The Shade

[Nyx]

Misfortune seemed to hang above Whirda and Nyx like a particularly bad smell. This was something that Nyx had begun to accept since she had first entered the green portal in the clinical abyss otherwise known as The Nexus. However, as her red eyes fluttered open on the other side of the grey stone portal, the blood made found herself questioning whether their luck was changing or not. Though it had been at least a week since Nyx had last tried stepping through a portal, she distinctly remembered being dropped in the middle of nowhere. This time, things were different.

The blood mage realized she was leaning against her Nightsaber, Thanatos. His hulking furry mass rose and fell with every breath, though she soon felt him shudder as he sprawled into a stretch. She leant back against him and looked to Whirda, who slowly regained consciousness beside her beloved steed, Cascade. She stood and patted herself down, checking she still had everything from the transitions. They had passed through both portals (from the Tangled Green to the Nexus, and from the Nexus to the Pale Moors) in record time. Nyx followed suit, and was comforted to learn she still had everything – most importantly, her dagger and her staff were still in her possession.

'What took you so long, Amell?'

Nyx stiffened, her hand instinctively curling around the hilt of her dagger. Who was speaking to her, and more importantly, how did they know her name? In fact, the more the blood mage thought about it, how did she know that was her name? It had been years since anyone had called her anything other than Apprentice, Witch or Nyx. Her surname had not been spoken since she was born. Of that, she was certain. This wasn't Ferelden, either – so how could anyone know?

“Is everything okay?” Whirda asked, brows knitted together.

“I'm fine,” Nyx replied, forcing herself to relax. She did an excellent job of slumping against Thanatos, but she didn't look entirely at ease. “It's just that going through portals is going to take some getting used to, that's all.”

Whirda regarded Nyx suspiciously, but kept quiet and mounted Cascade. Nyx watched her for a moment, almost envying the tangible bond between horse and rider, then climbed onto her Nightsaber's back. When the shock had worn off, both Nyx and Whirda took a look around at their new surroundings.

In many ways, the Pale Moors resembled the Blighted Lands from whence they had came. Everything looked so lifeless and dark. The trees that weren't skeletal in nature were gnarled and decrepit, looming over mossy stone and fallen leaves. No flowers grew, only weeds. The weeds shot from the cracks in the stone in a desperate, if futile plea for light. No natural light shone here. The sky was thick with clouds that blotted out the sun and moon, greatly reducing visibility and enhancing the eerie shadows cast by anything and everything in the vicinity. Someone had clearly tried to make the area more habitable and navigable – lanterns were dotted around the mossy path, leading further into the darkness.

Simply standing in the Pale Moors felt like an emotionally draining experience, akin to witnessing someone's suffering. If that wasn't bad enough, neither Nyx or Whirda could shake the feeling that they were being watched. But by what, or whom?

“There,” Whirda stated, pointing south of the portal. The silhouette of a small townscape on the horizon could clearly be seen, but that was not what had drawn Whirda's attention.

”A town?” Nyx said, in total disbelief. For one, these lands looked far from hospitable; and for another, she could scarcely believe the portal had dropped them somewhere nice. It almost seemed too good to be true. One glance across to Whirda was enough to inform her that she was not alone with that sentiment. ”Maybe they'll be able to tell us where to find the Professor.”

Whirda nodded, urging Cascade forward by gently digging her heels into him. Nyx followed suit. The riders advanced at a steady pace, both equally aware of their surroundings, poised and ready to unsheathe their weapons if necessary. All that could be heard were the sounds of hooves and paws upon damp stone. The beasts bristled whenever the wind whistled through the trees, the riders following suit. Everyone was on edge, and this was a tension that persisted even as they approached the gates to Darkshire.

“Halt!” cried a shadowy figure. Nyx and Whirda exchanged furtive glances as a guard stepped into the light. The lanterns hanging from either side of the gate to Darkshire cast a strange shadow across his face. Even despite the peculiar lighting, it was clear this particular guard was quite youthful – his face lacked the nicks and scars of someone who had seen many battles. However, his expression suggested he carried some kind of heavy burden – his lips were tight and stiff. It seemed unlikely that he could, or would, smile.

“Who goes there?”

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda trotted a pace in front of Nyx, tilting her chin and staring into the boy's tired eyes. They were pale gray and resigned, like the rest of this forsaken place. He wore the threadbare studded leathers of a town militia, or underfunded city guard. A life of toil and heartache etched itself into his tight features, like scripture into stone.

"Who are you, young master? And what is it you protect?" Whirda asked, taking in all of his gangly, six-foot frame.

The young guard set his jaw and squared his shoulders. His face flashed with something not unlike pride. "I am Dobson of Darkshire," he said. "Second in command of the mayor's militia, and guardian of the gate."

"Finally," Whirda said, "someone who tells us their gods-damned name when prompted."

Nyx chuckled. "I'm Nyx," she said, smiling warmly. "This—" she pointed to Whirda and Cascade—"is Whirda Windstrom. We're from the Tangled Green, on a mission from Lady Tyrande of Yggdrassil." Nyx knew of Darkshire from the books in the archives of elfhome. One of the largest in a cluster of towns and villages in the Moors, and a good place to start their search for the professor.

"Well met, Whirda and Nyx," Dobson said. He sheathed his crude length of steel and seemed to settle into himself, the edge of deeply ingrained suspicion fading. "May I inquire as to the nature of your mission?"

Whirda frowned, narrowing her eyes. The boy was no older than eighteen, still sporting acne scars around his jawline, yet he was second in command of a militia? He spoke with the poise and authority of someone decades his senior. Sometimes she felt like she had stumbled into the caricature of a legitimate realm.

"There's a, uh, blight in the Green," Nyx said. "We're trying to find someone who can cure it."

Dobson's laugh died in the air, stifled to silence by that joyless place. "We know lots about blights 'ere. Who're you looking for?"

"His name is—" Nyx started.

Whirda cut her off with a raised hand. "You say you're second in command of your militia, Dobson?"

"Aye, that I am," he said, puffing up his scrawny chest. "Appointed by the mayor hisself, I was."

"That's great," Whirda said. "Can you take us to him?"

As if unaccustomed to questions not strictly following the script, Dobson faltered. He scratched his tousle of straw-colored hair. "To the mayor? You're meaning to come to Darkshire?"

Nyx followed the conversation with a growing sense of confusion. What was Whirda so worried about, from a kid passing his miserable life playing gate guard? What harm could there be in explaining their mission? Maybe Dobson even knew where they could find the professor.

"As good a place as any to start," Whirda said. "Your mayor wouldn't turn down an audience with a couple of primes, would he?"

Dobson's eyes darted back and forth between them, as if searching for an excuse—any excuse—to refuse their request. Not finding one, he said, "No, I spose not." He turned and beckoned. "Follow me."

"Let's get to it then!" Whirda nudged Cascade into a trot, following Dobson's slouching form.

Nyx threw Whirda a quizzical look, and Whirda grinned. The blood mage sighed and followed. As the gate opened, they got a better look at Darkshire. The town sagged low in the eternal gloom, squat buildings raised too close together to have been intended that way. As they passed into the town, they heard a familiar call. "Who goes there?" Two guards approached, in armor heavier and better wrought than Dobson's. One hoisted a torch, illuminating the road in front of them. The other hefted sword and shield as if expecting a fight. Once Dobson approached, the latter's face split into a sneering grin.

"Why if it ain't Dobby, Lord of the Gate! What news from the least dangerous place in the Moors?"

The guard holding their lantern sniggered until he saw the two primes ride up behind Dobson, atop their mounts, menacing in robes and armor.

Dobson glowered. "Let us pass, Robert."

The armed guard, Robert, stalked up to Dobson and put his face right above the boy's head. Dobson flinched and Robert barked a laugh.

"On 'ose authority, boy? Who're they to request entrance to Darkshire?"

"My authority. I'm second in command," Dobson attempted. He tried and failed to keep the waver from his voice. "I could have your quals for this."

"Daddy's little soldier!" Robert boomed. "Barely out the crib and already assigned to the shittiest watch in the realm!" Robert sobered, eyeing Nyx, then Whirda. "Who're you two then?"

Whirda dismounted and strode up to Robert, who had her by a foot and a hundred pounds. She did not falter as she drew to her full height and stared him in his watery brown eyes.

"I am Whirda Windstrom, prime of the Tangled Green," she said, her tone laced with venom. "I have business with your mayor—business too urgent to deal with bullies and fools."

At the word prime, Robert frowned. "Three of ya in as many days," he muttered. Gods above. World's goin' to shit when there's three primes in Darkshire, you mark my words."

"Out of the way, Robert," Dobson spat. "We're busy."

"Sure." All the fight had fled Robert's hulking frame. He seemed suddenly and profoundly weary. "Get to it, then." The guards parted, and Whirda and Nyx followed Dobson through the square.

"What was all that?" Nyx asked, once they were out of earshot.

"Nothing," Dobson said defensively. He heaved a sigh. "Let's go see the mayor."

[Nyx]

The more Nyx saw of Darkshire, the more unsettled she became. Aesthetically, the villagers had done an excellent job of making it look as though every building was populated and lived-in; but it lacked the vivacity of a true, thriving town. It seemed desolate and empty, almost like every building was part of a play set. The townsfolks' artificial responses helped to clue Nyx in as to why Whirda was so suspicious of the people in Darkshire. Something was wrong, she just couldn't put her finger on what, exactly.

The City Hall itself was nothing special, if the exterior was anything to go by. It was one of the larger buildings within Darkshire, but that was one of the only features which really set it apart from the rest. Dobson paused as they approached the doors, gazing up at the City Hall almost reverently. His chest swelled with pride as he nodded to the guards blocking the door.

The two guards, much surlier and well-armoured than the ones before, peered down at Dobson, making no attempts to hide their sneers. “Dobby!” one of them called, his gruff voice indicative that his size was not solely attributed to his bulky armour. He stepped forward and jovially punched Dobson's shoulder.

If either Nyx or Whirda could see Dobson's face, they would see that the young man was nearing the end of his tether. He stiffened as his 'colleague' punched his shoulder, stepping backwards from the force of the blow, then adamantly straightening. “That's enough,” he muttered darkly. “Let us in.”

Nyx's curiosity was piqued by the tone Dobson's voice took. He sounded like a man who had a vicious streak – one he was rapidly nearing, thanks to his fellow guards treating him with a complete lack of respect. The short, snappy nature of the younger guard's sentences implied that he was shockingly close to snapping. The question on her mind now was, just what would happen if he DID snap?

She didn't really have time to ponder the possible outcomes, as the two guards blocking their passage to City Hall itself stepped aside without further mocking or argument. Dobson seemed to relax, and the darkness he had shown ebbed away just as easily as if the tide had swept it away.

Dobson silently lead Nyx and Whirda towards the City Hall's entrance. He paused as they approached the stairs leading inside, turning to face them.

“You can't bring those inside,” he stated simply, pointing at Cascade and Thanatos in turn. “You can leave them out here.”

The grounds surrounding the City Hall weren't entirely unfit for riding beasts, it had to be said. There was plenty of room for them to move freely, and there were a few troughs set up on the western side of the building for them to drink from. Nyx and Whirda shared a look before nodding, dismounting their respective beasts. Both women left their animals with an affectionate pat or scritch before rejoining Dobson at the entrance.

“The Mayor is inside,” Dobson stated somewhat unnecessarily, stepping inside. Nyx and Whirda followed. He guided them easily through the winding entrance and into the main hall. The interior of the City Hall was much more impressive than its exterior. It looked like a mix between a theatre and a political meeting room. The focal point of the main hall was the podium, surrounded by rows of chairs arranged in an almost militant formation. The upholstery suggested they were well-used, as though the City Hall got a lot of use out of its residents. That made sense, given the looming crisis outside of the gates.

The Mayor swept over to meet them in a blur of black coat-tails. He bowed his head politely upon recognizing Dobson, clasping his hands together eagerly and regarding his new guests with a childlike curiosity.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mayor," Dobson began. "These two primes are here to see you."

He emphasised the word as though it was some kind of ailment or disease, an intonation Nyx was quick to pick up on. She shot a sidelong glance at Whirda, whose eyes narrowed. She'd picked up on it, too.

"Don't hang around, dear boy!" the Mayor bellowed with a hearty chuckle, adjusting his monocle. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

Nyx stepped forward before Dobson could speak, extending her hand in greeting. "I'm Nyx, and this is Whirda Windstrom. We come from the Tangled Green, on behalf of Lady Tyrande of Yggdrassil." Dobson glared at the back of her head, resentful that she hadn't let him introduce them.

The Mayor didn't seem phased, taking Nyx's hand and shaking it firmly. "A pleasure to meet you both," he said with a kindly nod. "Business from Tyrande, you say?"

