hopes that I shall be blessed with power in return.”

It was getting colder by the second, it seemed, and Ilsa began another prayer.

“The blood is the life… It is the fire that warms… warms our hearts.” Shivering, she looked around, before it occurred to her: even if there was a window open, the night outside was warmer than what she was feeling.

Well studied in the ways of magic and souls, Ilsa stood.

“Show yourself, spirit.” She demanded. To her slight surprise, a Geist formed before her eyes in the moonlight that streamed through the chapel window. He was a shifting thing… sometimes an aged man, sometimes the same man as he might have been in youth and health. As he died and as he saw himself? Two geists as one? It did not matter much.

“So,” Ilsa said, “You must have been the one who killed my fellows. Why?”

The geist was silent.

“I command you to explain yourself, spirit! You are dead, and should have congress with we the living no longer, nor should you swell your own ranks with we who now call this place home.”

The geist faded, but the chill remained, Ilsa’s breath appearing in the air before her. Faint echoes of wind blew from the corners of the room, and on that breath of the lost seemed to be words, a muttering that Ilsa could not make out save for the fact that it disquieted her.

“This place belongs to you no longer! It is sacred to the Dark Lord in whatever form he next takes.”

Ilsa caught “Avacyn” many times amidst the muttering of the spirit or spirits in the chamber.

“The archangel has forsaken you! You may pray to her, but it is my lord who shall take you. This place is holy to Him! You have no power here!”

At those last words, the muttering stopped. For a split second, there was silence, and then a dull ‘clunk’ as a chunk of masonry from the vaulted ceiling above was torn loose and hurled down.

The last thing Ilsa Kuster saw as life slipped from her was that she had fallen onto the desecrated altar.

Blood for the master, she thought, and then nothing more.

At least, after Ilsa had died, Helene believed her now. Sara had for once been accounted for, when the accident occurred. At least, accident was what Helene called it – a block had fallen from the ceiling and killed Ilsa in prayer. It could have been the crumbling of an ancient house, but after Rupert and Klaus, Sara didn’t believe that for a moment.

Again, she had thought about leaving the house. She had even mentioned it to Helene – three deaths had come to them in three days, and they were half the number they had been at the outset. At that rate, all of them would be dead by week’s end.

But Helene was adamant. There was nowhere for the Skirsdag to go. Would she have them live in the woods like the reclusive skaberen? This place – Klarsch Manor she had called it – was where the cult would make its stand. They would live with dignity, or they would die with dignity, and Helene assured Sara that if they were clever, it would be living.

That was when Sara knew she was going to die. She had never considered herself clever, nor wise, nor strong. She was barely better on that score than Bruno Koch, who while true to those who had treated him better than did the same harsh, cruel, Avacyn-fearing souls that had cast them both out, could barely form complete sentences.

Still, with the threat of impending doom looming over her, Sara would take what she could get. She found Bruno upstairs, or rather waited for him there as he seemed to pace an awkward path through the manor when not deliberately sat down for some reason or another.

“Bruno.” She called, very clearly and, she hoped, seductively as he passed, “Over here, Bruno.”

He stopped and looked at her.

Sara smiled “You know, Bruno, I’ve been thinking… You’re such a big, strong man… I was hoping…”

“Need something lifted?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Carried?”

Sara paused for a moment, posed herself, tossed her hair, and gave him her best look. “I need you, Bruno, but not that way?”

“Jar opened?”

Sara knew it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t take a hint, but all the same it made her feel worse even than if she had been outright rejected in some ways. She gritted her teeth, and realized that if things were going this badly already, she was simply going to have to wait until they had new converts… if they so much as lasted the night.

“Never mind, Bruno.” She sighed, and withdrew to inside the bedroom

The bedroom she had chosen for her own was in a very antique style, even moreso than the rest of the manor – it might have been abandoned fifty years or more longer than the rest of the house, or at least not refurbished in that time. The reason Sara had picked it was because it was the only room with a good, full-length mirror in it.

Sara stood in front of the mirror and admired her reflection, picking up her mood just a tiny bit. She still had her looks, the only part of her anyone had ever considered worth more than a clipped copper coin, even if no one around her could appreciate it.

She shivered a bit, and sighed at the draft. She looked to the window, ensured it was closed as tightly as it could be, and then stalked back to the mirror.

However, it was not Sara’s own reflection that greeted her. Instead, the mirror showed her a young woman, pale and gorgeous, golden hair waving in unseen wind, piercing blue eyes staring judgmentally at her. Sara started, but didn’t cry out.

A hollow voice echoed from the other side of the mirror.

“Leave.” She said, “Leave this place now.”

“Leave?” Sara demanded, “I can’t just leave.”

The woman in the mirror closed her eyes for a moment.

“You have walked a wicked path.” She said, “I can see that, but there is hope. Leave this place, go wherever you please. Abandon the demons that guide your footsteps and never look back.”

“I…” Sara wanted to run. She wanted desperately to leave this cursed mansion. But what could she do? Good people would never take her in. Good people never had, and Sara didn’t know where anyone else who would accept her might have gone. Into the forest? She’d just starve, or be eaten by wolves or monsters.

“I can’t.” She said, “They’re my family, the only family I have.”

The woman in the mirror opened her eyes again, her piercing gaze even more intense.

“I give you one last chance,” she said, “Leave this place or die.”

Sara hesitated a moment. If she stayed, she died. If she ran, she died. There was no escape, unless… Sara struck the mirror as hard as she could. The glass shattered, cutting her hand as it did, but the eerie reflection vanished, and in the shards all Sara could see was her own fractured visage.

She took a breath, and then the shards began to move. Sara screamed as the whirlwind of glass descended on her, and then her world vanished into a haze of pain and blood.

Helene was prepared. It was obvious, now, that the house was haunted. Some ages-dead scion of an extinct line did not take kindly to the Skirsdag, and was responsible for the deaths of all but the dullest of Helene’s followers.

If she could exorcise the house, she could get more followers, begin recruiting malcontents in the neighboring towns and building the manor into a new foothold for demon-kind upon Innistrad as she had dreamed before.

But first, she would have to dispense with the murderous geist. She prepared everything in one of the newer wings of the manor, a drawing room on the first floor, in case the chapel still held some Avacynian power. After all, Ilsa had died there, and she had been the most pious cultist Helene had ever known.

Here she had collected a large basin, and several goblets and chalices suitable for ritual magic. She had also collected Bruno – he would be no good against a geist, which mercifully meant that Helene had something to work with.

“Kneel here, Bruno.” She instructed. The big oaf knelt down in front of the basin, obedient to what he didn’t realize was the end. Helene walked behind him, not wanting to give him any warning of what was to come. Slow as he was, if he caught on he could probably snap Helene in two.

“There we are. Now, close your eyes, I have a gift for you.”

Helene drew her knife. Her hand guided by years of practice, she reached down and slit his throat.

The oaf did not struggle. He simply slumped over as Helene held his hair and let his blood drain into the basin. As life faded from him, the room began to chill. The troublesome geist, no doubt. Helene filled a chalice with blood and looked up.

“Come out, spirit.” Helene said, “Whatever happens here, one of us will not leave.”

Two geists appeared before her, a man and a woman, staring at her with cold judgment. Helene simply waited, watching as they closed in.

“Wrong move.” Helene said with a grin, and flung the blood, calling out the fire within it. They could touch her, so they could burn!

To her annoyance, the geists vanished before her eyes.

“You think you can trick me?” she demanded, filling the chalice again, “You think your disappearing act will do?”

A chill wind, movement out of the corner of her eye. Helene struck again, but again her blazing projectile simply passed through her foe as it dissolved into the moonlight streaming through the closed window.

“Hold still!” Helene shrieked. She couldn’t perform magic without blood, but Bruno had had a lot in him. She flung another cup in frustration at where the lady’s geist had manifested, immolating a chair and writing desk.

“Sooner or later,” Helene growled, “You’ll burn. The powers of hell cannot be stopped!”

It was then that Helene noticed that despite the ghostly chill in the air, she was feeling very hot. The haze of her frustration cleared from her eyes, and she saw the flames she had wrought. The entire room was engulfed, it’s upper arches filling with smoke from the smoldering carpet, blazing curtains, burning furniture.

“Damn you!” Helene shrieked. The geists appeared before her again, holding each other and looking about the burning chamber with sorrow on their faces. Helene kicked the basin at them, sending one last ball of flame into their midst.

Something seemed to change then, in the air. Had she done it? Were they gone, destroyed and sent to the damnable sleep they so deeply craved? Whatever the case was, Helene now had a mind to flee. She hurried to the chamber door… and found it locked.

That was not Helene’s doing. For a moment she pulled on the handle, shook it back and forth thinking that the heat had just warped the wood and made it stick, but the door would not budge. As the flames spread, she ran to the other, and found it held similarly fast against her attempts to escape the conflagration.

Now desperate, panicking, Helene looked for another way out of the room. She spied the ornate, latticed window. The glazing was ancient, there was no way it would hold up to a piece of wreckage. Helene grasped a chair that wasn’t on fire, and charged at the nearest window, swinging it with all her might.

There was a dull thud and a great crack as the chair, and not the window shattered.

“No!” Helene screamed, now pounding on the window with her own two hands, “No! Let me go! Let me out!”

Helene began to scream again, but choked upon the smoke that was swiftly filling the chamber. She fell to her knees, moaning in pain as her clothing ignited. When she finally died, charred and suffocating, the fire died too.

As the morning sun rose, a pair of old spirits looked at the burned wing of the Klarsch manor, wordlessly discussed what they had done, had had to do.

Perhaps, finally, it was time to move on.

Gorin had never been very intelligent. Smart thoughts did not come to him easily, and he was always bad at remembering instructions. Like the time time he had completely forgotten the instructions on how to get to Hanweir. He had been lost in the woods for hours. Fortunately, someone had found him. Unfortunately, it was a ghoulcaller with a band of undead followers, desperately looking for new recruits. It had been a short and painful meeting for Gorin, but in the end he had managed to really fit in. Although it wasn't a perfect existence, Gorin couldn't complain. This was in part because of the fact that he was no longer capable of feeling emotions, in part because his tongue had already rotted off, and in part because being a ghoul really fit him. The qualities that had set him apart before, just made him part of the group now.

But all good things come to an end, and so do unspeakably evil things. Gorin was never good at math, even before his brain started decomposing, but he could tell that their group was getting smaller. They had gotten into some fights with humans, werewolves, other humans, and each other. That last one was a complete mistake on Gorin's part, and would have been quite embarrassing if he was capable of embarrassment. But the end effect was that Gorin found himself the only one of his master's creations still in one piece. The two of them were walking through the woods, trying to find any bodies that were intact enough to join them. But it was harder than it used to be, because those pesky living beings had gotten better at warding their graveyards ever since Avacyn returned. It seemed like everyone went to blessed sleep these days. Gorin could not understand why they would do that. But he could also not understand how the yolk got into the eggs, so that wasn't really surprising. Still, they trudged along, until Gorin's master decided to stop for the night, and sent Gorin out to find firewood.

Gorin had something that set him apart from other ghouls. Most ghouls can navigate very well even in the darkest night. Gorin could not. He soon got lost, and wandered the woods for hours trying to find his way back to his master. At one point, he found a clearing which looked very much like the one he had left his master in, but the master wasn't there. On the bright side, Gorin had finally found a corpse that would make a good ghoul! It looked like it had died quite recently, and although it was quite shredded up by werewolf claws, it was a nice body. It did look somewhat familiar, though.