"Did she stutter?" Whirda muttered. Nyx picked up on her snide comment and shot her a warning glance. "There's a blight within the Green. We're looking for someone who can help us cure it. Can you help?" Whirda continued coolly, as though she had never made the remark at all.

"A blight?" the Mayor repeated, clasping his hands together behind his back, turning to look at the podium. "Darkshire has had more than its fair share of those, I'm afraid to say."

'If only he knew about Ferelden, hmm?'

The voice that had been haunting Nyx over the last few days had uttered one careless little comment, but it had a profound effect on her mental state. She bristled, her entire face hardening, though she did her best to hide any kind of physical reaction to the surprise as her mind whirled with a thousand possibilities. Who was the voice? How did it know so much about her? Why wouldn't it leave her alone? Was it related to the Blight that haunted the Elves?

"As for a cure, well... I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to help you with that myself." The Mayor turned to face them, showing them his palms in an apologetic gesture.

"You wouldn't happen to know of a Professor Van Helsing, would you?" Nyx interjected, hoping that actively participating in the discussion would take her mind off of whatever was happening.

The Mayor chuckled, a malicious twinkle present for just a fleeting moment in his eyes. "He has done much for this town," he said gravely. "We are very grateful to him, and do our best to protect him as best as we can. So you'll understand my reluctance to help you find him."

'Or maybe he doesn't know?'

[PepsiWhirda]

Something had Nyx distracted. Whirda saw the way she would go rigid, listening raptly to something no one else could hear, the way she bristled like she was preparing for an attack, the storm that raged behind her eyes. She didn't even seem to notice the mayor's affliction.

He seemed normal enough to a casual observer—even cordial. All it took, though, was a closer look to see something was terribly wrong. Even in the humid gloom of the Moors, he wore thick wool clothing, cinched tightly at the ankles and wrists. His hands were concealed by silk gloves, his ankles by boots, his face by a thick layer of concealing makeup. But Whirda caught sight of the skin above the mayor's high collar. The skin was gray and splotched with disease, the skin sloughing off in flakes. Though he was polite and assertive, his voice was paper thin, like dry leaves caught in the wind. The monocle did nothing to hide that his eyes were bloodshot and tainted by jaundice.

And if all that wasn't enough, there was the distinct air of death clinging to him like a parasite. It bled from him into the air, like pus from a suppurating wound.

"If he helped your town so much," Whirda said, her voice knife sharp, her tone unrelenting, "wouldn't you wish to confer the same benefit on other peaceful members of the realms?"

Something flashed behind the mayor's eyes, too quick for Whirda to pin down. Malice? She bristled like a threatened predator, but she fought to suppress the feeling. Time was running out in the Tangled Green, and the mayor seemed like their best chance of finding the professor.

"I have no evidence that you are peaceful, Whirda Windstrom, armed and armored as you are in my presence. Are you in the habit of approaching dignitaries in full combat garb and requesting their absolute compliance? To me, that feels like a threat." His smile was sickly sweet. Whirda suspected beyond his honeyed exterior, his life was considerably less saccharine.

"Dignitary?" Whirda snorted. Before she could continue, Nyx placed a hand gently on her chest. She fell into disgruntled silence.

"My companion is, er, a little less politically minded than I am," the blood mage said, her words calm and measured. "We of course don't mean to threaten anyone."

The mayor remained silent, but bade her to continue with a contended dip of his head. Whirda felt like cutting his throat right then and washing her hands of the entire thing.

"And we understand, sir," Nyx went on, "your reluctance in helping us. In a place like the Moors, I'm sure you can't be too careful."

"That, my dear, is an understatement," the mayor chuckled.

Whirda marveled at the way Nyx could seemingly woo the man with no difficulty. Politics was a skill she had long forgotten and fought never to reacquire. Now she began to regret that decision.

Nyx laughed politely before continuing. "I'm certain it is. It's just—it's just, we've seen the blight in the Green first hand. It devastates the forests and costs the elves resources they cannot spare in this time of war. If we can't find a cure soon, it may consume the entire realm."

"You are cunning, Nyx, I'll give you that," the mayor said. "But Darkshire is no friend of elves, or ally of the Tangled Green. I see no reason why it should be any concern of mine."

Nyx hardened, a rigidity of demeanor taking over similar to the ones Whirda had witnessed since they reached the Moors. But this time, she was focused, on the mayor and on the mission at hand. "The defense of Darkshire is important to you, is it not?"

"My dear, I have dedicated years of my life to the defense of this town. There is nothing more important to me."

Whirda saw what Nyx would say before she said it, and she continued to silently applaud the clever blood mage. eg^g

"Well, as I said, the elves expend considerable resources simply to slow the blight's advances. If the blight were to be eradicated, those resources would be, uh, freed up, wouldn't you say?"

The mayor took pause at that, rubbing his gloves hands together in consideration. "Yes, I suppose they would." Another sugary smile had Whirda wishing she could vomit in a "dignitary's" presence.

"On Lady Tyrande's divine authority, I am told to promise you a portion of those resources—archers, mages, and swordsmen—to bolster your defenses. Perhaps even to push back your invaders and reclaim lost territory."

"What guarantee do I have that Lady Tyrande will be true to her word?" the mayor asked dubiously, but the hopeful—greedy?—glint in his eye couldn't be missed.

Whirda saw that Nyx would falter and interjected. "The elf queen's word is her bond, sir. That may be all the guarantee we can promise you, but it seems substantial when all we ask is to speak with the professor."

Something about Whirda seemed to raise the mayor's hackles. The whole room seemed to react to his scowl. The torches flickered violently, as if buffeted by heavy wind. Shadows gathered thick in the corners, and darkness drew in close around them. For the first time, Whirda detected a steady scrape-thunk from the next room—the unmistakable sound of skeletal feet taking slow, shuffling steps on the wooden floor.

After a few long seconds, everything went back to normal. The mayor's face split into a wide grin. "Good enough for me!" he boomed. "Unfortunately, the professor is away at the moment. I am not certain when he will return, but when he does, I would be happy to arrange an audience."

"Where is he?" Whirda asked.

The mayor sobered. "Tragic thing, tragic thing," he muttered. "During the last invasion, two of our little ones were abducted by agents of the shade, Ebyn Thul. He feeds on them, you see—on children. The professor took it upon himself to slay the shade and bring them back.

"I have dealt with shades before," Whirda said. "No one man can slay a shade, much less a professor."

"Professor is merely an appellation, my dear," the mayor said. "Professor Van Helsing is a skilled warrior as well as an adept scholar."

"Nevertheless, he will need help." The idea of the professor, purportedly the one man who could cure the blight and free Whirda of her debt to the elves, being killed in battle shook her to her core. "We can help him deal with the shade, and bring him back all the quicker. Quicker to cure the blight, and quicker to deliver on Lady Tyrande's word."

"You say you have dealt with shades before?" the mayor asked, scratching his chin. His gloved hand came away smeared with skin-colored makeup.

"And all manner of creatures of the night," Whirda affirmed.

"As have I!" Nyx, now feeling left out, piped in.

The mayor considered this for some time. Through the windows of the hall, Whirda watched the night fall. In dusk, the town grew, if possible, even more shadowy and grim. Finally, he spoke.

"Very well. If you are as proficient as you say in dealing with shades, it would be irresponsible of me not to accept your help."

"I agree," Whirda said icily.

"Whirda!" Nyx growled, and Whirda flashed an innocent look.

"The shade's den is somewhere northwest of here. Perhaps a day's travel, if the professor's hunch was right. That is all the information I have, I'm afraid."

Whirda was already walking out of the chamber. She answered over her shoulder, dismissively, "Expect our return in two days. You have been... most helpful."

"Two days!" the mayor called after her. "And I expect Lady Tyrande to deliver on her word."

Whirda didn't answer, and the chamber doors banged shut behind her a moment later.

Nyx flushed red with embarrassment. Whirda's tactless approach to negotiations, however successful, wore on her as the days went on. "Sorry, uh, sir. Two days!" She followed Whirda out the door, leaving Dobson and the mayor alone in the hall.

[NPC]

As the door swung closed behind the two women, Dobson turned to his mayor and inquired, “Sir… are you sure it’s alright to let them go? A couple of Primes would be invaluable in holding to town walls. And to allow them to leave at night of all times…”

Boone sighed, nearly collapsing into a chair. Being so friendly was becoming increasingly exhausting for him. Pulling off his gloves, the Mayor of Darkshire stared at the skeletally gaunt hands before him for a moment, before setting them in his lap.

“I doubt we could have kept them here had we wanted to, Dobby, my boy. And if we did, we’d be no better than Dracula and his minions.”

Shaking his head, Boone continued, “No… I won’t allow us to commit such evil.” His tone made it clear he meant himself when he said ‘us’.

“However, if you’re worried about those two, you have my leave to shadow them on their mission. You’ve proven in the past that you’re among our best when it comes to moving unnoticed, a trait many of your compatriots seem to forget, it seems.”

Dobson bristled at Mortimer’s words, his humiliation and anger showing in his cheeks. “Don’t worry yourself about that, Mayor. You have more important things to think about.”

Boone waved it away, and shrugged. “I suppose that may be, boy… However, I will admit that there was an alternative motive to me suggesting you follow them. I’d like for you to keep an eye on those two. They could be agents of the Dark Count, and even if they are not, it would still be prudent to make sure they don’t cause any trouble out there. One or two shades killed won’t draw Dracula’s attention too much, but he WILL counterattack if he thinks we’re making a play to take the Moors from him.”

Dobson nodded in response to his Mayor’s words, bowing himself out while saying the appropriate words of leaving. Boone let the young man go and sunk even further into chair and closing his eyes. He couldn’t tell the boy, of course, but there was another reason Boone had him keeping eyes on those women. One Dobby would have to learn for himself.

[Nyx]

The crisp bite of the evening air on Nyx's reddened face was just what she needed. It soothed her warmed skin and sobered her up to the reality of the task they faced. As she and Whirda descended the steps of the City Hall's entrance, their companions moved to greet them. Cascade nickered and reared his head towards Whirda, and Thanatos prowled forwards and rubbed his head against Nyx's shoulder. Neither of the females wasted any time in mounting their respective beasts and moving towards the inner city gate.

The look that the guards gave them as they stepped aside and opened the gate was one of sheer disbelief: clearly, they had overheard at least part of the Primes' meeting with the Mayor. “Two days?” Whirda heard one of the guards mutter as they passed. She shot him an intimidating look which immediately caused him to clear his throat and stand to attention, as though he had just remembered his manners. She then settled, satisfied, back into Cascade's saddle.

The outer city gate was unaware of the promises that Whirda and Nyx had made, and as such they were met with less resistance.

“Wait!” cried a familiar voice. The pounding of footsteps on cobblestone drew nearer. Nyx turned her head to look at the source of the noise, and was greeted by none other than a red-faced Dobson. “Two days?” he panted, doubled over as he tried to catch his breath. For a young guard, he wasn't very fit. “You're telling me you'll be back in two days?”

'In a body bag, maybe.'

“Do I look like a liar to you, Dobson?” Whirda replied coolly, not even bothering to face the guard.

His face flushed a darker shade of red, and he rapidly shook his head. “N-No, it's just--”

“We appreciate your concern,” Nyx intervened, diplomatic as always. She even offered Dobson a kindly smile.

“You do your job, and we'll do ours,” Whirda added airily. She didn't need to deliver the comment with any degree of spite – her words alone had the desired effect.

Dobson visibly wilted, processing what she had said, before his chest swelled and he adjusted his posture to make himself look bigger. “I will!” he called defiantly, but the Primes had already begun to move. They followed the lantern-lit path out of Darkshire without so much as a backward glance. All the guards could do was stare after them in awe. “Two days...” Dobson repeated, more to himself than anyone else, as he turned and walked away.

Lead by Whirda's determination, the allied Primes kept a brisk pace as they followed the Mayor's vague directions. For the most part, they rode in silence. Both Nyx and Whirda seemed at least mildly unsettled by their surroundings, and by the darkness and mist which vastly reduced their visibility. The further north they rode from Darkshire, the darker the Moors became.

Eventually, they began to move into swamp territory. The ground squelched beneath them as they pressed onwards.

'You're not very observant, are you Nyxy?'' the voice drawled, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

'I'm aware we're being followed, if that's what you mean,' Nyx snapped. And it was true. Whenever Nyx and Whirda pressed onwards, Nyx heard an extra set of foot or hoofprints behind them. Judging by how vigilant Whirda was being as she scouted the area ahead of them, Nyx trusted that she could sense that, too.

Whirda shot Nyx a suspicious look, but said nothing, turning her attention back to their surroundings. She had fought Shades before – she knew what they were up against, and it was not going to be an easy battle. In many ways, she was pleased she had set aside her prejudices and accepted Tyrande's gift – the enchanted kukri should prove useful, she thought. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her kukri as a shadow shambled towards them.

The mist that hung over the Moors did an excellent job of shrouding the creature, but from the awkward way it moved, she was confident it was a member of the Undead – and it was not alone. Cascade whinnied uneasily, but settled as Whirda gave him a reassuring pat with her spare hand. The other was swiftly drawing one of her kukri. She leapt from the horse's saddle easily and gracefully, preparing to attack.

”Whirda! Behind you!” Nyx cried, facing the opposite direction to Whirda. The Undead were slowly closing in on them from behind, too. As Whirda thought about whirling to help Nyx, she spoke again. ”I'll cover you!”

“Aina kala,” Whirda uttered, and in a flash of light her blades were ablaze with holy fire. The new light source served as a focal point for the risen, who honed in on Whirda and all began to make a beeline for the flames.

”Was that really such a good idea?” Nyx yelled uneasily, having already torn open the wound on her left palm, as she began to hurl blood bolts at the advancing corpses to delay their advance. They stumbled from the force of the impact, but otherwise seemed relatively undeterred by her attacks.

Whirda, on the other hand, was laying waste to the undead as if it was nobody's business. Tyrande's enchantment had kept her promise. She barely had to guide her blade, the second any part of the metal touched the rotting flesh, it ignited the entire body, allowing her to cleave them with ease. She was massacring the undead without so much as breaking a sweat. With one smooth motion, the undead that had shambled towards her from the front exploded in a burst of holy fire and began to smoulder as the bog beneath them absorbed what little remained. She pivoted and lunged for the undead moving towards Nyx, making quick work of ending their unlives.

“Hauta,” Whirda finished, the fire subsiding and settling within her blades again. She holstered her kukri and climbed atop Cascade calmly, as though nothing had happened.

'Not bad, princess – but what did you bring to that little onslaught?'

Nyx reached into her robes and began to bandage her hand, pointedly ignoring the bickering voice in the back of her head. Its condescending nature was familiar to her – she knew she had dealt with its kind before. But what was it? She had dealt with many unnatural forces back in Ferelden, it had to be said – but surely they couldn't follow her here? The Blight seemed to be the exception to the rule, but...

“You were saying?” Whirda replied smugly, apparently pleased with the effects Tyrande's enchantment had had on the undead, and beginning to continue their journey. Nyx followed.

'Where did your little friend go?'

”Whirda... Something's wrong,” Nyx began, slowing so she could focus on listening. She couldn't hear the same set of foot or hoofprints she did before. ”We're not being followed anymore.”

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda surveyed the carnage wrought by her elf-enchanted blades. Charred undead limbs strewn across the ground, putrid blood smeared across the entire scene—across Whirda herself, she realized, flicking a glob of the stuff from the rim of her sallet. Her weapons themselves were spotless. The holy fire burned away any undead residue, leaving them, if possible, even cleaner than before.

The shambling creatures were comically inept, hardly what she had expected from the Pale Moors. Even without Lady Tyrande's enchantment, she would have made quick work of them. Even during the fight, her attention was elsewhere. On the person following them. On Darkshire's sinister mayor, whose motives she couldn't begin to pin down. And especially on Nyx. The voices, or whatever they were, in the blood mage's head were more frequent now. Every few minutes she went rigid in her saddle, that look of far-off consternation plastered on her face, squinting her crimson eyes like she was trying to see something far off.

Whirda absentmindedly mounted Cascade and rode off, leaving the smoldering corpses behind.

After a minute, she noticed the silence. Before, she could hear the rider behind them, far enough to avoid notice in the gloom, but just close enough to be heard. Now, there was nothing. She turned in her seat, searching for the rider. Her reason told her to expect an attack, but her instinct, far more trustworthy, spoke to a different theory. Dobson.

As if on cue, Nyx spoke. "Whirda... something's wrong. We're not being followed anymore."

"I know," Whirda said tersely. She could see nothing along the winding road behind them, except the dull glow of undead flesh smoldering on the roadside.

"Do you think we scared them off?" Nyx said, smiling.

Whirda ignored her. Something was wrong. Alarm bells rang in her head, but she wasn't sure what to do. Ride back, into a potential ambush, or ignore the signs and continue on their journey.

As if to answer her question, a strangled cry echoed in the silence. A familiar voice, tainted by fear.

"Is that..." Nyx said, confused.

"Come on!" Whirda said, tugging back on Cascade's reins and digging her heels into the horse's sides. Cascade scrambled to turn, and tore off in the direction of the scream. Whirda bent low, whispering assurances in the horse's ear. Whatever they were approaching, she suspected, it would not be as simple as a handful of shuffling zombies.

Nyx bounded ahead of Whirda, the nightsaber's superior agility overtaking Cascade. She clung to the great cat's churning shoulders, the goblin chieftain's staff bouncing painfully against her back. Something had the nightsaber angry. Nyx felt the vibrations as a primal growl erupted from its mouth, quickly turning to a roar that split the air and reverberated in her ears. After a hectic thirty second ride, the cat slid sideways and shook its whole body violently, like it was trying to dry off after a swim. Nyx was knocked from its back and sprawled in the dust. Before she could stand, it bounded off into the darkness, still following the source of the scream.

Nyx stood, cursing, and brushed the dust from her robes. Whirda rode up beside her. She offered a hand and Nyx took it, swinging up behind the battle mage and settling in to the back of the saddle, wrapping her arms around Whirda's waist.

Directed by the cat's continued roaring, now intermingled with the yelps, barks, and howls of something canine, Whirda and Nyx tore through a copse of sickly trees and emerged in a clearing. Whirda was already dismounting, tucking into a roll and coming up running, her kukris somehow already in her hands, though Nyx hadn't seen them leave their sheaths.

In the center of the clearing, Dobson wrestled frantically with an undead wolf. The creature bent low over the young guard, jaws snapping inches above his face. Patches of fur hung off it in clumps, revealing the infected black flesh beneath. Its eyes were bright yellow and bloodshot, the crazed eyes of a rabid thing. Its cracked brown claws scored on Dobson's flesh, raking deep wounds in his arms and along his right thigh.

The corpses of two other wolves lay on the ground nearby, and Nyx's nightsaber wrestled with a third, the cat's jaws clamped firmly around its neck.

Dobson took notice of them, and screamed something like, "Help!" The word emerged with a dribble of blood.

Just speaking seemed to steal what remained of his strength. As Whirda sprinted across the clearing, two of Nyx's blood bolts whistling past her face, the wolf's jaws clamped down on Dobson's shoulder, rending flesh, its head snapping back and forth with a spray of blood. Gods, how Dobson screamed, the sound striking Whirda almost physically.

The blood bolts caught the wolf in the side, sending it hurtling away, a hunk of Dobson's flesh still in its stubborn jaws. In a second, Whirda was atop it, her weapons ablaze, holy fire devouring fur and flesh, muscle and bone. By the time she was done, an unrecognizable pile of gore was all that remained, burning in the night.

The nightsaber, having finished off the fourth wolf, padded up beside her, its face bloodstained, its eyes still ablaze with territorial fury. Cats and dogs, Whirda thought, and fought the peculiar urge to laugh.

Nyx was already at Dobson's side, wrapping her few remaining bandages tight around his shoulder. He sobbed with the pain. The wounds along his arms and thighs, though numerous, were shallow. They weren't life threatening, so she would have to tend to them later.

"We have to get him back to Darkshire," Nyx muttered, focused on her work.

Dobson's bloody hand came up, quicker than expected, to wrap around her wrist. "No," he groaned. "Not Darkshire. No one—no one there who can..." His eyelids fluttered. The words emerged thick with exhaustion. If he lost consciousness, Whirda wasn't sure he would ever awaken.

The battle mage knelt, and slapped him firmly across the face.

"What!" he yelped, his eyes going momentarily wide. "What—"

"Stay with us, Dobson! Don't you dare fall asleep! Why can't we take you to Darkshire?"

"No one there who can fix me," he said, his eyes out of focus. "Only—only the professor can."

"Van Helsing?" Nyx asked, and Dobson vigorously nodded. Blood spurted from his shoulder wound and he moaned.

"If we don't get to him... quickly. If we don't, I'll—I'll turn into one of... one of..." His eyes closed, and Whirda's next slap rendered no response. A line of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, traced a red path down cheeks white with blood loss and fear.

"What does he mean?" Nyx asked, looking to Whirda. "He'll turn into what?"

"One of them," Whirda said darkly. "One of the undead. I've seen this before, in Faerûn. The creatures carry an infection. If they bite you, you turn into one of them. A creature of the night."

"How soon?" Nyx's eyes were wide with fear. "We can't just take him with us, can we? I mean, we have to, but... what if he..."

"There's time." Whirda spoke through her teeth, trying to calculate. "If we ride straight, without stopping, without resting... there's time. He's young. He's strong."

"We'll make it?" Nyx asked.

Whirda exhaled through her teeth. "We'll make it."

[Nyx]

That the Blight could infect animals as well as people was an entirely new concept for the Blood Mage, and one she was not entirely comfortable with. Her knowledge and experience had given her a reasonable understanding of how undeath affected humans, as well as the transitional stages the infected go through; from initial contraction to full manifestation of the disease. Animals and wildlife never really factored into the equation, aside from the general knowledge that no biome could be expected to survive if the Blight touched it.

Seeing a blight-touched wolf with her own eyes was a very sobering experience for her. She sought relief from her battle with the godforsaken beast, and the knowledge that it would die (and stay dead) just as the risen corpses did. Realistically, however, Nyx knew that her knowledge was not comprehensive. That was one beast. One. She had no way of knowing how far along 'the transition' it was, or what it was really capable of.

The silver lining, of course, was learning that her Nightsaber was capable of assisting her in battle. Its teeth and claws were much more powerful than she had realized, and she commended herself on selecting such an aggressive animal as her mount – though she also made a mental note to tame the beast later, and teach it that throwing its Master from its back in pursuit of a glorified dog was not appropriate conduct.

One good thing came of the laboured exchange with Dobson – that the Blight plaguing both the Tangled Green and the Pale Moors was something of a known enemy. Both Nyx and Whirda were familiar with similar afflictions, and from the information they had gathered already, the general means were the same: you get bitten, you become infected, the infection assumes control of your body. Of course, the source of the infection itself remained a mystery, and really served to hit home how important it was that they found the Professor.

If they didn't find him soon, Dobson would be collateral damage.

“We'll make it,” Whirda had insisted. Whether she had intended for those words to soothe Nyx or herself was up for debate, but Nyx appreciated them nonetheless.

“You said we have time,” Nyx began with newfound courage, “so let's not waste it.”

The blood mage unsheathed her trusted dagger and hacked at the bottom of her robes, cutting a good few inches off of the bottom. She fashioned the material into a makeshift rope, and quickly began to bind Dobson's hands together. She was careful not to put too much strain on his injured shoulder, but practicality won over compassion, making his discomfort and cries somewhat inevitable. Whirda understood the necessity of binding the young guard, and almost found herself silently commending Nyx on her improvisation. She helped him climb atop her trusted steed's back as soon as his wrists were secure.

Nyx stood, her floor length robes now draped a few inches below her knees, and moved towards Thanatos. The oversized cat was licking the blood from around his maw, purring contentedly, presumably congratulating himself on a job well done. Despite her prior annoyance at his willingness to dismount her, the blood mage scritched behind his ears before mounting him again. Apparently seeking penance for his past actions, Thanatos dipped his body low to help her climb atop him with ease.

“We ride straight?” Nyx repeated, facing northwest. Whirda nodded.

The battle mage and blood mage dug their heels into their respective beasts in perfect unison. Both equine and feline tore into the night, driven by equal parts fear and determination. The swamp was silent, save for their paw and hoofprints as they ventured northbound. No undead abominations sought to intercept them on their journey, though both riders remained vigilant. If any appeared, they would be ready.

After a few hours of solid riding, Whirda saw fit to speak her mind. They were making good time in their pursuit of the Shade's den, and she didn't want to be plagued by doubts or suspicions when the time came to actually face the Shade that waited for them. The more ground they covered, the less time Whirda had to clear the air. They weren't ideal circumstances – what with a semiconscious Dobson muttering incomprehensible statements behind her, - but they would have to do.

“Nyx,” Whirda began, casting a sidelong glance at the blood mage. “What is going on with you?”

“What do you mean?” Nyx replied distantly. She inwardly cursed the battle mage's perceptiveness.

'She's on to you~' the voice taunted in a singsong voice, seeming thoroughly pleased with itself.

“That is exactly what I mean,” Whirda snapped, clearly offended by Nyx's attempt to play dumb. “You keep spacing out, like you've just seen a ghost.”