Gorin kept going for a while, carrying the wood with one arm, dragging the body with the other. After a while he stopped and tried to think. This situation reminded him of something. He couldn't remember much of what had happened before the master found him, but a vague memory was making its way through. And suddenly he remembered how to get to Hanweir! He could not remember what he was supposed to do there, but at least it was somewhere he could go. Maybe after going there, he could find his way back to the master.

A few hours later Gorin stumbled into Hanweir, still carrying the firewood and the body. He saw a group of humans coming to meet him. Maybe they knew what he was supposed to do. Maybe they even knew where the master was. He tried to wave to them, but found that his arms were full. So he just kept walking towards them until their spears ran him through.

Patvin Evalis, or so he was named before he had transcended his human form and adopted a condition of the blood, had become increasingly paranoid about the security of his house. All vampires have been harshly put down since Avacyn returned. It is the greatest irony that Drunau was actually relieved when they heard about this. So many humans had perished; they were being pushed to the edge of a precipice with extinction on either side. As most of vampire kind became lost in bloodlust, gorging on the veins of humans everywhere, the precious stock was rapidly declining. Stensia’s human population was the least badly hurt, but in Nephalia ghoulcallers and skaberen were particularly active and other vampire houses poured into Nephalia, Kessig, and Gavony. The careful balance collapsed onto itself, to the point where Runo Stromkirk actively moved against all incoming forces.

“No longer can we allow our human populations to be mindlessly slaughtered by ghouls. Slay all who trespass” – Runo Stromkirk.

It is perhaps of little surprise that the populations protected by Stromkirk in Drunau and the other major ports and cities in Nephalia were the most intact throughout the conflict as Thraben was breached and Mikaeus was slain by his own relatives, reborn as some strange ghoul. The Stromkirk Bloodline even became a target of other vampires, especially as the unending wave of gore excited the most vulgar nature of the conditioned. Those of the Stromkirk line felt nothing as many of the other vampires fell to Fauchard and Cathar alike. Driven to desperation, some Cathars actually became reliant upon the protection Stromkirk provided when shielding certain cities. The Cathars’ own lack of effectiveness against the ghouls and vampires resulted in a loss of faith amongst the people. Stromkirk also indulged more than a little in the chaotic period of Avacyn’s disappearance, but it was barely noticed by the people living in Nephalia.

All that changed the moment Avacyn returned. The werewolves are gone now, completely gone. The ghoulcallers have been driven back underground. The skaberen returning to their isolated states. Those that had grown too drunk on their own power were the first to fall. Next were those too stupid to mask their trail. Their reign of tyranny ended. What did Stromkirk get for all its efforts to protect its people from the evils of the outside world? Hatred and Suspicion, Patvin thought bitterly. Stromkirk deserved none of this. We were just rulers! We protected our stock from outsiders.

Gavony and Thraben rose to great heights so unimaginably quickly that one could almost forget that demons had sprung out across the land throughout the countryside. Almost. Within a matter of months Gavony was largely quelled, soon thereafter Kessig had become safe again after the demise of the werewolves into something… else. They are guard dogs now, near tame creatures that serve at the beck and call of Avacyn.

Patvin stumbled and the world snapped back into focus. For one with his particular condition the only way into Stensia was to avoid Kessig and Gavony entirely, which means coming in from the sea. Almost no one who comes by the sea will make it to Stensia or anywhere else unless they’re going along trading routes that have been tried and true inside Nephalia’s seaports. It was a miracle that Patvin made it to Stensia’s treacherous shores, though Patvin had a very different idea of what a miracle was than those without the condition. Some vampires can fly, transform, and, particular amongst Stromkirk, turn themselves into mist. Patvin could do none of this. He must walk in his form, and walk at an irritatingly slow pace up the Ziel Pass.

He had not gone far. Patvin had been travelling for the better part of a day, yet he had only ascended around 400 feet. Looking back, Patvin smiled rather wickedly at the small host behind him. Some of Havengul’s great flavors had made the journey with him. A few increasingly disturbed conditioned are within the caravan, afraid that they will not be welcome in Stensia. What foolishness. “With this stock in tow and the fame of our bloodline we will link up with others and establish ourselves here quite nicely” he told himself and others, but even Patvin was not completely optimistic. His arrogance and smug sense of self-importance overwrote his worst fears, but they were there every now and then. Lurking somewhere just under the surface.

400 feet was quite the fall, Patvin thought when he peered over the edge. Looking back up the windy pass going further up the cliffs into the inland valleys of Stensia, there was still a very long ways to go and the drop would grow steeper and larger with each passing move up. About halfway through the pass Patvin remembered that he was to meet up with some business associates from Falkenrath. Runo Stromkirk thought them a vulgar sort, but Patvin had virtually no contact with Drunau and had heard whispers of Runo’s death and Stromkirk’s scattering. A lie, Patvin tried to convince himself. Drunau hasn’t fallen, and even if it had Runo is somewhere in Stensia collecting Stromkirk and maintaining it as a proper and glorious house. After establishing himself, Patvin will reconnect with Stromkirk in Stensia and become one of the proper nobility. This is what kept him going. This is what kept his followers following him.

500 feet now, Patvin noted. The group has been forced to thin themselves out creating an elongated chain of moving bodies along the narrow passes. It will get narrower, Patvin noted with increasing dread. Some of the cages, cards, and objects of wealth he was bringing will barely make it through the passes now. The select flavors may have to be let out of their cages, but I doubt even they will cause us much trouble now that we have come so far.

At 600 feet Patvin was forced to empty the pampered cages and allow the frightened human stock out of their barred carriages to continue the ascent on their own. They are put in the middle of the group, unable to run forward or backward without being stopped. To Patvin’s never ending surprise, three of the twenty stock he brought decided to jump off the cliff without a moment’s hesitation. That was bad, Patvin’s profits just dropped 15%. The rest will move slower now. They will be drained more than they would otherwise have been to provide sustenance to those with the condition of the blood. Patvin hoped less premium resources will be available after meeting up with the Falkenrath.

Nearing 800 feet another two jumped off the winding and narrow Ziel Pass. This was becoming deeply distressing for Patvin. His profits were slipping away and he had already promised Falkenrath a portion of his stock in exchange for a partnership. If he has to start from scratch, he will be ruined before he even enters Stensia. Looking down the edge to lament his losses Patvin noticed the luminescence of dozens of geists, some of which were beginning to ascent. This was a problem. With a shout, Patvin urged his group forward.

As the ascent continued Patvin noticed that the Geists were distracted by something, perhaps something more than their recent acquaintances at the bottom of the cliff face. Relief, an odd sensation that Patvin had only recently again become familiar with, became a visible mark upon his being. They were so close. A pale luminescence began to be seen from a distance. Patvin suspected that it might be a geist until he realized that he was nearing the meeting point. Ahead were his newest business partners. A new feeling soon overtook Patvin: elation. So close… He was so close.

At the risk of injuring some of his stock, Patvin shouted for them to quicken the pace. “There’s shelter ahead! Rest! Unless you prefer geists as your only companions hurry!” A lie, if only half of one. Nearly an hour later one of the flavors twisted an ankle while another fell, total losses: 30%. I’m going nowhere at this rate and I’m STILL losing them. It was about this time that Patvin noticed a curious sound. Almost as if they were wings. It took a moment for it to dawn on him that someone was flying nearby, probably one of his business partners or one of their underlings. Instantly Patvin dropped his worse expressions and moved in a much more dignified pose.

It was only then that he realized he was unarmed. That’s something that needed to be rectified immediately. His sword bearer had to be somewhere, Patvin was sure of it. It took a brief moment for him to realize that he was at the back of the caravan with Patvin’s other belongings. Even among the conditioned there were those who were subordinate to others. Moving through all this writhing mass on such a narrow cliff pass was not to be desired. Yet in the dim shrouded light from the sun Patvin couldn’t resist the urge to smile: he was nearly there and once his newfound associate reveals himself everything will fall into place. Yet something bothered him… someone should have revealed themselves by now.

A scream. A deafeningly loud scream. Patvin jerked around and saw something he never wanted to see. Four vampires dressed in a deep crimson armor, well-armed with long swords and golden hilts, hovering just above the ground. Each of the crimson vampires were with one of his precious merchandise, draining their blood as the flavors flailed helplessly in the air. Patvin rushed forward, taking one of his underlings’ much cruder blades and all but leapt to where the vampires were. One of the conditioned fell to his death, gracelessly. “What madness is this!? Leave them be and explain yourself at once!” The words felt forced, and somewhat sour in his mouth. He wanted nothing better than to rip out their throats, pluck their wings, and watch them descend into the dark abyss.

A laugh. That’s all Patvin heard as a response, that’s all he needed. In a fury Patvin lunged the inferior blade deep into the crimson breastplate of one of the vampires. He dropped his food, his sword, and held his now bleeding chest. The others stopped smiling and feasting, staring at Patvin. “Why do you disturb us, Stromkirk?”

“You know of us?” Patvin asked, confused momentarily. It didn’t take long for him to jump to betrayal, jump to the urge of slowly and brutally ending each and every single one of the four in a deeply personal fashion. In a forced sour speech Patvin asked a question to confirm his suspicion. “Are you the ones with whom I made a deal?” It was strangely cooled in tone, not indicative of his blood lust. In that regard Patvin was impressed with himself.

The third one to the right was the one to respond, throwing his food at Patvin’s sword bearer, who had only then made it to his side. The flavor was nearly dead, but not an unrecoverable loss. 35%. Patvin’s sword was a more welcome sight though, and he took it into his hands as a reflex while only barely comprehending the words being thrown at him by the crimson vampire. “Deal? You forget your place. Nephalia has been overrun, Runo is dead, and all around Stensia Stromkirk is vulnerable and failing. You’re second rate trash now. Your merchandise? Top quality. I’ll have to share some with my brethren. The ones that don’t look like they’ll provide much of a challenge for our hunt, that is. Stromkirk you have three choices: Fall into line, go back to Nephalia, or die now penniless and alone in this desolate place. Personally I prefer the last one, it gives us a more worthy challenge than scared and pampered creatures. Besides, it is fitting for the Stromkirk to die like their house.”

Those were the last words he spoke. Patvin could not fly, transform, and even lacked the ability to create a convincing glamor. He was followed not because of his techniques, but because he was strong. That was why he earned his keep amongst Stromkirk, that was why his followers chose to follow him across the sea and through the most treacherous terrain. In one swift jump he got close to the talking Falkenrath vampire and severed his head, kicking the now headless body to return back to the cliff face. One dead, one injured, three waiting to join the first.

His followers were not entirely useless, one managed to hit one of the others, but the Falkenrath vampires moved well beyond Patvin’s reach and soon from his sight. In the dark and palely lit orange sky, the Ziel Pass and its surroundings were made difficult to see. Even for a Vampire as Patvin, as he was not used to it. The only sign of the vampires came from the other end of the caravan, his followers were being attacked and their cries denoted a presence of death. Then two lifeless bodies were thrown at him from above: 45% profit loss. The loss of profit was only a small stray thought in his head as a descending Falkenrath vampire moved at him with frightening speed. Patvin couldn’t avoid it, the pass too narrow and too crowded. Instead he used the dead body of a flavor as a shield that the Falkenrath’s blade sliced into.

Patvin had to give some credit to these betrayers. Their swordsmiths are truly excellent. It sliced through the body as if like butter, hardly slowing as he cleaved through bone and flesh to block Patvin’s next attack. Still, Patvin was quick and another lifeless body existed on the cliff-like Ziel pass. Another credit to the Falkenrath that Patvin noted: their reflexes are good. Even in the midst of dying Patvin’s assailant changed from blocking to a slash. It was a move that left Patvin bleeding and in immeasurable pain. Stumbling, Patvin leaned against the side of the cliff and tried to steady himself as he heard screams intensifying. Of course, Patvin thought. Of course there were more than four.

Another group of four Falkenrath vampires were hacking and slashing like vengeful marauders on the other side of the group. If there were more, Patvin couldn’t see them. Forcing himself forward, Patvin ripped some fine silks off of the dead product and began to wrap his wound. Seeing him do this, Patvin’s sword bearer rushed to help and used his own harder leather tunic to provide a final layer to stop the bleeding. The pain had shocked him into a state of awareness when the last knot was tied. His men were injuring the traitorous Falkenrath, but they lacked the strength or ability to fight flying targets. That they were on a narrow cliff in unfamiliar territory made even this showing a true testament to the power of Stromkirk. I will show them, I will show them all the power and strength of Stromkirk!

Patvin made a battle cry as he forced his way to the second wave of attackers. He didn’t have the reach on his sword, he had made sure that was not the only blade he had. Falkenrath steel was too good to leave with a corpse, so Patvin held an edge in either hand. Still Patvin could not reach. Another plan, hatched only partially from his intelligence and far more from his rage. He taunted and jeered at them, robbing them of their manhood, their strength, and the honor of their house. Curses flew and he made certain every single Falkenrath could hear him when he did. It didn’t take long for the Falkenrath vampires to fly at the injured and bleeding Patvin. Sensing his injury they were quick to assault and quicker to die. As the vampire thrust with all his weight at Patvin, Patvin used his own sword to parry. The parry only worked so far as the thrust did not go into his chest, but rather into the cliff to the side of him. The vampire was going too fast to stop and nearly ended himself without Patvin’s assistance.

The second vampire was smarter and attacked from above, from the highest of positions. He kept himself at a decent distance, safe from Patvin’s reach as the crimson vampire hacked and slashed from above. Another vampire rushed to attack Patvin at his side as he was too distracted dealing with the one above him, but the pair were much too focused on Patvin. Patvin’s sword bearer hacked at the vampire above Patvin, taking off a foot in the process. The vampire yelled in pain as he dropped his own sword and ascended to escape. The third vampire stopped just short of Patvin when it became clear that he was attacking alone. Even injured Patvin had proven himself a major threat and the Falkenrath would not attack alone, yet as he looked for assistance the fourth in his company had moved away from the cliff bleeding from his neck

When the vampire didn’t know what to do then, Patvin tried to taunt him. Goad him into charging, but the ruse would not work a second time. It was clear that Falkenrath thought they would have a much easier time of it than they did. Once again they faded from view. Patvin wasn’t sure if they were truly gone or if they were waiting for a better moment to strike. Patvin’s entourage had slain two of the other Falkenrath vampires creating a total of five dead. Five of eight. Patvin had not wanted to know his own losses and merely revel in his victory, but his curiosity and his greed got the better of him. He had to know his losses. When he counted only seven of his precious flavors alive and only three unharmed, Patvin felt as if all the strength had left him. He stumbled toward the Zeil Pass’s cliff wall and winced in pain as that feeling rushed back after the fever of battle faded. It took only a couple more moments for him to realize that of the near fifty conditioned that had came with him, only twenty-two were in fighting condition and another eight were wounded. Eight of theirs took out twenty of ours, Patvin thought part dismayed and part enraged.

Off in the distance the light still glowed. That distant pale luminescence. Do we dare? The question crossed Patvin’s mind, but not before he forced it away angrily. Of course we do! We’re Stromkirk and beyond this pass is our salvation! There’s no turning back! Patvin’s thoughts reverberated with a determination that carried himself to his feet and he marched into the gloomy twilight of Stensia’s Ziel Pass.

Some people called them vigilantes, but others considered them murderers. More precisely, they were known as “Rorica’s Raiders”, after the first woman to break with the church and start hunting ‘former’ monsters.

To Aimee Voss, they were just people who had suffered enough injustices during the silence that they would not see another be done under Avacyn, and so she had joined their crusade.

One of the older members of the Raiders like to talk about how their existence was a coming of age. He had been a priest until the silence had robbed him of his faith, and how he felt that this was a test for humanity: would we hide behind Avacyn’s skirts like a scared child, or would we stand on our own? Her protection, he had said on more than one occasion, was the protection of the high walls of a crib or a cradle, and like any child humans could not stay in the cradle their whole life.

He also drank quite a lot, and Aimee didn’t give his words much heed.

In some quarters, the wolfir were still fighting against hordes of masterless ghouls shambling through the countryside, or tracking Ludevic’s monsters. The Raiders mostly let those alone, because if they died fighting for humanity they died in place of a real human, and that was encouraging enough. It was the ones behind the lines, settling into lives and comfort despite their bloodstained claws, that were the most offensive.

As Aimee looked over the message regarding their next target, it was clear that he was one of the worse: Harvard Denton had turned on humanity and the Church of Avacyn when he had gone from inquisitor to werewolf, and with his small howlpack slaughtered hundreds. When the Cursemute was set down, he had mimed his former devotion once again, and now was set to manage lands he had ravaged as a monster. If ever the hero he had supposedly been once had lived, that was long ago. Now, a monster wielded that image for its own gain.

Already, one group of raiders had gone missing in the town Denton and his wolfir followers had come to inhabit. Missing, of course, meant they had probably been butchered by the ‘repentant’ monsters. Possibly literally. On hearing that, Aimee had elected to go into the wolf’s den alone.

From the outside, it looked like any other town might in the depths of Kessig, but deep down it was monstrously different, as was evident upon first sighting any of the residents. They kept indoors, mostly, at least during the day. This much Aimee had known, but she waited by their well to be noticed all the same.

It took until well past mid-day, but finally one of the creatures approached Aimee. She did her best to hide her disgust with it.

“Human.” It said, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Harvard Denton.” She replied.

“The mayor is not expecting any guests.”

“I hardly expected to be expected. Lead me to him.”

Grudgingly, the wolfir led her to the largest house in town. The largest structure even: combining town hall and alpha’s abode, it outshone anything. If the wolfir were honestly redeemed, Aimee suspected the chapel would have held a special place in their hearts, but that was an open-air altar.

Inside, Aimee was introduced to Harvard Denton. Naturally, she kept her real business in their town a secret, and instead spoke at great lengths about many things of little importance: the return of Avacyn, the Cursemute, Denton’s history as an inquisitor and his current religious practices… none of them mattered but all of them provided hours of substance while she waited for the wolfir to give her an opening.

“I am a changed being,” he once told her, “Neither the man I was nor the beast. I abhor violence and death, though I do make an exception for demons and their ilk. As you can see, I drink my water through a strainer, so as to not swallow any insects, and feed solely upon produce though-“ he coughed, “roughage does disagree with my digestion at times.”

“And do all your followers follow your example?” Aimee asked.

“No,” Denton admitted, “But neither do you, and a whole village of sickly wolfir wouldn’t do for anyone.”

“I suppose I prefer to take my drink from a hip flask, the stronger the better, and red meat when I can get some.”

“Well then.” Denton said, “If you intend to stay more than just the night, I shall make arrangements for a fine dinner.”

Aimee smiled, nodded, and continued watching like a hawk.

The next day, Denton was not in the best of spirits. For one, he had found (though he had not admitted as such) how she had barricaded her door in the night, so that any beast entering her room would have to alert her. Though he had more pressing matters, as it seemed that many of his followers were ill, he took none of the reports and focused as best he could on being a charming host. Denton himself began to wheeze shortly after breakfast, which Aimee avoided, and was noticeably ill, his eyes red and his voice weak, before the sun set.

Still, he made it to the promised dinner. Salted pork was roasted in dark ale for Aimee, while Denton himself continued his show of strained water and lentil soup, however much it pained him. The meat was good, and Aimee recognized the key ingredient immediately. She ate very lightly, taking dainty sips of strong, old ale until the wolfir had finished his own meal

Though Denton was at least twice Aimee’s size, she now felt she had the advantage she had been looking for.

“You’ve been a fine host, Mister Denton,” she said, “But perhaps it’s time I got to why I came. I’m looking for a few friends of mine who passed this way not more than a fortnight ago.”

“Hm.” Denton replied, “The roads can still be unsafe at times. After all, Ludevic is said to lair somewhere in these woods. In any case you are the first human to come here in thirty days at least.”

“I somehow doubt that.” Aimee said, “After all, these were my friends Mister Denton, not helpless pilgrims if you catch my drift. And this,” she pushed her plate away, “Is not exactly pork.”

“Clever girl.” Denton growled before being wracked by a hacking cough.

“Not exactly.” She said, “I’d had the misfortune of encountering your delicacy in the Dark Times, so unlike some who might be fooled, I know the taste of human flesh.”

“Not clever enough,” he wheezed, “My soldiers-“

“Are bedridden at best. You’ve always been very strong yourself, Mister Denton, and if you were not so preoccupied with me, you might have heard when your pack started to die.”

“Die?!” the massive, grey hulk struggled to standing, “The only one who will-“ he coughed again, a massive fit. Crimson flecks stained the white tablecloth between them. Aimee sat still and calm, though she moved one hand to her hip, and the silvered knife waiting there.

“The only one who will die is you.” Denton finally managed to growl.

At this, Aimee smiled. “I’m not exactly your average Raider, Mister Denton,” she said, retaining her civil façade, “I’m a Nephalia girl, born and raised, and I know torches and pitchforks and blades aren’t the only way to fight.”

Harvard Denton began to buckle over his bloody coughs coming closer together, uncontrollable. Though he fought to maintain his strength, his presence, he couldn’t help the condition he found himself in, and finally slumped forward onto the table, shallow breaths and futile clutching at the cloth the only signs he still, for the moment, lived.

“It was almost too easy,” Aimee said, “When your miserable followers stay indoors or in the woods, there was no one to catch me poisoning the well.”

Aimee stood, stepped away from the table, and pushed in her chair very properly. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mister Denton.”

“Such revenge…” Denton managed to croak.

“Revenge?” Aimee echoed, “Revenge may be sweet, but justice is even sweeter. Goodbye, Mister Denton.”

Aimee left the dining room, the grand town hall and mayoral abode, and stepped out into the street where wolfir lay dying, some still trying to quench their sickness with the very water that was causing it. She looked at her handiwork and smiled. Every one of those creatures was a murderer. Not a one deserved to live. And Aimee and those who believed as she did would purge Innistrad of their misbegotten kind, no matter what it took.

Broderick Ruthford knelt reverently in the moonlit clearing, pressing the tip of his blade into the cool grass, and closing his eyes. His left hand went to his neck, where his holy Avacyn collar hung, and he grasped it like a drowning man would flotsam. His right hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, crafted of blessed silver, as he prayed earnestly for peace, focus, and, most importantly, strength.

When a shambling corpse - of what, he did not care to look and see - stumbled into the clearing, it burst into silver flame. Broderick did not open his eyes, and continued praying. He prayed for the souls of his lost companions, slaughtered this last night as they hunted the Skaaberen that had terrorized eastern Gavony for months. Knight-Initiate Evelynn. Inquisitor Duro. His fellow Knight-Cathar, and brother, Percival. His grip tightened upon his blade, and it sunk another inch into the earth. He prayed that his mind would not be clouded by vengeance, that his hate would not deny his companions the blessed sleep.

There was justice to be had, but it was Avacyn’s justice, and not his own. Three more skaabs clambered into the clearing, meeting the same, fiery fate, before Broderick stood, his resolve strengthened. These pitiful creatures were little more than ghouls. No doubt the dross of the Skaaberen’s craft. They had not even the strength to enter the ground he had hallowed before kneeling to pray.

He knew from experience that the rest of his mission would not be so easy.