The blood mage didn't know how to respond. She froze, as seemed to be a common occurrence for her nowadays. Her crimson eyes darted around furtively, looking at anything but Whirda. This was something the battle mage didn't take too kindly to.

“Look at me,” Whirda growled. Nyx slowly dragged her gaze up to meet hers, in much the same manner as a scolded child. “Tell me what's going on.”

Nyx sighed, seeing no other option but to comply with Whirda's wishes. ”Alright,” she began reluctantly, ”but you probably won't like it.”

Whirda's eyes narrowed. “Try me.”

”I keep hearing this voice. I don't know who or what it belongs to – all I know is that it knows more about me than I've ever felt comfortable sharing. Like my last name.” The blonde cocked an eyebrow, clearly curious. Nyx recognized the unspoken prompt to reveal her last name, but chose to ignore it instead. ”I think I remember experiencing something similar, but it was such a long time ago, I--”

“You've experienced this before?” Whirda interjected incredulously.

Nyx nodded solemnly, or at least as solemnly as was humanely possible when riding a sprinting Nightsaber. ”I have, back in Ferelden. It happened in the events leading up to my Harrowing.”

“Your Harrowing? What's that, some kind of test?”

”You're not far off. It's a trial all apprentice mages must pass if they wish to be recognized as full members of the Circle of Magi. Failure is not an option.”

“What does the trial involve?”

”I can only speak from my own personal experience, but I used Lyrium – a highly potent mineral – to enter a realm called The Fade. When I had passed through The Veil (the transition between this realm and the next), a demon was waiting for me. It sought to possess my body and enter the living realm. Either I resisted temptation, or I opened myself up to demonic possession.”

Whirda's face contorted with disgust at the blood mage's explanation, but she forced herself to remain objective to try and understand her dilemma. “The demon spoke to you before you fought it?”

”Something like that,” Nyx agreed, nodding. Whirda had actually hit the nail on the head. ”Though for me, the demon's influence never really left. Until I wound up here, that is.”

“If you defeated the demon, how was it able to communicate with you still?”

”Your guess is as good as mine. There are reports of other mages who practice my discipline experiencing something similar, so maybe that has something to do with it.”

“Do you think it's the same demon contacting you now as the one you spoke to in... Ferelden, was it?”

”Ferelden, yes. I'm not sure if it's the same demon. Truthfully, I don't really remember much of my life in Ferelden, so I'm not really sure if I recognize this voice or not.”

'Liar, liar, pants on fire...'

This time, it was Whirda's turn to bristle. As she opened her mouth to interrogate Nyx further, she was distracted by Dobson's bound hands prodding at the base of her spine. In the heat of the blood mage's confession, neither she or Whirda had noticed the change in atmosphere. The air was so thick and heavy that every breath felt like a massive effort. Their muscles felt weakened by the strain of holding them upright – it was a sensation Whirda recognized, though she really wished she didn't. They were closing in on the Shade.

[PepsiWhirda]

In Faerûn, there were demons. Of course there were. Especially after the Spellplague, when magic and sorcery were forever warped and the gods went to war, it was common for insane magic users to call on those who dwelt in the Abyss. As familiars, tenuous allies, or even masters, demons had become a permanent fixture in the realms.

What Nyx described, though, was something different. Something worse. The blood mage hadn't summoned this demon. As far as Whirda knew, she had no idea of its intentions, or even its whereabouts. One thing they seemed to agree on was the nature of demons. Intrinsically evil, manipulative, and dangerous, the creatures were not to be underestimated. If one of them was in Nyx's head, if it could possibly threaten Whirda, who hadn't yet returned to her full strength, even after almost a week spent in the Omniverse... well, that foreshadowed a parting of ways between the two women. Whether Whirda liked it or not.

The time to dwell on the blood mage's affliction passed quickly. Though they were still hours distant from the shade, whose range of influence only spoke to its great strength, the aura took hold quickly. Whirda threw up her mental defenses to combat the wave of despair flooding through her. The air grew thick with it, like something of which she could reach out and tear away clumps.

Nyx seemed to be faring worse than Whirda. Her face was pale with exertion. Each breath looked strained, and her face was more contorted even than when the demon entered her head. And on top of that, Dobson was moving.

The boy hadn't regained consciousness yet. It would be hours yet before the undead affliction took hold, but already he groaned in his sleep. He struggled against his bonds by reflex, but without strength. The constant tap against Whirda's spine had her glancing back at the boy every few seconds. A wide strip of cloth covered the bottom of his face, to keep him from biting her if he awoke. The veins in his temples protruded, once red, now growing steadily black as the contagion spread. His forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat. They had to hurry.

Their passage took them through the center of a town. Or rather, what had once been a town. The wall, similar to Darkshire's, lay in splinters, the thick logs split and thrown carelessly aside, as by some hulking monster. The road was strewn with skeletal debris, mostly human bones, but some canine, some equine, and some much larger than Whirda had seen in the Omniverse—perhaps giant, ogre, or troll. The few remaining buildings were soot-black and dilapidated, rafters and siding torn away by looters or scavengers. Whirda and Nyx tore down the main avenue, scanning the buildings for signs of assailants or survivors.

Nyx, looking up, was the first to see the massive silhouette descending upon them.

"Whirda!" she cried, tearing the bandage off of her palm.

Whirda caught sight of it, though she could hardly tell what it was, apart from the broad wings beating against the air. A second followed the first, unleashing a preternatural, screeching howl that had Whirda's hands clamped over her ears and her teeth gritted in agony. Only one creature she knew of could make a sound like that—a banshee—, but those didn't have wings. This was something new.

Fifteen feet across, its body easily as large as Cascade, the first creature swept low over the street ahead, each beat of its wings sending bones and detritus swirling into the air, to clunk hollowly against the burnt out buildings. Whirda leaped from Cascade's back, shoving Dobson's unconscious form to the ground, but another screech rattled her head and stole her footing. She stumbled and fell amidst the bones, covering her ears again. "Be gone, Cascade!" she screamed, waving a hand and calling on the power of Omnilium. The winged creature, impossibly fast, blew by her in a blur, its taloned feet grasping the panicking horse and pulling it aloft. Cascade's terrified whinnying was cut short as the horse dissolved into a globe of varicolored Omnilium and disappeared.

Outraged to be denied its prey, the creature cut a wide arc, and returned for a second attack. Whirda stood, her kukris now unsheathed, though her fists were still pressed against her ears. One of the bat things now approached from each end of the avenue, their screeches splitting the air and stealing her balance once again.

"Go, Thanatos!" she heard Nyx yell faintly, and then the blood mage was beside her, strips of her torn robe stuffed into her ears, grabbing her arm.

Whirda once again marveled at Nyx's ingenuity. She allowed the blood mage to drag her aside. As they stumbled through an open doorway, Whirda saw the closest creature screech again—except this time, a wave of visible energy emerged from its mouth. The sonic attack struck the building with an explosion of wood. Splinters pelted the fleeing women as the opposite wall burst apart.

"Up!" Whirda screamed, pointing a kukri at a rickety staircase. Behind them, the scrape of talons told them one of the creatures had landed, and was entering the house behind them. She chanced a look back as they scrambled up the stairs, and saw a creature of nightmares. A face like a bat with an unhinged jaw, fangs as long as her kukris, eight feet of solid, black, furry mass. Wings that, even when folded, were big enough to wrap around her lithe frame and crush the life from her bones. It opened its mouth even wider—impossibly wide—, and Whirda shoved Nyx forward with all her strength.

She leaped high, grabbing an exposed rafter with both hands just as the staircase disintegrated, spraying her again with scraps of wood. She swung her legs and pushed off, landing solidly and absorbing her momentum with a roll that brought her alongside Nyx on the landing.

On the roof above, they could hear talons scraping, as the second monster tore away chunks of wood, entire rafters splintering and being thrown aside. Through the gaps, she saw her opportunity.

"Deal with this one!" she screamed, rising to her feet.

"Deal with it? How in hell am I supposed to do that!?" Nyx protested, but Whirda was already enacting her plan. Her stupid, stupid plan, a plan that would almost surely get any warrior killed.

But Whirda wasn't just a warrior, and as she jumped she propelled herself upward with a powerful gust of wind. Throwing her hands over her head, she exploded through the roof of the building, directly beneath the bat creature. "Aina kala!" she roared, and the glow of holy fire engulfed the weapons, just in time for Whirda to drive them both through the creature's muscled chest.

Her kukris split the monster's flesh like scissors cut paper. She angled them outward and dragged them free of the bat, severing its shoulders, arms, wings, and head from the rest of its body. The gust of wind carried her higher still, as the creature literally fell apart before her onslaught, the fire spreading to consume the paper-thin wings. It collapsed on the roof with a resounding thud, and Whirda controlled her descent, landing on the next roof.

That's when the building collapsed.

The weight of the fallen monster, along with the damage to the building's integrity by the sonic assault, proved too much. The first floor went first, the building dropping more than ten feet in a matter of seconds. Whirda heard Nyx scream as dust and wood exploded outward. A second later, she caught sight of furiously flapping wings, a bat-like face now missing an ear, the torso slashed and punctured multiple times by Nyx's attacks... and Nyx herself, clamped on those claws, flailing to escape but finding no success.

The creature broke free of the building as it collapsed the rest of the way. Whirda watched, aghast, as it fought for altitude, its wings shredded and bleeding air with every stroke. Nyx seemed unharmed, but howled her fear and frustration as blood bolt after blood bolt pounded into the creature's side to no avail. It was too high. She couldn't jump that high, and she had no attack to free Nyx from its clutches.

Then Whirda was roughly shouldered aside, a hulking frame dropping to a knee, leveling a crossbow and taking aim. A broad face turned to her, the very definition of calm, nostrils flared and stormy blue eyes focused. "Catch her," the man said simply, before turning back and unleashing hell on the flying creature. The crossbow whirred and clicked as bolt after bolt met the air, flying true, sinking into the winged creature's face and torso. It screeched, spun, and Whirda could see the holy fire spreading, as if the bolts themselves were made of the very magic enchanting her blades. The creature was dead before it began to fall, the talons releasing Nyx, who fell into the night.

Whirda, transfixed, almost didn't react in time.

"Catch her!" the man roared, pulling her from distraction.

"Dark and empty," she growled, sprinting to the lip of the roof and leaping straight out, stretched flat, perpendicular to the ground. The heap of rubble that had once been a building directly beneath her, she reached her arms out, wrapping them around Nyx's falling frame and simultaneously summoning another gust of wind. Her aim was true, and the women were propelled straight through the window of the building opposite. With a crash of wood and glass, and more than a few scrapes and bruises, they rolled violently across the floor. Just in time, Whirda managed to steady Nyx's skid with a controlled burst of wind.

Whirda slammed into the wall with a groan. The impact shook all of her bones. She clamped her teeth down on her tongue and screamed. Then she lay still, groaning, trying to assess the damage. No bones felt broken, though she wouldn't know until she tried to stand. A gash above her right eye oozed blood, but it was shallow. A miracle, it was, that she was still alive—that they both were.

Before she could stand, a firm hand grasped her shoulder and held her still. "Do not move," said the man from the roof. His accent was unfamiliar to Whirda, crisp and throaty, almost guttural. "I am a doctor. I can help."

Whirda was rolled gently onto her back and greeted by the same broad, handsome face. Nyx stood beside him, looking distraught.

"Whirda... what, what the, what the hell just happened?" she stammered, as if she couldn't comprehend the series of events that took her from forty feet in the air to the ground floor of the building.

"Who are you?" Whirda asked, searching the man's placid blue eyes for an answer.

"I, my dear girl, am Professor Abraham Van Helsing."

[Nyx]

Whenever Nyx felt as though she knew what to expect, or how to deal with any given situation, the Omniverse sought to throw a spanner in the works. It was something she did not appreciate, by any stretch of the imagination – and to be greeted by a pair of banshees was just the icing on the cake. She had read about them, sure, but her years spent locked away in the Circle Tower meant that she had never truly encountered one before. The lack of tangible experience to draw upon left her somewhat stumped when Whirda barked the command to just “deal with it”.

Things hadn’t entirely gone to plan. The banshee had shrugged off her blood bolts as though they were nothing more than tickles. Nyx came to the horrifying realization that maybe her magic wouldn’t save her in this harsh environment – maybe she would have to change tact? Blood magic was all she knew, or at least all that she thought she knew. That being said, she hadn’t really been feeling herself over the last few days. There was no doubt in her mind that the mystery voice was to blame. That didn’t really assist her in figuring out how to deal with it, however.

One minute, her feet had been firmly planted on the ground – the next, she was being lifted into the air by the talons of the horrendous bat-thing. The banshee issued further reminders of just how useless her magic was against it, easily ignoring her pleas and not even bother to twitch as she barraged it with blood bolts, instead intent on carrying it away to god knows where. Just as Nyx was beginning to resign herself to the knowledge that her efforts were in vain, she heard the sickening squelch of crossbow bolts puncturing leathery flesh. Though her ears were protected by scraps torn from the bottom of her robes, she heard the banshee’s wail.

The next thing she knew, she was falling.

Falling was a very peaceful experience, Nyx learned. It felt much like flying, or at least how she imagined flying would feel, if she was capable of it. She felt as though all of her troubles were still firmly clenched between the banshee’s talons, and that she had left them behind. She felt free.

This elation was short-lived, as Van Helsing’s voice tore her from her trance. “Catch her!” he had yelled. His voice lacked the fear one would anticipate when barking such a command, especially given the situation. The banshee had flown higher than any man or beast could jump, and as it drew its last strained breath, it had released Nyx. Given the height from which she was falling, if she was allowed to hit the ground at her current velocity, she would surely die.

The realization that there was a very real possibility that she would die within the next few seconds sobered Nyx, and forced her to take in the gravity of the situation. She was falling, faster and faster, with no hope of surviving the impact when she eventually landed. She had no idea what would happen to her if she actually died – would she cease to exist entirely, or would she come back? What would she come back as? Herself, or someone else? Would she even be human anymore?

The blood mage didn’t have much time to mull over every potential outcome, as she felt familiar arms close around her. The comfort she sought from what she knew was Whirda’s touch was quickly drowned out by the pain that shook through her body as she and Whirda went barrelling through the window of one of the dilapidated buildings. The glass shattered noisily, some shards embedding themselves in her robes and skin, others being sent skidding ahead of them in a kind of lethal red carpet.

Nyx tumbled out of Whirda’s arms, her body limp from shock. She rolled helplessly across the debris inside the building, only seeming to gain momentum, before a gust of wind steadied and slowed her. She ground to a halt mere inches from the wall. She pawed at the floor helplessly, nails scrabbling at the wood beneath her, struggling to find something solid to help her regain her footing. As Nyx heard Whirda scream, she summoned all the energy she could muster, and dragged herself to her feet.

Using the wall to support herself, the blood mage stumbled unsteadily towards the battle mage and the stranger hunched over her. Whirda’s screams sent icy chills down her spine, then an unfamiliar voice spoke, urging her not to move. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, forcing her tired muscles to carry her to her companion with haste. She stopped just behind Van Helsing, one hand still pressed against the wall for support, the other cradling her ribs.

The shock of the events she had just encountered began to subside, leaving only questions.

The most pressing question was, of course, what happened? It had all happened so quickly that Nyx hadn’t had time to process anything. Now that the banshees were dead – or at least, she hoped they were dead, - she was left with the fallout of the fight and a lot of gaping holes in her memory. Whirda didn’t seem interested in answering her question, instead focusing her attention on the stranger, who she believed had introduced himself as some kind of doctor.

It didn’t really twig that he could have been the one they were fighting to reach until the words had left his lips. Hearing him utter his name – Professor Abraham Van Helsing, - momentarily caused the blood mage to forget her physical state. Relief washed over her, and hope swelled within. She staggered towards him, collapsing a few feet away from Whirda, landing on her hands and knees.

“Careful now,” Van Helsing chided, flashing Nyx a warning glance. Meanwhile, his hands expertly poked and prodded Whirda to assess the extent of the damage she had sustained. He cautiously lifted her limbs in unison, testing their range of mobility. “You’re lucky you haven’t broken anything,” he told her, ignoring her grunts of protest. “Your back absorbed the brunt of the damage. You’re actually very lucky that your spine wasn’t fractured by the impact – if it had been, you would be in serious trouble.”

“She’s going to be okay?” Nyx piped up, crawling closer.

“As long as you’re careful, I believe you’ll make a full recovery,” Van Helsing confirmed, speaking directly to Whirda. He swooped around to her side, wrapping one of his strong arms around her shoulder. Nyx realized what he was doing and darted over, ducking under Whirda’s arm and helping Van Helsing lift her to her feet. The battle mage seemed a little shaky on her feet, but quickly adjusted. She looked a little uncomfortable at being helped, but nodded in thanks to both of her companions. “The healing process won’t be easy - or comfortable, - but you’ll make it. Just try and take it easy.”

With the knowledge that Whirda would survive, Nyx allowed herself to relax a little. The relief was short-lived.

“Dobson!” Nyx cried. Whirda’s steely grey gaze met hers, having reached the same conclusion. In unison, they turned to look at Van Helsing.

Though the doctor was unaware of exactly how he needed to assist, Nyx’s tone and the way the women stared at him indicated something was seriously wrong. “Where is he?” he demanded, his voice all business-like.

As if on cue, Thanatos poked his head through the shattered window. Dobson used him as a supporting mechanism, his fists firmly tangled in the Nightsaber’s fur to keep him upright. “Over here!” Dobson called.

“Watch her,” Van Helsing told Nyx, hastily climbing over the broken window and beginning to tend to the young guard’s wounds.

“We have to follow him,” Whirda insisted, starting to guide them towards the broken window.

Nyx gently, but firmly, tugged at her waist. “We’re not going that way,” she stated matter-of-factly, guiding Whirda towards the doorframe at the east of the building. Undoubtedly, there was once a door attached to the frame, but it had long since been torn from its hinges.

It wasn’t long before Nyx and Whirda had rejoined Van Helsing. He had removed the bandages around Dobson’s shoulder, and was pouring a strange liquid directly on to the bite marks left by the infected wolf. The young guard released guttural groans of pain, still relying on Thanatos for support. The Nightsaber didn’t seem best pleased by the way Dobson was treating him, but endured it nonetheless.

“Can you help him?” Whirda called, breaking free of Nyx’s arms. Her knowledge of the affliction she had encountered back in Faerûn had her fearing for the young man’s life.

“I’ve administered the antidote,” Van Helsing replied calmly. “He should be fine. I’d advise against freeing him from his restraints until the bite mark is fully healed, however.” Nyx and Whirda nodded in agreement. Van Helsing moved towards Nyx, studying her carefully. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, either. Let me examine your wounds.”

The blood mage shook her head adamantly. ”No, I’ll be fine,” she stated firmly. ”Our first priority should be taking care of the Blight, a subject on which I am lead to believe you are very knowledgeable?”

The Professor regarded her carefully, his eyes narrowing at her reluctance to be helped. He decided to trust that she would come to him when she was ready. “I’ve been dealing with the undead for as long as I can remember,” he began wistfully. “But that’s a story for another time. We have more pressing matters to attend to. The Shade is nearby, and it knows we’re coming. It’s understandably quite infuriated by our interference. I hope you’re ready for a fight, because Shades don't take too kindly to intruders.”

[PepsiWhirda]

"So, wait," Whirda said to the professor, "you already know about the blight?" She leaned against the wall of one of the abandoned town's sturdier buildings. Two days without sleep and the fight against the bat creatures had sapped her strength. She craved rest, but knew it would be long in coming.

The professor knelt beside Dobson, who had lapsed back into fitful sleep. Already his veins were clear of the contagion. The professor lifted the boy's eyelids, and Whirda could see they were no longer bloodshot or jaundiced.

"I know a great many things," Van Helsing said, leveling his gaze on her. "The crisis in the Tangled Green is among them, yes."

Nyx stepped from the shadows, wrapping her hand with a newly summoned bandage. "Then you know about our mission here? You know we need your help?"

Van Helsing adjusted the crossbow on his back and rose, seemingly content with Dobson's status For the first time, Whirda could view him fully. Behind the circumspect, soft-spoken demeanor, the professor stood closer to seven feet than six, muscular without being bulky, clad in the robes of a cleric or doctor, white edged with pale green at the wrists, ankles, and belt. Everything about him was broad and spoke of competence. Broad shoulders, broad nose, broad, placid eyes that drew her into their depths.

"I guessed at the nature of your mission," he said simply. "The message from the mayor was cryptic, but it hinted at your motives."

"Message?" Whirda wondered aloud. "We left Darkshire not a day ago. How did he contact you so quickly?"

"The mayor, he is a... complicated man. He has his methods." Van Helsing spoke of the mayor with trepidation, like the man—if he truly was a man—could be listening at any moment.

Nyx betrayed her impatience by pushing further. "Lady Tyrande said you could cure it. That you were the only one who knew how."

"That may be true," Van Helsing agreed with a shrug. "In his infinite wisdom, Omni has not seen fit to bring many accomplished healers to the Omniverse." He cast his gaze to the sky, like he was challenging the god himself. "Sometimes I suspect he thrives on the chaos."

"So will you help?" Nyx asked. "After you deal with the shade, of course."

Whirda knew the professor's answer before he replied, from his pronounced sigh.

"I cannot."

Whirda had never seen the blood mage angry. Nyx's countenance darkened. Her eyes flashed incandescent red, and Whirda noticed a roiling in the depths of the ruby atop her staff, like boiling water.

"Why not?" she hissed. "You called the blight a crisis, right? You're a doctor... isn't it your job to help? You can't just let a whole realm be destroyed."

If Van Helsing felt any of the intimidation Whirda did at Nyx's transformation, he didn't show it. "Things are not so simple as that," he said, frowning. "I am pledged to the citizens of Darkshire. Even this journey to the shade's den leaves them vulnerable."

There was something else, Whirda sensed. Some other reason why Van Helsing couldn't leave the Moors. Lady Tyrande had said Van Helsing was no friend of elves. Abyss below, she could sympathize with that. But this was more complicated.

Before either of the women could speak, the professor continued. "I am sorry—truly sorry—that I cannot help you. But this is not the time for discussion. The howlers were agents of the Count. If he knows I am here, so far from the village..." He trailed off, looking troubled.

"You can't defeat the shade alone," Whirda said quietly. "We could feel its power from miles away."

"This I know," Van Helsing said. "This I know."

Whirda was torn. If the professor wouldn't help them with the blight, she owed him no debt. They could return to the Green, report their failure, and move on to... whatever came next. But something had brought the professor here, to the doorstep of a creature he knew he couldn't possibly slay. He didn't strike her as a man who took unnecessary risks, especially if it put Darkshire in danger.

"Professor," she said, "why are you here?"

For the first time, Van Helsing looked at her with something like respect. "Because I have no choice."

"What do you mean, no choice?" Nyx asked. "Everyone has a choice."

The professor smiled, but it was a sad, humorless thing. "Not always, dear girl."

"It's him, isn't it?" Whirda asked. "The mayor. He's making you do this."

"It is not your concern," the professor said, his eyes communicating a warning his words couldn't. "What I do is for the betterment of Darkshire. I must be content in that knowledge."

"Then let us help you," Whirda said. "You can't hope to save the children and kill the shade alone. You're effectively going to your death."

Van Helsing, she noticed for the first time, looked profoundly weary. Weary, and afraid. Not on the surface, but somewhere below, churning. "Sometimes, dear girl, I think that is the point."

"So we'll help. We'll take out the shade, rescue the kids, and convince the mayor to let you help us. He's not a fool. He recognizes the value of an alliance with the elves."

"Perhaps," Van Helsing said, looking hopeful. "Very well, Whirda Windstrom, we will proceed as you say. There only remains the matter of your young friend." He looked to Dobson, who still lay asleep on the ground, tossing and turning. "There is no time to wait for him to awaken."

"Well we can't leave him," Nyx protested.

Despite herself, Whirda disagreed. "We have to," she said. "Nyx, can you summon Thanatos to wait with him? The cat is powerful. He will be able to protect Dobson."

Nyx didn't look at all happy at the idea of leaving her mount—or Dobson—behind, but she set to work summoning the Omnilium. Whirda followed suit, summoning Cascade to carry them both to the shade's den. After a few minutes, the cat and the horse stood beside them.

Whirda and the professor carried Dobson into the house, laying him on the floor in a back room. Thanatos padded past them and curled up next to the boy with an annoyed growl. He didn't like leaving Nyx any more than she liked leaving him, it seemed.

"With any luck, we will return before the boy awakens," Van Helsing said, shutting the door behind them. "This area is not very active. He should not be at risk."

Whirda nodded, and they walked outside, where Nyx waited with Cascade. Whirda winked and flashed an uneasy smile at the blood mage, who didn't return the gesture. The girl looked lost, staring off into space. The demon was speaking to her again. On her back, the ruby's contents roiled like liquid fire.

[PepsiWhirda]

They rode northwest across the wasteland, toward the dull glimmer of sunset. Nyx clung to Whirda's waist in sullen silence. The goblin staff bounced on the blood mage's back, intermittently entering Whirda's vision. The fist-sized hunk of ruby flashed and bubbled, seemingly in time with the demon's communications. Whirda could feel Nyx go rigid against her, the blood mage's grip tightening and her breath growing rapid and shallow. After a time, the peak of a solitary mountain loomed on the horizon.