When his elite force had been dispatched to cleanse the moors of eastern Gavony from the menace of a mad Skaaberen, they had met only token resistance at first. Since the shattering of the Helvault and the subsequent liberation of Thraben (the miracle of which still filled his heart with awe), the Cathars, along with the renewed, heavenly Flights, had been bringing Avacyn’s justice to all of Innistrad. Reports from eastern Gavony had been positive, though the mad Skaaberen had eluded his fate thus far. They had expected Skaabs. They had expected danger.

They had not expected… that.

Broderick stayed alert as he trekked through the moors. Their intelligence had indicated that the Skaaberen’s lab was hidden within a cavern, surrounded by dense foliage, and hidden from view. Their scouts had confirmed this. Skaabs had trickled forth from the cave mouth, he had been told. Though they lacked the coordination usually indicative of a Skaaberen’s control, (and the “craftsmanship”, Broderick noted with disgust) they were still a menace to any traveler attempting to brave the roads.

He and his companions had found the cave mouth last night. Broderick remembered the path. He remembered as well what they had found waiting for them there. A monster that defied description, that no reports had warned them of, nor any living thing had seen before. Save for him. He tightened his grip on his blade. Last night, retreat had been his only option. Tonight, he would end the creature or follow his brethren into the blessed sleep.

A few more shambling Skaabs fell to his blade as he retraced his steps. Rotting wretches hardly worth his consideration. He remembered how Knight-Initiate Evelynn had laughed as the creatures fell before her blade. She had always been seeking a challenge, trying to prove her worth, trying to win his approval. Instead, at the time, he had frowned and ordered her to temper her enthusiasm. Stay alert. If Broderick had known what had awaited them, he would have laughed with her. He would have told her what fine Cathar she would make one day.

He remembered Evelynn’s screams as fire had consumed her, melding her mail and flesh until a blackened, sizzling husk fell to the ground.

Broderick gritted his teeth.

Over the next hill, Broderick crouched. He could see the yawning maw of the great cavern behind a thick screen of dark foliage. In the bright light of the moon, he could see only a few Skaabs, roaming blindly in the dark. He remembered how Inquisitor Duro had growled about the sense of foreboding he felt. Skaabs did not move like that, he had said. These things were little more than ghouls, he had said. To emphasize his point, he had felled a particularly lethargic Skaab with his crossbow. The creature had simply fallen over and ceased moving. Too easy, Duro had muttered. If Broderick had known how right he was, he would have paid more attention to the paranoid Inquisitor.

Duro deserved better than to be crushed and smeared against the cavern walls by the vile claws of that monster.

He began his slow descent down the hill, towards the cavern. Cautiously, this time. He remembered how Percival had strode forward with confidence, using the weight of his enormous mace to sweep aside both undergrowth and Skaabs alike. They had been searching all day and into the night for the cavern. He had insisted they press on - he wanted to be done with this venture and return by morning. Broderick admired his courage, but not so much his impatience. But Percival had kept their spirits up during this journey.

The monster had bitten him in half. Broderick still remembered the wet noise as Percival's legs slid from the beast's enormous, cancerous maw.

The Skaabs had ceased coming. Broderick watched the mouth of the cavern warily. Before, they had simply strode up to it, ready, or so they thought, to face any danger. Together. Now, Broderick faced what he knew was certain death. And he would have to do it alone.

...No, not alone. He still had Avacyn to guide him. With a prayer, he felt his faith manifest into light. He stood, and cast his hand forward. A ball of pure, white energy shot forth from his hand to illuminate the inside of the cavern. He would draw the beast out. He would fight it in the open.

His small ball of faith illuminated only portions of the creature as it traversed to the back of the cavern. The great scaled back. The torn, tattered wings. The long bolts and plates of metal that lined its rotted, reptilian form. The eye sockets, glowing eerily with a pale blue color. The toothy snout, bare of flesh and muscle. Shattered, twisted metal lined the floor alongside bones and offal. Broderick's jaw clenched as a dull, acidic smell mixed with rot assaulted him. Then, the beast stirred.

A low growl, the sound of impending doom, rumbled from the cavern. Broderick steeled himself as the creature shifted, stood, and swatted at the light with a ruined wing. It vanished into darkness once more. A small, orange spark followed by a clicking sound were the only things that saved him from a fate similar to Evelynn’s. He rolled to one side just as a pillar of flame shot forth from the mouth of the cave, and the creature drew itself out to stand in the moonlight.

How a Skaaberen had reanimated a dragon, Broderick would never know.

He straightened as the monster roared, a wet and angry sound. Broderick could still see his brother’s blood on the dragon’s teeth. He grimaced as the creature charged him, and he ducked back into the undergrowth. The creature had been reluctant to follow before, and Broderick knew it could not fly, nor navigate the dense growth with any speed. It crashed into the trees with a roar, and Broderick heard the clicking noise once more. Skaabs were not supposed to shoot fire. They were supposed to be consumed by it. Broderick dove for cover as flame flew over his head, and tossed a glance backwards. The dragon was clumsily attempting to bowl over a few, thick trees that blocked it from its prey.

Broderick smelled smoke, and understood that trees behind him had been lit aflame. He smiled grimly to himself.

Perfect.

He lifted his blade and, with a shout, charged at the dragon as quickly as the thick undergrowth would allow. The monster saw him coming, the blue witch-fire of its eyes flickering with unholy rage. He ducked its snapping jaws, and brought his silver blade up into the rotted flesh of the creature's throat. Or so he had hoped, but his blade skidded against a steel plate, leaving the beast unharmed. Having failed to achieve his goal, he found himself in the precarious position of being directly below the dragon.

Broderick managed to tumble to one side, narrowly avoiding the wicked claws of the dragon-skaab. It growled in frustration, and the clicking from the back of its throat began once more. This time, however, Broderick did not have time to move out of the way. Instead, he raised his sword as the flames erupted from the dragon’s mouth, shouting a prayer to Avacyn. White light enshrouded him as he held up his blade. The fire surrounded him, but left him unharmed. The dragon-skaab was charging him when the flames cleared, and he brought his blade up even as the creature’s claws reached for him.

Still glowing with holy light, his silver blade deflected the dragon's claws, and he scored a deep gash on the dragon’s flank. The smell was awful, and it began to ooze a viscous, black substance. Broderick shouted in triumph, and backed away from the creature. Most of the trees were on fire now. He needed only get it to follow him a little farther…

The dragon, not sensing its imminent demise, charged at Broderick, who ran deeper into the burning wood.

Behind him, an explosion threw him off his feet and into a thick tree. A horrid, animalistic scream followed, and Broderick, dazed, most likely concussed, attempted to stand and watch the dragon-skaab burn to death.

Unfortunately, the unholy creature was spiteful. Before Broderick could see what was happening, the dragon, flesh flaking away as it was immolated from the inside, made one last desperate attack to slay its slayer. Its claw tore into Broderick’s chest and belly, the heat of the fire that was destroying the Skaab causing Borderick to shriek in agony. They fell, then. Skaab and Cathar. The blasphemous light left the Skaab’s eyes. Broderick, trying to hold his guts in, leaned back against the tree. Time slowed down.

He was going to die, he knew that. He understood that a part of him was on fire, but he could not remember why that was a problem. His mind fixated on the dead - now, dead again - dragon. He had done it. It would terrorize no one, ever again. He had not located the Skaaberen - but there was nothing alive in that cavern. Not anymore. This would have to be enough. It would have… to be enough.

“Hey now, Captain.” Evelynn sat down next to him, apparently unfazed by the burning forest around her. Somehow, it seemed right. “Stay alert.” She gave him her brightest smile, and he felt his heart break.

“S-sorry…” He coughed. Smoke. Everywhere there was smoke.

“Apologies won’t do you any good,” grumbled Duro, who was now standing behind Evellyn. “you have to live, soldier. If you’re sorry, you’ll live.” The Inquisitor never smiled, but at least he was not frowning.

“Can’t…” He managed, shaking his head weakly. The flames were getting closer. He was so tired. “Sleep…”

“Broderick, snap out of it!” Percival was kneeling in front of him now. Broderick almost felt his brother's hands on his shoulders. “You can do this. I believe in you.” Broderick tried to chuckle, but tears streamed down his cheeks and instead, he just shook his head.

“Failed you…” He choked, unable to sob.

“You’ve failed no one, Broderick Ruthford.” All at once, the smoke and heat vanished. Broderick stood in the center of a field of pale moonlight, completely whole. Around him stood his companions, and before him, an angel. She smiled down on him benevolently, and he understood that his spirit had passed. She was to take him to his eternal rest. As if hearing his thoughts, she raised her hand. “No, Broderick. You are Blessed. The Sleep is not for you, not yet. These ones-” She gestured to his companions. “Wished to say goodbye.”

“I’m proud of you, Captain.”

“Eyes peeled, soldier.”

“Keep your courage, brother.”

Broderick did not know what to say, his throat tight, his vision blurry.

“Sleep well, my friends.” He managed, trying to memorize their faces. The angel touched his shoulder, smiling down at him, and suddenly, all the light in the world vanished.

When Broderick awoke, it was to birdsong and sunlight. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh was gone completely. He sat up, and as he gazed down at himself, he saw that he was healed. Not even a scar. A miracle. Blessed, the angel had said. He felt his heart swell with forlorn pride, a new determination settling over him as he stood, gazing around the forest glade. Beneath the green of new growth, he could see the scars of his battle. But life would always overtake death, he thought to himself. He would be there to make sure of that.

If not for himself, then for them.

Irina coughed blood. Her lungs were already very sore, and trying to expel the almost blackened liquid was becoming increasingly painful. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks, as coughing felt like having sandpaper in your windpipe. Her father gently cleaned her mouth before she was done coughing, his hands passing through the young girl's brown locks, fighting back tears of his own.

"I want some water" Irina managed to say, more tired than she was in pain.

"Rest now darling."

The man tried as best as he could to keep a straight, smiling and comforting face, but Irina knew better, and as soon as her father was out of sight, she heard him cry. The girl didn't bother to cry anymore, only shedding tears during coughing. She laid her head on the pillow, and passed out.

In her sleep, she remembered the happier times, when she could still run through the golden meadows and pick bright crimson apples from the fine trees down the stream, when she could investigate the woods with her friends and play by the clearings. But those times were long gone: for the better part of an year, werewolves and ghouls plagued the land, destroying the golden meadows and almost all of the entire village. Her mother, her cousins, her friends were now dead, either sadistically ripped to shreds or part of Gisa's entourage. Forced to move to Nephalia, the six remaining people of her village were left with a dire departing gift: tuberculosis . Even when Avacyn returned, they knew their hope was pointless.

At some point her sleep, Irina felt a bit of a chill, like myst caressing her face. She woke up, and as her eyes adjusted to the light she saw a pale man, dressed in a black coat and hat. For some reason, she couldn't seem to be able to look at his face, and something told her it was blank.

"Sorry for interrupting your sleep. I'm here to make you feel better" he said gently, with a strange, misty voice.

"You're a doctor?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Your father told me you were very sick, so I'm here to try to fix that."

"But I thought I couldn't be healed."

"But, as it turns out, you can. Your father told me about you earlier today, when you were asleep."

Irina knew something was off about that doctor, and some part of her already suspected what was going on, but there was little she could do either way.

"Can you bring me a cup of water?"

"Sure thing dear. It also makes the remedy easier to swallow."

The doctor quickly got up, in a sleek, graceful motion, and brought back a cup with almost silvery water, so fast that Irina suspected that he didn't even go to the tap. It had a pleasant, rose-like smell, almost alluring in a way. As the girl sipped, she noticed a very strange, almost citric taste, that reminded her of the fresh lemons that grew near her old house. Sips became wide gulps, and she began to feel sleepy again.

"The medicine is working, so you can now rest in peace."

Suddenly, Irina felt as if her lungs were clean, as if all the blood vanished suddenly and the sandpaper sensation was obliterated. For once in the last two months, she felt the strength to smile again.

"...thanks..." she muttered happily, before going to sleep.

"You're welcome, darling" the doctor bowed politely, and left.

He passed softly through the air, utterly unnoticed by the slumbering father. He examined the sleeping hunk, and saw him to be healthy, so he left. As he left the house, he heard him rushing to his daughter, and a howl of anguish tainted the wind.

The doctor simply shrugged.

Anje Falkenrath sat in his favorite chair, enjoying a sip of pretty brunette. The chair was his pride and joy – an ugly, overstuffed, wing-backed monstrosity probably converted from a dresser by some forgotten carpenter. Over a hundred years Anje and his chair had grown used to each other, and when reclining in his parlor he would have no other.

Cousin Allison was visiting from up near Kessig with her werewolf Hugo, a shaggy mutt when he wasn’t human that had somehow escaped the Cursemute unaltered and that she clung to desperately. Still, the wolf-man she had tamed was her pride and joy, and she doted on him with fine things and allowed him to finish her meals while they were still alive.

Brother Adolf was there as well, painting a portrait of Allison and her werewolf and grumbling that she had requested colors other than blood red to be used on the canvass. He was a master of his medium, that being blood, but all other pigments were open to him as well. His pallet and brushes were his pride and joy, carved of rich wood and given bristles of only the finest hair and fibers.

Allison Falkenrath shifted a little, but Adolf scolded her to keep her head in the exact position where he was painting it.

“It’s quite distressing,” she said, “All the news that’s been coming through since the Helvault opened.”

“Very distressing.” Anje replied, taking another sip from his whimpering prey, not really listening to what she was saying. Anje considered both his brother and his cousin to be bothers of the first degree, and only hosted them because he was very set in the tradition of seeing the two of them and had found it impractical to bring his chair with him when he traveled to their manors for the meeting.

“I heard that Grislebrand fell.” Adolf Falkenrath said, “So at least there is that if it’s true.”

“But which is worse?” Allison asked, “Grislebrand or Avacyn? I quite enjoyed when it was neither.”

“Yes, yes.” Anje said, “Quite a quandary.” He was not the least bit interested in politics.

“Well,” Said Adolf, “I think Grislebrand would be worse alone. We endured Avacyn before, and those were happy enough days.”

“I think now, though, she has changed.” Allison said, “That horrible Cursemute, for one. What ever shall I do in the coming years. With no more werewolves, what shall become of poor Hugo?”

“You could just sire him.” Anje groaned, hoping his cousin would be silent about her poor taste in men and dogs alike.

“I doubt that.” Adolf said, “Who has ever heard of a Werewolf Vampire?”

“Hm.” Anje voiced, pondering the question. Anje had been sired for his looks and his strength, not for his intellect, and thus it often took him quite a bit longer than his brother and his cousin to think about things.

“What a bother.” He said, leaning back in his seat.

“I’ve thought about that quite a bit,” said Allison, “I thought perhaps I would pay a visit to old Markov.”

“Now,” Anje said, stroking his goatee, “That would be very much a bother. Are you sure you cannot just get a dog? They are much easier to keep and you never need to worry about siring them.”

Allison gave Anje a venomous glare. “A dog,” she said, “Cannot comfort me as Hugo does, and it would please me if you did not compare them so.”

“What a bother,” Anje sighed, “What a bother. If you are not careful, you will never be welcome in the high society again, cousin.”

“And then, Cousin,” Allison replied, “Your high society friends will stop bothering me in my manor.”

Anje considered Allison one of the biggest bothers he had to deal with on a regular basis. Perhaps it would go better for both of them if she simply went uninvited to gatherings of the bloodline.

Anje reached for his drink, but found his lap empty. He looked to his feet, where they usually fell when they were empty, but she was not there either. He could have sworn she had quite a lot left in her anyway. He looked at the werewolf, but Hugo had been sitting for the portrait, essentially motionless, and so could not have eaten her.

For a moment yet, Anje looked about for where he might have misplaced her. He looked to one side of his chair, and then the other. It dawned on him as he reached between the cushions, as he might for some small object that could be expected to fall from his pocket, that she might have had enough blood left in her to walk away, so that was very likely what she did. It was quite a bother, he hadn’t had anywhere close to his fill.

A moment later, the true gravity of the situation dawned on him, and Anje Falkenrath, Allison Falkenrath, and Adolf Falkenrath were running very quickly out of their manor door in search of the missing prey who knew who they were and where they lived.

Anje, Allison, and Adolf Falkenrath were not having a particularly good night. Not only had they no luck in tracking down the missing prey, but Anje kept hearing some nonsense about “burning out the bloodsuckers” that for some reason he couldn’t place was very distressing to him.

Just as they had first made the town, one man in particular had ranted quite a bit about his love of geistflame, dislike for nonhumans, and love of setting things on fire. Anje supposed it was good that the humans were picking up hobbies, and thought to himself that arson was a hobby he could perhaps get back into one year or another.

About an hour after that, Anje smelled smoke, which was a bother, and was busily ignoring the prattling of his brother and his cousin, who were bothers. After all, if they had not been distracting him with their bothersome prattling in the first place, this probably would not have happened.

They had become quite reticent about finding his former drink, though Anje assured them at every turn that it was of the utmost importance that they find her before she should talk to anyone about her experiences. After all, while Anje was quite slow at putting things together, once he had figured it out he was not stupid enough to ignore it.

The next thing that occurred to Anje Falkenrath was that the night was quite bright out. This fact rattled around in his brain for a moment before he decided to discern the cause of the phenomenon, which was more important to him than the frantic hissing of his relations. He looked about in the sky, and noted on the hillside that a manor house was on fire.

That was fine, Anje thought. He supposed the Blake man was practicing his hobby, that being arson, and so it was only natural that there would be a manor house on fire. It occurred to him rather quickly that he had a manor house on the hillside that looked a good deal like the one that was burning, excepting the part where his manor was, of course, not on fire.

A moment later, Anje Falkenrath realized that what his brother and his cousin had been trying frantically to tell him without a human noticing, was that it was in fact his manor house that was on fire.

Anje Falkenrath began to run up the road towards his manor as fast as he could, Allison and Adolf behind telling him that they had been saying he should for some time.

The worst bother of all was going to be having to deal with his relations for longer.

The fire wasn’t that bad, Anje thought. Most of the walls of the manor were still standing, and you could even use the stairs for the time being. His vault was intact, so he could have a new manor built somewhere where the locals did not have arson as their favorite hobby, and then he would be sure to not invite his brother and his cousin over, to be sure.

While looking through the wreckage, Adolf cried out.

“My brushes!” he exclaimed, “My pallet! My paints! All my beautiful art supplies – Ruined!”

Anje sighed. This was going to be an extra bother. “We will get you new brushes.” He said, “And a brand new pallet.”

“It won’t be the same.” Adolf sobbed, “never the same again.”

Next, Allison cried out, demanding help as she tried to lift a beam off of her werewolf, who had been pinned by it.

“They hurt Hugo!” she cried, “How could you let them do this, walking blithely around town while it happened?!”

Anje rolled his eyes, determined that his cousin’s poor taste would not be a bother.

“We will get you a new werewolf.” He said, “Everything will be just fine.”

“He’s not dead.” Allison growled, “Little good you did him. And there aren’t any more werewolves!”

Anje scanned the wreckage of the parlor. He noted his brother weeping and screaming over his art, his cousin helping her wounded dog. He noticed the charred wreckage of his chair, the general disarray of the trophy cabinet, and the fact that the fireplace seemed to be the only place where there had been no fire.

He realized one of the things he had just noticed.

“Barbarians!” he screamed, “They burned my favorite chair! We’ll kill them all!”

Anje Falkenrath no longer cared how much of a bother it was. He found his ornate sword, freed it from its mounting over the fireplace by smashing the mounting to bits, and in his raging vendetta charged down the hillside, screaming the entire way, as though he had an entire army following him.

Naturally, he did not have an army following him, and while the sight of a Falkenrath vampire screaming at the top of his lungs, swinging an ornate sword as tall as a man with a single hand and demanding murderous revenge was no doubt a terrifying sight to behold, the effect was somewhat lessened when one picked out that he seemed to be ranting entirely about a piece of furniture, and lost even more gravitas when one realized that vampires, though inhumanly strong, were not even remotely mighty enough to batter down a town gate.

As such, the first barrier that Anje reached stopped him utterly, and after the initial shock had worn out, the townsfolk were not certain if they were supposed to engage the crazed creature hammering futilely against their gates, pity it, or begin taking bets on how long a vampire could scream and rage like that without losing his voice, losing his fury, or passing out, or seemingly needing to breathe.

Still in the ruined parlor, Adolf and Allison Falkenrath shrugged as Anje left, and began making plans to have Adolf do a vanity portrait of Edgar Markov in exchange for his telling them how Allison could sire a werewolf.

Eric Cole turned the key to lock his bank. The sun had set, and already the lamplighters were out. He pulled his jacket closed as he stashed the keys. The night air was brisk, unseasonably cold.

The street lamp flames danced as he passed. When all at once those at the end of the street snuffed out. Within the shadows Eric could make out the outline of a man. Lamps behind him extinguished. Then more. Then the final lamp, right outside the bank flickered and went dark.

Eric stood in darkness. He stood breathless, fearful to move, to breathe, to think. Slowly, a voice whispered over the wind,

“Jacob?” Eric gasped, trying to pull the word back in. But the words were gone, echoing supernaturally down the street. He felt a claw reach into his chest and twist his heart. The sharp pain brought him to his knees.

And then the icy hand loosened its grip and let him free. Eric felt his chest to find no blood. He stumbled home and locked the door.

He removed his jacket and collapsed into his arm chair. A fire was already roaring as he examined his chest. The only mark upon it was frost bite, right above his heart.

“Is this a bad time Mr. Cole?” said Mrs. Putnam, the housekeeper.

“No, come in.” Eric buttoned his shirt.

Mrs. Putnam placed Mr. Cole’s dinner on the side table and turned to leave.

“Mrs. Putnam, please sit with me a spell,” he said softly.

“Yes your lordship,” Mrs. Putnam sat by the stool near the fire, “Is there something you’d like to discuss?”

“Mrs. Putnam, what do you think about geists?”

Mrs. Putnam sat quietly, “Well I guess I think about them like a think about people. Some are good, some are bad.”

“You think geists are like people?”

“Sure, I’ve heard stories of fathers dragging their families out of burning buildings, and I’ve heard stories of geists murdering people. It seems to me that what a person is like in life, that’s what he’ll be in death.” Mrs. Putnam stoked the fire.

Eric spoke, “I was attacked tonight. Outside the bank. The lights went out and something reached into my chest and grabbed my heart. I could sense so much… anger.” He trembled. “I thought it was going to kill me.”

“Mr. Cole, these things are not uncommon. Just last week her ladyship Mercy had a vagabond ghost in his basement, breaking bottles. You should really come home before sunset.”

“The anger was directed. The geist wanted me,” Eric said.

“Perhaps it was Mr. Timely, he was very angry when you closed his account.”

“It was Jacob,” Eric admitted, “Jacob attacked me.”

“Your brother!” Mrs. Putnam said, “That man was a saint. He would never harm you or anyone else. You’ve just had a traumatic experience, you’re not thinking straight, sleep on it, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“You’re right,” Eric said, getting up. “I’m sure it was just a stranger.”