Van Helsing rode up beside them. "The shade's den is at the foot of the mountain," he said, his voice bouncing with the movements of the galloping horse. "A series of caverns deep beneath the ground."

"Will it be guarded?" Whirda asked.

"Heavily, I suspect," the professor said. "The shade is autonomous, but his allegiance lies with the Count. Many of the creatures of this realm have been placed at his disposal."

"His?" Whirda had never thought of shades—full shades, not the Shadovar of Faerûn—as having genders.

"His name is Ahn Thrix. Or, it is now. He was once human, like us. During the war with Diablo, he was a great warrior in service of the kingdom. He was... infected by a creature of darkness, now banished to the Underverse. The shade is what he became."

"You couldn't cure him?" Whirda asked.

The professor shook his head, some ancient pain flashing behind his eyes. "I am sure you have noticed a certain... disparity in your abilities since your arrival here, yes?"

"It doesn't do the inconvenience justice, when you put it like that," Whirda chuckled. "But yes, I know what you mean."

"I arrived in the Omniverse toward the end of the war," Van Helsing said. "I had not yet regained my healing powers when it ended. The lives I could have saved..."

As the mountain drew closer, no attacks impeded their progress, though the professor had said the shade was aware of their presence. It seemed Ahn Thrix was content in allowing them to come.

Whirda took the opportunity to learn more about the Omniverse. "Do you know why we lose our powers when we arrive here?" she asked.

"I have spoken with many experts in my time here. The consensus is that Omni wants us all on an even playing field, at least at first. For his viewing pleasure, as it were," the professor said, with a sad smile.

"So we're just putting on a show for some despot god? Is that all this is?"

"You are," Van Helsing said. "The primes, that is to say. We are merely your... supporting cast."

Nyx, as if stumbling just then into the conversation, said, "But we have free will, right? Like, it's not scripted, this mission we're on? We could just turn around and leave?"

The professor shrugged. "I suppose you have free will, yes. Until Omni gets bored, anyway."

"What happens then?" Nyx asked.

"Nothing good," the professor said plainly.

Night fell, and the Moors grew, if possible, even gloomier. Whirda could only make out the faint outline of the mountainous crags above as they rode into the foothills. The professor grew reserved, focused on their task. The occasional shaft of sallow moonlight caught on the clips of crossbow bolts crisscrossing his broad chest.

"Be wary," he warned, as they came to a stop and dismounted. "We are here."

Whirda looked up, and she saw it. A hundred or so yards up into the foothills, the mouth of a cave yawned wide in the darkness. From within, she could see the flickering claws of torchlight on stone.

And descending toward them, given away by their mindless groans and shambling gait, a horde of undead made up their welcoming party.

[Nyx]

The abominations looming on the horizon were the last things Nyx wanted to see.

Though her body had recovered from the banshee’s attack, she was in emotional turmoil. The demon was relentless in its assault, and seemed to gain confidence as time went by. She still wasn’t sure exactly what it wanted from her, but there was one thing she was certain of: it wouldn’t stop until its desires were met.

The staff she had stolen from the fallen Chieftain was almost comforting in its melodic thuds against her back, but the ruby on its tip radiated heat unlike anything she had ever felt. Beads of sweat formed on the back of her neck; though her face remained cool thanks to the chill of the night air.

Her heart ached for Thanatos. She was sure he could handle himself, but what if the Professor wasn’t able to save Dobson? Had she left her saber to die at the hands of a turning undead? Would she be able to live with herself if the doubts that plagued her held any truth?

Whirda dismounted, drawing her weapons and uttering the incantation Tyrande had taught her. The horde was making progress, but it was slow and laboured. She anticipated that she had at least a few more minutes before they actually reached her. She took the opportunity to cast a glance over her shoulder, and noticed the blood mage swaying in Cascade’s saddle.

“Nyx!” Whirda yelled, desperate to tug the blood mage from her haze.

The sound of her voice did something. Nyx snapped out of her trance, her eyes narrowing. She purposefully leapt from Cascade’s back, drawing the staff. The ruby atop it roiled and bubbled, the blood within seeming to turn black. Nyx strode forward, confidently walking towards the approaching undead.

“I can’t let you have all the fun, can I?” the blood mage purred darkly. She swung her staff, and a flurry of blood bolts shot out from the ruby and pelted the unsuspecting horde. They staggered and stumbled, their attention now focused on the blood mage. One of them howled in fury. She smirked and swung her staff again. A second flurry of blood bolts assailed the horde. A few of the corpses fell, but the rest sped up, baying for Nyx’s blood.

The blood mage raised her staff again… but nothing happened. She lowered her staff, frantically examining it to try and find out what was wrong. The ruby looked empty.

“Oh…” she said. As the horde closed the gap between themselves and the two mages, Nyx realized that there were many more than the first wave had indicated. “… Oh,” she repeated, shooting a hopeful look at Whirda.

[PepsiWhirda]

"On it," Whirda exhaled, sprinting off to meet the attackers. Nyx's volleys had weakened the first wave, even taken a few from their feet, but it would fall on Whirda and the enchantment of holy fire to do the brunt of the work.

Nearly three days without rest stole the edge from Whirda's movements. She moved sluggishly, without discipline, but what she lacked in motivation, the undead more than made up for in ineptitude. She met the shambling front line and her weapons found no resistance. Steel met mottled flesh and holy fire did the rest.

Whirda waded into the clumsy undead, ducking a swiping limb, striking out with elbows, knees, and blades. She struck a swath through them, shearing limbs from torsos and heads from shoulders. All the snapping jaws and filthy, scratching nails of the shade's minions could offer no resistance. She emerged from the back line, spinning to dig kukris deep into the rearmost creature's chest. It fell, still groaning, the devouring flames eating ragged clothes and flesh alike.

Whirda pivoted and dove back in, hacking and slashing with abandon. Through the mire of grasping hands and frenzied eyes, she caught glimpses of Nyx and the professor, backpedaling but well in control. The blood mage's hand was upraised, the bandage torn free, and volley after volley of blood and crossbow bolts thinned the ranks, undead stumbling and falling or exploding in flashes of holy fire.

Distracted, Whirda caught herself just as an undead lunged, rotten teeth diving for her exposed wrist. She reversed the grip of her kukris and punched the pommel forward. Instead of skin, the gnashing teeth met hard steel and shattered. The creature howled, stumbling back. Whirda kicked out, catching it just below the sternum and driving it back, it and two of its allies falling in a splay of tangled limbs.

Another glimpse of Van Helsing and the blood mage, now back to back. The professor drew a rune-inscribed longsword, and proved it to be similarly enchanted, hacking an arm off an undead, hungry fire spreading with abandon. Nyx, though, stumbled with fatigue. She was white as a sheet, and running out of blood quickly. Her bolts got smaller and less impactful with each volley, the zombies now shambling forward with impunity.

Whirda drove harder through the ranks, her kukris making quick work of the creatures. A jaundiced eye, flecked with black. A spinning arm, hewn off at the elbow, hand still groping at empty air. Putrid blood spraying high, silhouetted by the moonlight. Then she was free, throwing an elbow and shoving her way forward, leaping over a falling corpse and landing catlike next to Nyx.

Maybe a dozen undead remained. They drove forward with mindless abandon, but fell without resistance to steel and fire. The whole battle took perhaps three minutes, but Whirda slumped and almost fell, hands on her knees, breath only coming in heaves.

Nyx stepped around a globe of Omnilium—presumably more bandages to staunch the blood flowing from her palm. "You all right?" she asked, crimson eyes wide with concern.

"Fine," Whirda replied, composing herself. She sheathed her weapons and swept gore from the sallet concealing the bottom half of her face. "Nothing I can't handle."

"What do you think is in there?" Nyx asked distantly. The blood mage looked past Whirda to the mouth of the cave. The concern in her eyes was mirrored by the butterflies in Whirda's stomach.

All of it seemed to have come to a head. A thirty-six hour journey, without food, without sleep, fraught with danger. Her muscles screamed for rest. Her eyes drooped, and she had to fight off a yawn. The shade knew they were coming—of course it did—, but offered nothing but fodder to slow their approach. If it wanted the fight, it would have it on its own terms.

"Are you ready?" Van Helsing asked, sheathing his sword and mirroring their gaze. The flames in the cave were extinguished. Only darkness awaited.

[Nyx]

As Whirda leapt forward to dance with the dead, an idea struck Nyx. The liquid that had churned and bubbled within the ruby atop her staff had resembled blood… and the staff had mimicked her magic with the flick of her wrist. Maybe it needed blood in order to be effective?

The blood mage ultimately decided she would be safe to spend a few minutes experimenting, given the ease at which Whirda was laying waste to the corpses. Her companion’s fatigue had not gone unnoticed, but the enchantment Tyrande had placed upon her kukri was no small favour – in fact, if Nyx wasn’t already readily aware of Whirda’s combat prowess, she would have said that was the primary reason for their success.

In light of this, the blood mage stepped forward, to an open space where Whirda had laid waste to one of the undead waves. Though their bodies and clothing had disintegrated, some of their blood remained. Nyx touched the tip of her staff to one of the pools of blood, and concentrated.

Crimson eyes filled with black, sclera included. She looked positively demonic. The blood mage’s actions had the desired effect – the ruby began to glow with a dull black aura, and absorbed the blood from the ground. Slowly, over the course of a few minutes, the ruby began to fill with a putrid and foul liquid – the blood of the fallen. When the corpses had been drained, the gem was only half full. It seemed to pulsate hungrily, wanting more.

Nyx tore the bandage from her palm and let the staff drain her. As the ruby drank its fill of her energy, her eyes faded back to their usual crimson, but she felt notably weaker. The blood mage turned the staff over in her hands, still questioning its power. It was capable of echoing her own magic, she knew that much – but the ruby seemed to offer her the potential to store her energy for later, so she wouldn’t have to suffer through entire battles with exhaustion weighing down on her.

What was the catch?

‘Such a good girl…’

As though on cue, the voice spoke to her. To Nyx’s credit, she barely even flinched. She didn’t even seem fazed when Whirda landed next to her, though her brows quickly knitted together with concern for her companion. She looked exhausted. This was a terrifying prospect for the blood mage, because Whirda was the one they usually relied on when things got tough. Nyx supposed she would have to pull her own weight, maybe even beyond it a little.

As they reached the dark cave, everything seemed to really hit home. The reality of the trials they had endured to get here, the uncertainty of what they faced, the probability that they would die, the thought that their suffering was all some kind of game to a twisted deity… and above all else, the fact that they had not slept in just under two days. Nyx’s body was weakened by her magic, and Whirda’s stamina and endurance had been tested when she had engaged the undead waves in toe-to-toe combat. They had both suffered for their art, and it was showing.

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” The blood mage turned to look at the Professor, a shadow of a smile painted across her lips. “The name’s Nyx, by the way. I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced.”

“Whirda Windstrom,” said the battle mage.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Van Helsing replied, inclining his head politely. “I remain Professor Abraham Van Helsing, at your service.”

”The pleasure is all mine,” Nyx purred coolly, stepping towards the mouth of the cave. She held her hands out and concentrated. Omnilium appeared in the palm of her hands. Within a few minutes, it had swirled and rematerialized as three lit torches. She kept hold of one, and offered the others to Whirda and Van Helsing, who accepted them gratefully.

The trio began their foray into the darkness. The mouth of the cave lead them downwards at a steady incline, enough to ensure that they advanced at a reasonable pace. The further they got from the surface – and the entrance, - the darker it became. Nyx found herself questioning why she had even bothered to summon any torches, given that the light that the flames produced was paling in comparison to the effect the shade was having on the environment.

The air felt thick, heavy and damp. For the two weary Primes, it was the icing on the cake. They were already fatigued, and their weary muscles didn’t need the added pressure of what felt like deoxygenated air. The one benefit was that they hadn’t yet met any resistance, though the blood mage suspected that that was due to the Shade being aware of their current state. She found herself wondering whether it was reluctant to send its minions at them because it wanted the pleasure of killing them itself…

‘Losing hope are we, Nyxy? That’ll never do. It’s certainly not the Nyx I knew. Don’t you remember her?’

‘You don’t know anything about me. Shut up.’

‘Au contraire! We used to be the best of friends, you and I. But you had to ruin it, just like you ruined everything else. In time, you’ll remember. I promise.’

The voice emphasised the last two words in such a way that it was hard to interpret as anything but a threat. Nyx stiffened, lifting her head a little higher in a defiant measure. Some part of her realized how redundant an action it was – there was no guarantee the demon was able to see her, - but it made her feel a little better.

After spending a few minutes following the cave’s tunnel downwards, the trio reached a fork in the road. To the left, the blood mage could just about make out a source of dim light. To the right, there was nothing but darkness. The Professor, who had naturally assumed the position of leader, turned to face Nyx and Whirda.