Mr. Cole walked up the stairs and settled into his bed. He snuffed out his light and rested. At midnight the windows flew open. Eric sat up in bed, as the wind whipped the sheets from him. A shadowy figure loomed over him, grabbed his throat and lifted him into the air.

“Jacob, don’t do this,” Eric gasped, “Don’t do this Jacob, don’t.”

The geist opened its mouth, but all that came out was a howl and dust. Its grip tightened.

The door swung open as Mrs. Putnam walked into the door. She threw a silver necklace at the geist. It howled in pain and released its grip. Eric reached into his nightstand and pulled out a blessed dagger, slashing at the spirit. It retreated out the window.

Eric got out of bed, “Mrs. Putnam, I want you to get packed and stay in the guest house. I will have a cathar come tomorrow. Until then, I don’t want you in the house.” He placed the dagger next to the pillow.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Mrs. Putnam asked.

“That thing is after me. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He ushered her out the door.

In the morning he sent a message to the local church to send out a cathar. At noon the man came dressed in a heavy cloak, decorated with blessed silver.

“Mr. Cole,” the main said, “I am Hast, a trained specialist in the removal of geists, and the slaying of werewolves. May I come in?”

Eric ushered him into the foyer, “Thank you for coming Hast.”

“I am told you have an especially troublesome geist,” Hast said, “It attacked you outside the bank, and again in your bedroom. Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you?”

“No, no one I can think of. A few angry clients, but no one who would try to murder me.”

“You’re brother died two weeks ago, did he not?” Hast said. “What were the circumstances of his death.”

“He died at sea, on a trip. It was very sudden.”

“And what was your relationship with your brother?” Hast pried.

“It was fine. I loved my brother.” Eric said adamantly, “I don’t know who this thing was, but it wasn’t Jacob.”

Hast stared coldly at Eric, “I find this level of aggression is normally a reaction to an extreme act against the geist. Something like a murder. Are you sure you don’t have anything to confess?”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Eric said.

“We will set up in your bedroom and wait for nightfall.” Hast motioned towards the stairs, “Lead the way.”

Hast finished preparing himself to excise the geist. Night had fallen, and both men prepared for the spirit to arrive.

“How do these things normally go?” Eric asked.

“It depends on the ghost. Some go peacefully, some lash out. I’ve seen many cathars die by the hands of geists.”

The candles dimmed, as an unseen force began knocking at the window. Hast moved towards the center of the room, putting himself between the window and Eric. “Be gone vicious spirit, this world has nothing to offer you. Leave this man and his house, come no more.” The knocking stopped. Then dust began falling from the ceiling. Hast looked up to see the ceiling cracking.

In an instant the cracks spread out across the ceiling, down the walls. The floor shuddered tossing Eric to the floor. Hast kept his stance.

A black mass manifested above Eric. Hast threw a silver amulet at it, causing it to reel back in pain. It retreated out of the bedroom and into a closet.

Hast flung open the door and peered up a staircase leading up, “Where does this lead?” he asked.

Eric got up, “The attic. But there’s nothing up there.”

Hast pulled a torch from his belt and lit it on a candle, he mounted the stairs leading up to the attic. The torch banished the clinging darkness, as he carefully picked around the room, a keen eye for unnatural shadows.

“What is this?” he said gesturing at the objects covered in sheets.

“Furniture mostly,” Eric hesitated.

Hast grabbed a sheet and pulled. Beakers, flasks, burners, and tubes came into sight. Forbidden chemicals, and equipment. “Alchemy!” Hast snapped.

The door to the attic slammed shut, and the air chilled.

“Of course.” Hast said, “it all makes sense.” He pulled a dagger, “You killed him. You killed your brother and now he’s after you.”

“That’s not true, I loved my brother!”

“What happened?” Hast asked, “Did he find your laboratory?”

“No!”

“Did he tell you he was going to the authorities?”

“No!”

“You had to kill him. It was the only way out.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“What is the truth then Eric? What’s the truth!”

“It’s his. The lab…. It’s Jacob’s.” Eric collapsed. “He was sick… he had problems. I covered it up. It seemed so harmless. He just experimented on animals. But then he tried to recreate vampirism. It was poison. He died and I panicked. I couldn’t let anyone know what he did, what he was. It would ruin me. I buried the body and made up the story of how he was lost at sea. Oh Avacyn help me, I didn’t mean for all this.” Eric broke down sobbing.

The light of the torch began to wane as the darkness forced itself towards the men. “Eric,” Hast said, “this is very important. Where did you bury the body?”

“The basement, I buried him in the basement.”

“We have to get to the basement and consecrate that grave. His spirit won’t rest until we do.” Hast grabbed Eric’s arm. “Eric, snap out of it. I need your help. We can’t lay your brother’s spirit to rest until we sanctify his grave.”

Eric stumbled to his feet, as Hast kicked in the door. At once the room exploded as glassware flew across the room. Eric and Hast shielded their heads as they ran down the stairs. In the hallway, furniture flipped over, and walls cracked, the banister going down the stairs lashed out, throwing Eric against the wall. But both men endured and reached the first floor. A supernatural howl began and grew louder as the men ran through the house to reach the basement stairs. Eric felt an invisible hand reach out to grasp him, but he wretched free and continued on. They had to get to the basement.

Hast was the first to reach the basement door, and flinging it open was hit by a blast of darkness. Blinded, the cathar felt his way down the stairs. Eric followed, slamming the basement door behind him.

“I’m blind,” Hast said as he placed his foot on the dirt of the basement.

“Can you still purify the grave?” Eric asked.

“Yes, just bring me to it,” Hast said. Above the basement door rattled as if a strong wind were gusting just on the other side.

Eric guided Hast to a corner of the basement freshly dug up. “It’s here” he said.

Hast pulled out a vial of water and sprinkled it on the spot. “Avacyn, whose light shines both day and night, I ask you to sanctify this ground,” at this the basement door was wrenched from its hinges and thrown down the stairs. A sickle on the wall flew off and lodged into Hast’s back. The cathar grunted, and collapsed, but continued the prays.

The spirit manifested over the fallen cathar, hand clutching the sickle. It twisted the blade, taking pleasure in the grunts of the cathar as he continued his prays.

“Stop it!” Eric said, “Jacob this isn’t you. You were sick, but I know there’s good in you. Remember when we were children? The song? You were singing it alone. Sing it with me now.”

Hast finished the pray. Eric could see his brother vanishing. “Good bye Jacob” he whispered. The spirit vanished completely.

Eric helped Hast to his carriage. “Mr. Cole, your brother’s body will have to be buried in a sanctified graveyard. I will send someone to recover it.”

“I understand” said Eric. “I don’t suppose you could say his body was found at sea.”

“No,” Hast said, “But I don’t see any reason to mention his experiments.”

The driver flicked the reins and the horses began trudging down the street. Down the street Eric could see the sun rising on a new day.

Adrianna Moore ran her fingertips along the side of the long, silver blade, feeling the runes etched into the saber. It was a marvelous piece, perfectly suited for the dispatch of evil. However, it was also a point of sorrow for Adrianna, because the sword was at once a heavy burden, and the only thing of value that belonged to her.

Once, she had a home within the wooded fringe of Kessig, a place she shared with her mother where she seemed safe from the darkness of the world outside. But she had lost her illusions of safety, shattered by a blazing devil that had assailed her within her home. And in the end, Adrianna and her mother had lost their home and left the house behind when the vile corruption of the Skirsdag had been dug up at the heart of their town.

The road had not then been kind. There came cold rains and bitter winds, cold welcomes and bitter strangers, and all the while the world seemed to grow darker all around them. They came to rest in Nephalia, where the salt and fog could never be kept out of the small place they called their own. Soon enough, sickness followed and Adrianna was forced to see her mother buried far away from her native soil, with only the faint hope that the blessed sleep would not be interrupted.

What things they had owned, Adrianna sold. She had no life in that gloomy house, that gloomy town, though as far as she figured it she had no real life anywhere. She had tried her hands at a number of trades and found none of them to her liking: all had fought her at every turn, so at last she turned to the only thing she had done well, which was combating the evils of the world.

And so Adrianna had gotten her silver saber, and ventured out into the world, keeping to the roads and crossways. For over a year she had wandered until her feet nearly bled, the wind chapped her skin and the rains beat her down. She was not a cathar, not respected and honored. Very often the only reward for her deeds was a little food for the road, but as the world got worse Adrianna was often hungry.

But Adrianna had come into some money, and found her way to a tavern in the rotten, seaside town that just happened to be the next one along the road, polishing her saber and waiting for a hot meal and trying to think about where her life had gone so very wrong.

“Nice looking blade you’ve got there.” A gruff voice said, “Too bad I’ll bet you can’t really swing it.”

Adrianna looked up to see a large, strong man sitting across from her. He was a very rough sort: stubble covered his face, his hair was matted, and his green eyes were dim in the darkness: the smile he wore on his face did not reach them.

Adrianna did not dignify him with a response.

“Look, toots, a weapon like that belongs in a cathar’s hands, or if not in the hands of some respectable fighter. I know some people who’d probably like to buy it off you at a premium.”

“I may not look like much,” Adrianna said, “But I’m fine in a fight.”

“Really?” the swarthy man asked, “You ever fought as much as a ghoul? Just because you can handle yourself in a back alley doesn’t mean you can use a thing like that.”

“I’ve killed devils.” Adrianna replied. She had lost count of how many. At some point, they stopped mattering as individual horrors, just streaming together into a grotesque parade in her memory.

“That so?” The man asked. He seemed to consider her words very carefully. Adrianna locked eyes with him and found herself immediately in something of a contest. Whoever looked away first was weaker, and Adrianna had a burning need to prove she was strong, hopefully without running the grating stranger through.

He blinked.

“Look,” he said, “Maybe I misjudged you. You’re not with the church, and frankly if not for the sword I’d have thought you were a beggar, no offense.”

“None taken.” She had been offended more than enough by being called ‘toots.’

“So, how long are you planning to stay around these parts?”

“Depends on if there’s something to do.” Adrianna answered. A waitress brought her a plate with a heap of overcooked vegetables and a pair of tough mutton chops on it, the latter of which Adrianna tore into ravenously.

“Easy there.” The man said. Adrianna ignored him.

The man looked away. “You say you’ve killed devils.”

“And ghouls, and a skaab. Not sure about the werewolf.”

“Name’s Blake.” He offered, “Jonathan Blake. I’m something of a sellsword myself, though I’m more comfortable with a tank of geistflame than a blade.”

“Hmph.”

“Anyway,” he lowered his voice, “This town’s got plenty of worries, so if you want to make enough coin to put some meat on those bones of yours, you’re in the right place. I need a few good people for my outfit, and that weapon of yours alone would be worth half a man.”

“Still not selling it.” Adrianna said through a mouthful of dinner.

“I know that,” Jonathan said, “I’m offering you a chance to sign up.”

Adiranna thought about it for a moment. As far as she could tell, Jonathan Blake was a thoroughly odious man, one with whom she would not relish working. But as she choked down the last bite of mutton and her stomach rumbled for more, the offer of real coin became a good deal more tempting.

“Well?” he asked.

She looked at her reflection in the silvered steel for a moment, reaffirming just how far she had fallen, and that she had nothing else to lose except her life, which she was more likely to part with alone.

“All right.” She said, “I’m in.”

Adrianna had put the rest of what little coin she had towards a bath and a night in a real bed. Come morning, she looked at her reflection in the mirror of the vanity that furnished her room at the inn and frowned. Clean and well-rested, she probably looked better than she had the previous night, but it was easy enough to see how she’d been mistaken for a vagrant.

Adrianna gave a deep sigh after looking herself over. Her mother had always held she was beautiful and would find someone someday who would see it, outside and in, and then Adrianna would be able to make a good life far from beasts and demons.

“If only you could see me now.” She muttered, and steeled herself to face the world.

Outside, the world was grey and the sun dim, a misty morning like every other that ever led into a gloomy day. All the same, Adrianna made her way to the appointed spot, and waited for Jonathan Blake to arrive.

Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword – the spot was near a ‘tributary’ of the Erdwall, and in that noisome ditch, dark things always seemed to dwell. It was very possible that it was not an induction but a mugging that had been arranged, and told herself she would be ready for it.

She was not, however, prepared for a rather cheery “Hello!”

She turned to look where the voice came from. The man who then greeted her by removing his hat and making a small bow was a rather tall and lanky sort, the half-moon glasses on his nose and antiquated style of his ill-fitted coat, breeches, stockings, and shoes serving to hide somewhat the fact that he was likely little older than Adrianna: a year, or perhaps two, no more.

“You must be Adrianna.” He said.

“And you are?” she demanded. Adrianna did not particularly like surprises.

“Daniel Lehrer,” he said, offering one hand clumsily as the other struggled to find his head with his hat, “But please, call me Dan. Jon’s… well he’s not exactly fit for the public this morning, so he asked me to show you around and get all the paperwork filled out.”

Dan’s big smile and honest enthusiasm went a long way towards calming Adrianna’s nerves. He was awkward, but not so much that his occasional stumbling was a bother. Adrianna had met his like before, in her old village, but never really got to know anyone with that strange mix of shy and outgoing elements.

“Right this way,” he said, leading her towards one of the shacks on the edge of the ditch, mercifully one that was in better repair and of greater size than most. “We own this place. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“We?”

“Jon didn’t explain?” Dan did not pause for an answer, “Well, I suppose I’d better. Most of us here, we were all friends going back years and years. A lot of us grew up to be mercenaries or the lot, going here and there, but we kept in touch.”

“Hm.”

“In any case, something more than a year ago, Jon and a few others got this idea to mine for mana…” He said, his voice and eagerness quickly dropping. “Didn’t turn out well. Locals quite unfriendly. Several casualties. We can never go back…” he looked away for a moment “Anyway, the point is we found that if we put our heads together and our backs into it, we could fight off a small pack of rabid werewolves as well as the cathars.”

“So where do I come in?” Adrianna asked.

“These are dark days,” Dan replied, “We really can use every extra hand to defend our home.”

The insides of the building didn’t feel too much like a home, more like a tavern in the middle of the day, with only a few louts there dying of boredom and booze. Daniel’s pained expression on entering proved he was not himself entirely comfortable about the state of affairs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “If I’d known you were coming sooner, I would have cleaned up somewhat. It’s usually not quite so bad.”

“Is that what you do?” Adrianna asked. She was honestly curious and hoped he didn’t take offense, because while she did not take Daniel Lehrer for a warrior, she knew appearances could be deceiving.

“Only because no one else does.” Daniel said, “I’m an alchemist, so most of what I do for the company is servicing gear.”

Adrianna nodded. “It seems a noble line.”

“Not as much as actually being out on the front, I know.”

“No,” Adrianna said, “Really, it does.”

“You’re too kind.”

Daniel scanned the room, seemingly wondering what to say next. “Ah, yes, the rest of our little group. You’ll be rooming with Aimee if you need a place to stay, but she’s out at the moment. As I said Jon isn’t exactly fit to be seen at the moment, but you’ve met him before anyway. I guess we could check on Walther, since he’s the last of us who stays here.”

“We’re to defend the city with just four?” Adrianna asked.

“A dozen before you, actually, but the others all have their own homes, and I didn’t know if you did.”

“No,” she said, “Everything I own is with me.”

After that, Dan showed her to her room, a small space underneath a slanted ceiling with a bunk bed and an empty footlocker for her, in which she placed those few possessions she did not prefer to carry with her.

Thereafter, he took it upon himself to show her what else there was to be seen in the strange house: the pantry and kitchen on one end, a room set with training dummies through a crooked door on the opposite side. All in all, he was proving to be a charming, if easily flustered host, which was far better than Adrianna had expected when she had come to the meeting spot.

They were in Dan’s workspace, Adrianna examining the tools of his alchemical trade, when Jonathan Blake appeared.

He was very clearly drunk, staggering such as he was, the reek of crude alcohol soon filling the air after him. There were two other persons behind him, both of whom displayed more or less concern and were fixed upon Blake.

“So,” he said, slurring his words, “Is this… is this it?”

Daniel looked up, worry in his eyes. “Hello Jon.” He said with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t you ‘hello Jon’ me!” Blake spat, voice filled with venom. Was this truly the same man Adrianna had met the night before? He had been unsavory then, in his own way, but this was quite different. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I-“ Dan stammered, “I was showing our new companion-“

“Shut up!” Blake shouted, “Make me sick. I’d always hoped… If you’d had the guts we wouldn’t be here!”

“Please, Jon, calm down.” Dan said, backing slowly away, “This isn’t the time.”

“Like hell it isn’t!” he slammed his fist on the nearest table, rattling all the glassware that sat atop it and sending one empty flask crashing to the floor. At this, the man behind him caught Blake on the shoulder. At first, it looked like a simple reminder that he was not alone in the room, but when Blake tried to pull away the looming man’s grip held firm.

“Sleep it off.” The man said in a deep, gravely voice. “Better tomorrow.”

Blake, his anger seemingly fading from the delay of its action, grudgingly turned aside and stumbled away from the room.

The other who had entered with him, a pale and petit woman with black hair and amber eyes, spoke up. “My apologies for that,” she said, “We’d hoped he’d be better behaved. He will be, once he’s sobered up.”

“It’s not a problem.” Adrianna said. She then offered a hand to shake. “Adrianna Moore, at your service.”

The other woman shook her hand and introduced herself. “Aimee Voss, miss Moore. And this here is Walther Kaufmann. I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Adrianna smiled. “I should hope so.”

The days that followed were kind to Adrianna: she got along at least passably with all her new companions, both the four that lived under that same roof and those who came and went some days. Further, a string of nights spent in a moderately comfortable bed and days in which she had enough to eat that was unprecedented since she struck out on her own did wonders for her health and happiness. Though still leaner and weaker than she might have been, a fortnight of such acceptable treatment went a long way to filling out her figure, removing the blemishes of the long road from her visage, and improving her demeanor.

In that time, Adrianna did her best to observe what she could of her companions. Walther spoke very little, usually uttering only the absolute necessary words to communicate, but Adrianna did not think him a lackwit: it was quite the opposite, in fact, as she suspected he was far wiser than he wished to let on. Aimee, who she saw the most of owing to their sharing a private room, was a gregarious sort: well-spoken and proper most of the time, but not above engaging with the world on the same level as those around her.

And then there were Daniel Lehrer and Jonathan Blake. Individually, Adrianna could say that Blake by in large repulsed her – when he was not too drunk he was smug, irreverent, sometimes sarcastic and always the sort of person that got on her nerves, and there were a couple more outbursts somewhat like the one she had witnessed on her first day in the company’s house.

Dan, on the other hand, she regarded very fondly, and she had taken to finding some pretense to visit his little laboratory in the afternoons, inquiring after the latest research and soon talking about life as the two of them knew it.

The two of them together, though, were an interesting matter. At times, Jon seemed to lean upon Dan as a close friend and trusted advisor, while other times there seemed to be some bad blood between the two of them, which filled one with wrath and the other with sorrow.

“You know,” Adrianna said one late afternoon as she and Dan looked out over the tributary of the Erdwall that snaked through town from a tiny balcony, “It’s almost funny that Jon found me… he’s the only person here I don’t care for.”

Dan turned his head, gazing out towards up-town and the sea beyond the cliffs.

“Try not to be too hard on Jon.” He said, sorrow in his voice.

“I’d say you should be harder,” Adrianna replied. “The way he treats you isn’t fair and it isn’t right.”

“We used to be good friends.” Dan sighed.

“What happened?”

“About a year ago, while we out trying to mine for mana and learning to fight monsters, his sister was taken by a Skaberen.”

“And he blames you?” If it were true, it was a horrible thing to do.

“He blames himself.” Dan replied, “The job she was working when she was killed, he had suggested it, not knowing about the danger. I don’t think there’s been a day since we came home he hasn’t asked himself how he could have known. And me, he thinks if I had…”

“If you had what?”

“Well Laurie and I were… I should say I had… We knew each other since we were children and I, well… ah… It’s not important now, is it? I have to put the past behind me or I’ll be just like Jon soon enough, and as much as I may speak out for him we don’t need two of him under one roof.”

His words had a weight of sorrow to them, and Adrianna put together what he did not want to say.

“I’m so sorry.” She said.

“Don’t be,” Dan replied. “Just understand I have to believe there’s still a good man somewhere inside Jon.”

“As long as you remember there’s a good man standing here with me right now.” Adrianna said, “And that that’s got to count for something too.”

“You are too kind.”

“Before coming here,” Adrianna said, “I don’t know that anyone had thought that of me.”

“Surely you jest. A woman like yourself, you must have had many admirers touting all your virtues.”

“Just one.” Adrianna said, “And I had to stick a knife in his gut and leave him for dead.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“He was with the Skirsdag, you see.”

“Ah,” Dan said, “Of course. My apologies.”

Adrianna did her best to resist laughing. She had, after all, put it that way to get some reaction in that line.

“You know,” He said, “I’m glad you find the time to come up here. It’s been seasons since I’ve had much of anyone I could really talk to.”

A mad little voice whispered in the back of Adrianna’s mind, taunting her with her own worthlessness, goading her to some sort of action to prove she was or wasn’t nothing and nobody. Without thinking on the matter beforehand, she spoke.

“Is talking all you intend?”

As the words left her mouth, she regretted them immediately, A beat passed, then two, and Dan opened his mouth to respond only to be interrupted by the thunderous opening of the door to the rest of the house.

“Looks like the city’s not paying us to sit around.” Jonathan Blake said from the doorway. “Suit up, we’ve got a job tonight.”

It was night outside the walls of town, cold and clear like few nights in Nephalia, with the moon shining bright over the sea and the strand and the assembled dozen-and-one hired swords. Supposedly, there was a cave in the rocks to the north from which the unhallowed had issued.

The trek across the sand was dour and silent, but mercifully short, for soon enough the shambling forces came into sight in the pale moonlight. Two, perhaps three dozen unhallowed were shambling forth, presumably to exhume others from the nearby seagrafs and bring them back to their master.

The engagement was quick and horrible. The dead did not abide the living to pass by them unmolested, and the living had of course brought their own weapons. Blake and another man opened up first, streams of howling geistflame pouring across the beach. The stinks of rotting flesh, burning hair, and smoldering cloth and leather filled the air as black smoke rose towards the silvery moon.

But the unhallowed were not so slow as to be taken again, and Adrianna knew as much. Saber in hand, she prepared to fight for her life once again. The difference was that this time she was shoulder to shoulder with other fighters ready to aid her in the dispatch of evil.

One former fisherman cast a net over Adrianna’s head as he might a school of fish, and though she tried to dodge it caught her left side, and barbed hooks caught upon her bodice and her sleeve, here and there piercing the skin beneath.

Fearing not the net so much as being dragged to the ground, away from her comrades, Adrianna quickly twisted the net around her arm, driving the sharpened metal in deeper, but giving her the first chance to pull. Too dim to release its grip, the zombie fell forward, and Adrianna dropped to her knee to drive her blade into its head.