“We have a decision to make.”

[PepsiWhirda]

It was a decision Whirda felt equipped to make.

"Toward the light," she said, her voice carrying down the empty tunnels. She shook her head, clearing away the cobwebs of exhaustion, which seemed more numerous by the minute. The darkness devoured the torchlight. She could hardly see her feet as they resumed walking, Whirda in front, the blood mage in the middle, and Professor Van Helsing guarding the rear, his crossbow raised shoulder height.

The dim light proved to be torchlight of the shade's own. The trio rounded a bend and Whirda stopped short, flinging her arm back to halt the blood mage, who again seemed distracted and hadn't noticed. Though her communication with the demon had grown less frequent since entering the shade's den, and Nyx seemed to cope better with the intrusions, Whirda still couldn't take the risk.

Just ahead was a door stuck firm in the stone. Slightly ajar, it allowed the flickering torchlight through, to splay out on the walls like poorly applied paint. In it, she could see humanoid shadows. If she listened closely, she could hear frenzied whispers, as of a group preparing an ambush. They quieted after a minute, and silence engulfed them.

With two fingers, Whirda indicated her plan. Nyx and the professor nodded their ascent. Without even a whisper of noise, Whirda's kukris were in hand and she slid forward, planted against the wall. Through the crack in the doorway, she could see the shadow of an arm, elongated across the floor, just to the left of the door. A long, curved blade was clutched in its fist.

Whirda looked back at her companions, motioning to her left. The professor trained his crossbow on the spot, and Nyx brought her staff to bear, the ruby glimmering as if in anticipation. Content that she would be covered by her new allies, Whirda exploded into motion.

She kicked the door open and rushed inside, leaping into a forward roll. Predictably, she felt a breath of wind on her back as the ambusher's sword cut the air above her. She lashed out with a kukri, slicing its leg at the ankle and calling forth a cyclonic prison. Before it could cry out, the creature was engulfed in buffeting wind, lifted, flailing, a foot off the floor.

Whirda couldn't pause to evaluate the situation. The cavern was massive, stalactites taller than the professor drooping from the ceiling twenty feet above. Pillars concealed a dozen potential attackers. Ahead, two familiar creatures barred the exit. Humanoid, thin, with mottled, scaly green skin and long faces, pointed ears, two slits where the nose should be. "Dark and empty," Whirda swore. "He has zerths."

Githzerai were common in Faerûn. A monastic race of evil weal, extraplanar creatures who worked mostly as sell-swords, mercenaries who would fall under the banner with the most dispensable coin. Zerths, however, were far less common. Recognizable by the robes of a priest, blue trimmed with yellow, they combined psionic and earth sorcery with martial skill to frightening effect. Whirda had never fought one, and until today, hoped she never would.

Now, two of them stood in her way. On the right, a female, her hand outstretched toward Whirda, serpentine face leering. Just in time, she saw the jagged shards of rock hurtling her way. She conjured a gust of wind that threw her high over the projectiles, tucking into a forward flip. At the door, a third githzerai, the one in Whirda's cyclonic prison, stumbled free. It shook its head and caught one of the professor's bolt in the side of its head. Though the holy fire enchantment had no effect, it still toppled and lay still.

Then Whirda was facing forward again, a second gust of wind propelling her toward the female zerth. Such was her speed that the second volley of stones also missed their mark, whistling past her and exploding into pebbles against the cavern wall. The female scrambled back, drawing a longsword inscribed with runes. Whirda crossed her kukris and braced herself.

Steel met steel with an explosion of sparks. Whirda's momentum plowed her into the zerth. They tumbled head over heels in a blur of splayed limbs and blue robes, before Whirda came up skidding and dove back into the fray. The female hadn't recovered as quickly, and now Whirda had the upper hand. She faced the entrance, and saw Nyx and the professor enter the room, crossbow and blood bolts picking off a second and third target as githzerai swordsmen swarmed the room. The female zerth regained her feet unsteadily, and Whirda skipped forward, sidestepped a desperate overhead chop, and dragged both kukri through robes and into flesh. They emerged with a spray of blood and Whirda kicked back, knocking the creature from its feet.

Then the world flipped upside down.

The ferocity of the psionic blast took her entirely by surprise. She felt like her brains had been scrambled and pulled out of her ears. Her head split with the force of it, and she stumbled, unsure whether she was standing on the floor or the ceiling. She smelled the pungent air after a lightning storm, fresh cut grass, ginger, vomit. In her ears the clash of swords and cries of the dying were replaced with tinkling bells and the dull intonations of an axe chopping wood. Every sense melted into one another, and she shook her head vigorously to clear it.

To her credit, she was at least able to see the sword that would end her life.

[Nyx]

The githzerai were unlike anything Nyx had ever seen. She had read about similar serpentine humanoids, but she had never actually seen one in the flesh. Until now, of course; and she found herself wishing she was back in the Circle Tower, where the only threats these monstrosities posed were to her imagination and her dreams. Here, they were tangible, and they posed a very real threat to her life. Whatever life meant, in this strange and unfamiliar universe.

The blood mage tightened the hold she had on her staff, watching Whirda intently as she lunged at the scaly mages. She didn’t have time to admire the battle mage’s combat prowess as a fresh wave of githzerai approached. These were swordsmen, and they had their sights set on Whirda. This was something which Whirda seemed to take in her stride, easily including the swordsmen in her deadly dance.

Nyx swung her staff, unleashing a barrage of blood bolts. The coagulated blood looked almost black, a visual reminder that the blood she was using to fuel her attacks was not her own. The bolts slammed into the lizard men with force, dazing them and slowing their advance for long enough that the Professor was able to unload a round of crossbow bolts into them. By the time they reached the battle mage, they were reasonably weakened.

The issue, of course, was that Whirda’s energy levels were falling fast – though nobody really seemed to notice. Projectiles, both magical and physical, zoomed around the room. Some hit armour, some hit flesh, and some collided with the ‘scenery’. Meanwhile, the room was filled with the screech of steel-on-steel, sparks flying with every confrontation. The room was alive with colours, sounds, tastes and smells.

Nyx realized, a moment too late, that one of the robed zerth had set its sights on Whirda. It hurled a psionic blast at her which collided with deadly precision. The lizard woman snickered victoriously and prepared to hurl another. The blood mage stepped in front of her fallen ally, drawing a circle in the air with her staff. Black blood dripped from the ruby and hovered in the air. As she finished drawing the circle, the blood poured and filled in the outline. It rapidly coagulated, forming a shield, which she quickly seized and used to protect herself just as the zerth fired another psionic blast.

It wasn’t expecting the blood mage to conjure a shield, let alone a shield made of blood. It stared blankly at her, as though it was struggling to process what had happened. The zerth continued to stare unblinkingly at the blood mage as Van Helsing fired a single crossbow bolt through its skull. It let out a strangled cry as it collapsed to the floor. There was a loud clatter as the runed greatsword fell beside it.

The Professor sunk to one knee to get a better aim, and began rapidly firing at the remaining githzerai. “Help her!”

Nyx didn’t need to be told twice. Securing the shield to her wrist and slinging her staff over her shoulder, she offered the battle mage her free hand. Whirda gripped it weakly, and the blood mage used her strength to pull her to her feet. Whirda seemed a little shaky, but forced herself to recover. She bent down to pick up her dropped kukri, but Nyx’s arm stopped her.

“No,” she said firmly, bending down and collecting the fallen kukris. She handed them, hilt first, to Whirda. “We can handle this.”

The blood mage’s eyes shone with a fierce determination as she drew her staff. A smirk played across her lips as she dashed forwards, into the throng of githzerai. Using the shield to protect herself from the flay of swords, she picked her way through the mob and emerged at the opposite side of the room. Nyx held her staff high, then slammed it into the ground. As she did, blood pooled from the ruby and began to coalesce, eventually coagulating into the form of a woman. Essentially, Nyx, but made of blood. It immediately began to hurl blood bolts at the baffled lizard men, who screeched in frustration and lunged at the illusion.

The distraction bought Nyx enough time to dart around the throng of remaining zerth and rejoin Whirda and Van Helsing. She wasted no time in whirling around to face the githzerai. They were still facing where her illusion had been, though one of them had struck at it with its sword and reduced the illusion to nothing more than a pool of blood. Only a handful of the lizard like creatures remained.

The Professor’s assault was relentless. He fired enchanted bolt after enchanted bolt with terrifying accuracy. Not all of his shots had the intended effect – some of the swordsmen had the foresight to wear armour, - but they still made him a formidable foe. His attacks were complimented by Nyx’s, though she decided to mix things up a bit, her strategy changing yet again.

She strapped her staff to her back and drew her favourite dagger from the hilt attached to her calf. With her teeth, she tore the bandage from her palm. The blood mage boldly stepped forwards, her irises and sclera flooding with black.

“Who wants to play with me?” she muttered darkly, setting her sights on the last remaining mage. She slashed her arm with the dagger, and the zerth let out an agonizing yell and tore at the robe on its arm. Its claws made fast work of the cloth, and as the fabric fell away, it revealed a deep gash on its arm, identical to Nyx’s.

The swordsmen stared at her, wild-eyed and fearful. The blood mage’s little display distracted them for long enough that the Professor was able to finish them off, aided by Nyx’s blood bolts. The final githzerai fell to the floor with a satisfying thud.

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda's senses were still scrambled when the last githzerai met the cavern floor. Splashes of color marred the edges of her vision. She spit the taste of fruit and rust from her mouth. Slowly, the urge to vomit subsided. She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, and vigorously shook her head.

Nyx and Van Helsing milled around opposite ends of the cavern, nudging corpses, searching for signs of life. The professor fired a bolt grimly into the back of a serpentine head. He eyed the blood mage with something like suspicion as she ambled over to Whirda.

"See?" Nyx chirped. "I'm not so useless after all, huh?"

"Never thought you were," Whirda chuckled wearily. "Thanks."

The blood mage was about to reply when Van Helsing stormed up and grabbed her by the shoulder. He spun her around and thrust his face close to hers.

"What are you, child?" The professor pulled his sword two inches from its sheath.

Nyx blanched. "I—"

The blade hissed again, a foot of steel shimmering in the firelight. Whirda took a defensive step forward, prepared to knock the professor away with a well-timed gust of wind.

For a few agonizing moments, no one spoke. Nyx stood between the warriors, her eyes wide and unblinking. If she knew what the professor was talking about, she didn't show it.

Whirda swayed in place, her weight on her toes. Adrenaline stole any trace of fatigue from her movements. When she spoke, it was through her teeth, the words sharp and calculated. "Professor, what is this?"

He never took his eyes from Nyx. "Your friend is not what she seems, Whirda Windstrom. You must have seen."

"I saw nothing," Whirda said tersely. "And you would do well to step back and explain yourself."

"I love it when you two speak in riddles," Nyx sniped. "Truly I do. But we're on this thing's doorstep. We don't have time for petty squabbles and archaic accusations." Her crimson eyes ping-ponged between them. She gulped.

"Your eyes were black, child," Van Helsing said. "I can feel the demon's presence, its aura. You reek of the Underverse." To his credit, the professor stepped back as he spoke, but the grip on his sword did not relent. His placid blue eyes spoke plainly that without a sufficient explanation, he would be forced to do the unthinkable.

"She is no threat to you," Whirda said. "You have to trust me."

"Where I am from, dear girl," Van Helsing replied, "trust is a luxury few can afford."

"I don't know who it is—what it is," Nyx said quietly. "It has been talking to me since we arrived in the Moors. But it has no control over me, professor. I swear."

"That does not explain your eyes."

Nyx sighed. "I can't explain that either. It never happened before I got to the Omniverse."

"Dark and empty," Whirda swore. "Can't we deal with this later?"

A breath of cold air swept through the cavern. The torches flared and danced. Whether from fear or the chill, Nyx shivered. Gooseflesh lined the back of her neck.

"Please, professor," the blood mage said. "I can explain later."

Her pleading tone seemed to bring Van Helsing to his senses. He exhaled a long breath through his teeth, as if buying time to make a decision.

"Very well," he said. "But if you are leading me into a trap, I swear, I—"

"She isn't," Whirda snapped. "We're not. Once we kill this thing, and you cure the blight, you'll never see us in the Moors again. Good enough?"

The professor nodded. "Very well." He sheathed his sword and relaxed his posture. "Shall we?"

For the first time, Whirda took a look at the door the githzerai had been guarding. It was a looming thing of solid iron. Scrawled around the edges, in white ink, were words in a demonic language Whirda didn't recognize. The rusted iron was scored with deep gouges, as by raking claws.

"What does it say?" Nyx wondered aloud. She still eyed Van Helsing warily, like she expected him to attack. The self-inflicted wound leaked blood, but it was already beginning to clot.