That first assault was the worst of it, and by the time the last moaning unhallowed was cut down, unable to understand that it was outnumbered and outmaneuvered, the minor scrapes from that were among the worse wounds in the group, perhaps the worst save for one man who, with a spear to his leg, was certainly out of the fight.

“Are you all right?” she heard Daniel, behind her, ask. She nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure. She’d have to remove the net without tearing her arm to ribbons first.

That, however, could wait for later, for the party now approached the cave, uncertain what further horrors might wait inside. A man with a geistflame tank approached the opening, Blake just behind to support him.

“It’s dark.” The man declared, and then he toppled backwards, a massive bone protruding from his chest.

What happened next was, for Adrianna, far more shocking. Blake caught the man as he stumbled backwards and muttered something to him, but rather than pulling that doomed soul away. Blake shoved him forward, into the dark mouth of the cave, and followed that with a blast of geistflame.

There was a moment where the screams were fading, and then a terrible new roar of flame erupted from the cavern mouth, screaming and howling and dropping wreckage of leather, metal, and flesh on the sand.

Then, Blake stepped into smoking mouth of that terrible cave, motioning for the others to follow him. Adrianna was one of the last, for it took her some time to move again after the shock of that horrific deed.

The cave was little better: gore and ashes spattered its walls, an unidentifiable mass upon the floor where the rage thrower had presumably fallen. Against the back wall laid a youngish woman, her pale hair half seared off, head rolling back and forth as she no doubt reeled from the blast, alive but none could say for how long.

Blake marched up to her.

“All right,” he demanded, kicking the woman in the gut, “How many more like you are there?”

“More? More?” the woman repeated, as though she had heard but not understood the word.

“Where there’s a ghoulcaller,” Blake said, “There’s usually more.”

That was ‘wisdom’ Adrianna had not heard, and quite doubted.

The woman laughed. “Oh,” she said, “You’re going to have to arrest me.”

“Start talking and I might consider it.”

The woman giggled again, and Adrianna wondered why Blake was bothering. If they could drag her back to town, she could be interrogated there, and she seemed delirious all the same.

“Oh,” she said, “There’s the Lord of Rats, the Geiststitcher, the Dead King and his army of the holy damned.” She laughed, “So many of us. I was going to join their army, but you hacked my pretties to bits this evening, didn’t you?”

Blake swore.

“Somebody fast, get that back to town.” He said, “In case they strike tonight.”

“So,” the Ghoulcaller said with a smile, holding out her hands, wrists together. “Now’s the part where you arrest me, and when your little town is filled with the dead and dying my friends will free me. It’s a silly game but I’m playing all the same.”

“I said I’d consider it.” Blake replied.

“Well?”

There was a flash as Blake pulled the trigger of his device, and a stream of fire and angry ghosts engulfed the ghoulcaller’s head. She didn’t have time to scream, but the spirits did it for her.

“I decided against it.”

As he turned away from the spectacle and stomped back to the rest, Adrianna stepped forward.

“Is this how you treat your friends?” She demanded, “Did I sign up just to wait to be thrown away!”

Blake spat at her feet. “He was a good man.” Blake said, “With us from the start, but his tank was punctured. He was going to blow, in the cave or on top of us.”

Adrianna shrunk back a bit, and Blake shoved past her, stomping out into the night.

Two days later, Adrianna was standing on Daniel Lehrer’s balcony again, but availing herself of his company and his limited knowledge.

“I doubt you’ll scar.” He said, “None of the hooks got in very deep.”

“That’s good.” She said, “I’ll be able to fight tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Dan asked.

“That’s when they say the bulk of the enemy arrives.”

“I hadn’t heard.” Dan said with a sad sigh.

“The news from the Erdwal is that it’s not just here. Hanweir is swarming with ghouls, for a start.”

“We should be there.” Dan sighed. “I love this town, but… I feel like even if we hold it, it’s not going to make a difference.”

“And Hanweir is?” Adrianna asked, “Whether humanity lives or dies… that will probably be decided in Thraben. Probably on the steps of the Cathedral or in the shadow of the Helvault. Whether we live or die, though… that probably gets decided tomorrow.”

Daniel looked at her, his eyes full of a weight they both bore, but neither should have had to. Adrianna was just a small-town girl from Kessig. Dan? A Nephalian schoolteacher if he had his way. Neither of them were made for battle, but the times they lived in, they were both going into it.

“I’m sorry.” She said. “It might not be tomorrow anyway.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Dan replied, “You’re right… our lives are here, and that’s worthwhile, isn’t it?”

Again that terrible, mad impulse to say something dire and wrong struck Adrianna, and she opened her mouth before she could restrain it.

“Maybe yours, at least.”

Silence. Adrianna put a hand over her mouth, worried she had given offense.

“You’re just as important as I am.” Daniel said after that wait, “If only one of us makes it through, I rather hope it’s you.”

“Don’t say that!” Adrianna snapped, “You have a life, a future! I… I don’t have anything.”

“You have friends.” Dan replied, “People who care about you.”

“Forgive me if I have trouble believing that.”

“Aimee? You seem to get along well.”

“Oh, passing well.” Adrianna said, “That doesn’t mean, she’d notice if I were gone.”

“I care.”

Adrianna looked away. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing anyone could.”

“Adrianna… I think… well, I…”

She looked up, and after a second’s further hesitation, Dan kissed her on the lips.

For a few precious moments, there was nothing but silence and each other in the world, but then reality intruded again, and Adrianna and Dan stepped away from one another.

“I’ll try to make it through tomorrow if you promise you will.” Adrianna said.

“It’s a deal.”

The eleven fighting-fit souls of the Company, Dan included, stood in ranks outside the walls of town, shoulder to shoulder with militia, cathars, and anyone who could pick up a pitchfork or a cleaver and fight for their own survival.

Adrianna was on the front line. Three days before or so, she would have relished it, but now she was afraid. The front line was among the last places she wanted to be, but if she did not stand and fight, no one would take her place. There was no other choice.

The enemy was coming. Ghouls, mostly, with some horrific, towering skaabs between them.

It was at dusk when the first arrows were loosed. By midnight, they had all been spent, but neither the dead nor the living had yielded. Exhaustion set in, but the dead were not relentless, falling back and regrouping at the commands of their masters, but in so doing allowing the living to do the same.

The sky, which had been darkening at the outset of battle, was growing pink again with oncoming dawn when the last push came. One of the largest skaabs collided with the line about a hundred yards to the north, but where Adrianna stood, it began with the rats.

Hundreds, thousands of them that had no doubt been held in reserve. They crawled into the trenches, swarmed from slain ghouls, scratching and biting and a dozen more squealing undead vermin swarming in where each one fell to the sweep of a blade.

They could hold them at the palisade, Adrianna realized, about five yards back where the spent archers and the likes of Blake waited.

“Fall back!” Adrianna shouted. She had no rank, but she knew she was right, and those around her knew as well, clambering up towards the hastily constructed barricade.

Adrianna herself fell back slowly, hacking at ghouls and kicking at rats, hoping she could cover the flight of those to the left and right. At the end, it was her and Aimee, their backs against the wall, next to the small gate that had been allowed for just this eventuality. Aimee ducked inside, but as Adrianna tried to do the same, a crawling torso grasped her ankle and pulled her to the ground.

Adrianna kicked at the hideous thing as it advanced towards her, flailed at the rats around her, and as she struggled to stand again. About as she got to her hands and knees, she heard it, Jonathan Blake’s mocking voice at the wall above.

“Sorry toots.”

There was a roar, a scream, and pain the likes of which Adrianna had only imagined – but only for an instant before her world went black, the last sight before her eyes the sun’s first rays clearing the horizon.

Adrianna wandered a desert on the edge of death. She didn’t know how long she had been there. Seconds? Years?

Perhaps this was where souls went when Flight Alabaster couldn’t find them, or perhaps it was just her dream as she lay in the mud at dawn, dying of burn wounds from terrible geistflame. She didn’t know, and in some ways, she didn’t care.

In her wanderings, whether a moment after she opened her eyes or a forever of loneliness later she found another soul in the void. It was very much like a dark-feathered bird, but it had some mannish shape to it’s torso, and was mannish in size. She had seen the figure before, though never so clearly.

“Hello, Mister Raven.” Adrianna said, “Have you been waiting for me?”

Mister Raven cawed, but like she always could when a child playing with her imaginary friend, Adrianna understood the shrill cry as clear words.

You must return.

“I don’t even know where I am.” Adrianna said, “How am I supposed to find my way back?”

Mister Raven cawed. You will see the way. You have to follow it.

“That’s vague.” Adrianna replied, “And you? I didn’t know imaginary friends had souls that could wind up… wherever here is.”

This is my home, Mister Raven cawed. You are welcome, but you should go back.

To what, Adrianna wondered silently? Perhaps Flight Alabaster could find her, or perhaps she would be a geist, to haunt her killers.

“All right.” Adrianna said, “No offense, Mister Raven, but I do think it would be moving up in the world to, well, be in the world.”

Mister Raven cawed again. Good luck Adrianna. It’s behind you.

Adrianna turned, and saw a flash of light frozen in place, She reached for it, and it came closer and closer, until…

Adrianna opened her eyes, a soft light surrounding her. Her hand, unblemished, grasped her sword. She looked down at herself. The burned tatters of her old clothes were about her, and she was clad in silver armor, shining like the moon. She looked up, and saw an angel, smiling down at her from the arc of the rising sun.

She was not the only one to be spared, nor was her angel the only angel that had taken the field. In the brightest light of the angel, the rats burned and the unhallowed fell like puppets with their strings cut.

But still, enemies stood. There were many more of the dead, and behind them their creators. Adrianna had been saved for a purpose, and now she set out to fulfill it.

Before her, ghouls crumpled. Where a hundred men had held the line at best, each of Avacyn’s soldiers, Adrianna included, now drove through it with heavenly fury. She did not, afterwards, remember much of the battle, but the sun was high in the sky when the last of the foe was defeated, the Geiststitcher unseamed from navel to mouth, and the self proclaimed “Lord of Rats” brought to his knees and taken to stand for all the lives he had stolen.

What Adrianna remembered was sitting on a hillside, looking over the silent devastation and herself. The divine light had left her, and now her armor was tarnished and heavy, her very bones aching and making it a struggle to even hold the sword she had been effortlessly waving about before.

That was when her friends caught up to her. Dan, of course. Aimee and Walther, and many of the others who had trained with her in days before, and stood by her side. A number of them were worse for the wear: Walther limped noticeably, and Dan sported a broken nose and black eye.

“Jon.” He said when she asked, “After he… Well, I lost my temper and it probably would have gone worse for me if the Angels hadn’t arrived in seconds after.”

“Would have been worse for me too,” Adrianna replied. She suspected that even the magic that had restored her had its limits. “What happened to him, anyway?”

“When the Host came, and you stood up, well… he ran. He’ll probably end up in Stensia if he keeps going”

Adrianna nodded. She had nothing more to say on the matter of that man

“In any case, miss Moore,” Aimee said, “I figure that even without him, it’s a new world out there, and we’ll probably be needed somewhere else in it than here. Are you up for it?”

Adrianna smiled.

“I think I’ve died one too many times already.” She looked to Dan, “I thought I might find a home.”

Dan moved to help her to her feet, then turned to Aimee, “I hope you’ll write,” he said, “Because I don’t think I’ll be traveling with you either.”

Adrianna looked over all she could see. There was still a long way to go. It was still a battlefield, a memory of horrors not long passed… but for one shining moment at least the dead lay still and the living stood tall and proud in the light of a miraculous dawn.

It was going to be a beautiful day.