Whirda's senses were sharpened by the argument with the professor, but she could already feel them dulling at the edges. Her head throbbed from the psionic attack. "I can't read it," she said, frowning.

"I can." Van Helsing stepped between them, causing Nyx to flinch. He peered at the door, muttering as he read. "Where there is light, there is hope," he read. He looked to Whirda, his brow furrowed.

Whirda motioned for him to go on, ignoring the sense of dread settling in her chest. It was suddenly harder to breathe.

"Where there is light, there is hope," Van Helsing repeated. Another breath of wind shuddered through the cavern. "True despair comes only in absolute darkness."

"What—" Nyx said, a moment before the room plunged into blackness.

Whirda stepped back against the cool stone of the cavern wall. The darkness felt like a corporeal thing, pressing against her face, filling her nostrils, prodding her ears, her lips. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She heard the scrape of a sword. "Nyx?" she choked out, in the direction of the noise.

She heard only a stifled yell, plainly Nyx, but unintelligible, like a hand was clamped over her mouth. "Nyx?" she ventured again. "Professor?"

"You were warned," came the professor's cool reply. "I will not fall prey to your games."

"It's not us, you fool!" Whirda yelled. "You're the one who read the gods-damned incantation!" She tried to continue, but the room was filled with a metallic grinding noise. She raised her kukris. "Aina kala," she oathed.

The holy fire roared to life. Tendrils of fire shrank back like serpents, thick ropes of it, wriggling solid in the air. They whipped and writhed backward to settle behind a pillar.

In the flickering light, she saw the professor. He held Nyx off the ground, the blood mage crammed between his chest and one muscular arm, his hand covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. She kicked and screamed, the sound muffled. The professor's sword was trained on her porcelain throat, a bead of blood trickling from the tip.

"Not another step," Van Helsing said. "Or I'll cut her throat."

"It's not us, professor. You know it's not us!"

He argued stubbornly, like a cornered beast. "I cannot know that, dear girl. I saw her eyes. How well do you know this Nyx?"

"Well enough," Whirda said, "to stake my life on her innocence in this. Now release her!"

Van Helsing eyed her with something like respect. His eyes danced in and out of her vision with the holy fire. Behind him, the tendrils of shadow poked forward, only to shrink back anew.

"I would so dearly like to trust you," he said.

"You must," Whirda replied. "If we all die here, who will remain to protect Darkshire?"

The metallic squealing continued. It soon ceased with a hollow thud. The door next to Whirda was open now. The air filled with the stench of decay. Far off, she could hear the mindless groaned of the undead.

Her words had the desired effect. Van Helsing shoved Nyx away and looked to the doorway. "We must go," he said, as if all would be forgiven.

Nyx dusted herself off and glared at the professor. Her eyes flared incandescent red, as did the ruby atop her staff. "How dare you," she hissed.

As if in response to her words, the door began to shut. The gears ground away as it lowered, inexorably slow.

"We can argue later," Whirda demanded. "Let's go!"

The professor shouldered past Whirda and through the door. It was now almost as low as his head. Whirda and Nyx followed, but Van Helsing barred the doorway. He crouched lower and lower as the door continued to fall.

"She is evil, Whirda Windstrom. Mark my words. She is evil."

"I'm not—" the blood mage protested.

The professor lashed out, past Whirda, his fist catching Nyx across the jaw. She yelped and sprawled back, laying still. Before Whirda could react, he grabbed her firmly by the wrist and threw her underneath the door, sliding through behind her.

Whirda flailed her feet, catching Van Helsing in the chest. He slammed back against the iron door, cursing, but the damage was done. A second dull thud resounded down the corridor. The door was shut.

On the other side, Nyx struggled to her feet. She rushed to the door, pounding futilely on it with her fists. Dull echoes filled the chamber, dying out as she staggered back, panting.

"Whirda!" she screamed. There was no answer. Not even the demon spoke in that moment.

Nyx was alone in the darkness.

[Nyx]

‘It’s just you and me, Amell, and I think it’s time we had a little heart to heart.’

Her blood ran cold as the voice whispered in her ear. There were no distractions to be offered, here; nor did she have Whirda to keep her grounded. It was just the blood mage and the demon that haunted her. She immediately clamped her hands over her ears, turning away from the door and pressing her back against the cold metal, sliding down to the floor.

‘Don’t act like you suddenly have a conscience, Nyxy. I know you better than that, and I think it’s time you did, too.’

The blood mage tightened her grip on her ears. It was futile. The demon didn’t care that she was blocking her ears, he was whispering directly into her head. How was she supposed to defend against that? She couldn’t. It was impossible. She growled in frustration, slamming her fists against the cavern floor.

‘You’re ignoring me now? That’s cute. Why don’t I show you just how close we used to be?’

The malice in the demon’s voice was palpable.

Someone looms over a robed figure, his robes stained with blood. By the looks of things, his attacker is most likely a female, though the hood obscures her face. He coughs and splutters, summoning all of his remaining strength to grab her arm, to plead for his life. She snickers cruelly at him, gazing down at her hands in admiration. They’re stained with blood, and judging by the delight on her face, it’s definitely not her own. She bends over, grabs his collar and pulls him closer to her. He’s too weak to fight back. With her free hand, she trails her fingers past his lips, urging him to taste himself. He cries out desperately, pleading for her to stop. She ignores him, thrusting her fingers into his mouth. He gags at the taste of his own blood, which upsets her. She throws him to the floor, screaming that he’s “wasting it”. She draws her weapon, a dagger, and slits his throat. His blood sprays across her, staining her face and robes, but all she can do is giggle delightedly, like a child on Christmas day. She smears his blood across her face, pressing the tip of her finger on her tongue, tasting her handiwork. Then, she straddles his dying body and presses her hands on his chest. Her eyes and hands glow black, and she begins to absorb his blood...

The blood mage’s heart pounded in her chest as the images flashed through her mind like a grotesque slideshow.

‘Why are you showing me this?!’ she demanded. ‘Who are you, and why are you doing this to me?!’

The demon cackled tauntingly, and for a moment, Nyx swore she could feel it run its claws through her hair. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Deep down, Nyx had the unsettling feeling that she knew exactly what the demon was indicating, but she certainly didn’t want to accept or acknowledge it in any way. She clenched her fists, nails digging into flesh, beginning to draw blood. She waited for the demon to come back with some kind of witty retort, but she was met with silence.

The woman straightens, having finished draining the body of blood. She lowers her hood, and it’s obvious that the black glow from before has subsided. She turns around, but her face is obscured by her long, black hair. It seems matted where the male’s blood has spattered against her. She sweeps her hair aside, revealing a familiar crimson gaze. Her tongue darts out from between her lips to lap at the blood staining her face, and a smirk plays across her lips...

‘Do you remember me now?’ the demon taunted, and the blood mage could feel its claw tangle in her hair as she struggled to process what she saw. It yanked her head back, slamming her head against the iron door. ‘Because I remember you, Nyxy,’ it whispered threateningly.

The blood mage raised her hands to her face, not wanting to believe what she had seen. To her horror, her hands were covered in blood. The blood dripped onto her clothing, seeping into the fabric and searing her skin. She shrieked in pure, unbridled terror, trying to swat it away. It didn’t work.

‘Isn’t this what you wanted?’ the demon sneered, revelling in her suffering. ‘You should be thanking me!’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Nyx repeated.

‘I want you to be all you can be,’ the demon hissed, loosening its grip on her hair. It returned to stroking her with its claws, in what it apparently believed to be a soothing manner. ‘I want you to shed this disgusting innocent little girl routine and remember who you are.’

The blood mage felt numb. She felt as though she should be having some kind of emotional reaction to the torment the demon was putting her through, but she felt nothing. The final flashback – or vision, whatever it was, - had brought with it a terrifying clarity. She was Nyx Amell, one of the Circle Tower’s most formidable magi, and it was time she embraced it. Especially given the way the Professor had treated her – had he seen her for who she truly was before she had? That was an interesting question.

“I am Nyx Amell,” the blood mage muttered darkly, picking herself off of the cavern floor. She dusted off her robes, and faced the iron door.

The demon continued to stroke her hair, almost as though it was grooming her. ‘Yes, you are,’ it agreed, twirling a strand of her hair around its claw, before withdrawing.

The affirmation filled Nyx with a newfound strength. Though her body was physically weak, her spirit surged. She would not allow something as insignificant as an iron door stand between her and the rise to power she felt she deserved. The wound on her hand pulsated pointedly, which gave the blood mage an idea.

Her physical form couldn’t pass through solid iron... but maybe blood could.

Her irises and sclera glowed red. She concentrated on her own blood, feeling her heart pump, becoming acutely aware of the blood as it passed through each of her veins. She thought of its properties, and worked hard to absorb them as her own. Her entire body glowed a deep red, and she felt a strange sensation as her body transformed into pure liquid. It lost its consistency and spilled onto the floor, into a pool.

‘Very nice,’ the demon commented drily. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘I’m full of surprises,’ Nyx taunted, directing her new liquid form towards the iron door. It slid easily beneath the metal and granted her easy access into the room which had hosted all of the githzerai. Whirda and the Professor were nowhere to be seen. The blood swirled, reaching higher and higher until it had sculpted Nyx’s body. The blood coagulated and then subsided, sinking beneath the blood mage’s skin and revealing her natural form. The transformation had visibly weakened her; she seemed fatigued, as though merely standing was an effort.

‘You don’t look so good.’

‘I know,’ Nyx snapped. Her gaze fell upon one of the corpses scattered around the room; the female zerth mage. She stalked towards the body and knelt beside it, moving the zerth’s robes aside and pressing her palms against its scaly flesh. Her irises and sclera flooded with black, her hands beginning to glow black as they had in her dream, as she began to absorb the zerth’s blood. The process took a few minutes, and the blood mage found herself commending her choice of target, as the lizard woman didn’t seem to have lost much blood in the battle.

The blood she absorbed didn’t fully restore her energy, but she felt satisfied that she wouldn’t collapse, and she definitely felt more energized than she had when they had first begun travelling to the den.

‘Aren’t you going to thank me?’ the demon asked plaintively. Nyx ignored it. ‘I see you’re back to your normal self. You’re welcome, by the way.’

Nyx watched the black aura dissipate from her palms and set off in search of Whirda and the Professor.

“We have some catching up to do.”

[PepsiWhirda]

"You've killed her," Whirda spat. "You know that? You've gods-damned killed her!"

The professor regained his feet slowly. A rip in his robes where Whirda kicked him revealed the studded leather underneath. Dust fell from the ceiling, settling on his shoulders and in his graying hair. He looked past Whirda, toward the sounds of the approaching undead.

"She will be fine," he said absentmindedly. "The only danger is before us." He hefted his crossbow and started reloading it.

"You can't know that," Whirda said. She clenched her fists till her knuckles drained of blood.

"This whole situation has been engineered by the shade," the professor said. "He wants to wear us down. It has always been his way, to control every aspect of a battle. The little demonling has nothing to fear but herself."

Demonling. Hardly aware of her actions, Whirda shoved him. She pursued as he staggered back, shouldering his stomach and throwing a right hook across his jaw. The crossbow clattered to the ground, and Van Helsing followed with a thud. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"It wasn't your decision to make," she said, backing off. "She is my responsibility." In the firelight, she strode up to the door, pressing her ear against it. There was no sound from the other side.

"It is my mission," the professor said calmly. "I would not have it compromised by her demons."

"She was my responsibility," Whirda repeated She enunciated each word from between clenched teeth

"The girl has a new keeper. Whether you realize it or not."

Whirda started off down the corridor. "I have to find another way around."

"There won't be one, dear girl."

The sounds of the undead drew closer. The putrefied odor of rotting flesh clouded the air. In the light of the holy fire on the wall, a shadow approached.

"Dark and empty," Whirda swore, paying it no attention. Possibilities for rescuing Nyx tumbled through her mind, but none seemed viable. She turned back to see the professor had picked up his crossbow. It was now pointed at her chest.

Van Helsing's face was rigid and uncompromising. In the narrow passageway, she had nowhere to run.

"I am sorry, Whirda Windstrom," he said. "Truly, I am."

The weapon whirred and clicked. Whirda shut her eyes and braced for death.

Death, which did not come.

She felt the wind on her face as the bolt whistled past. The dull thud of metal embedding itself in flesh followed. A preternatural howl followed that. Through her eyelids, she saw the holy fire flare to life.

"There is no time for a nap," the professor chided. He trotted past her. "The shade is near."

Tentatively, Whirda opened her eyes. The corpse of an undead smoldered at her feet, the tail of Van Helsing's bolt visible in the creature's eye socket. Viscous fluid leaked from the wound.

She followed the professor. He rounded a bend ahead, muttering, his robes flapping around his ankles. Whirda turned, and promptly plowed into his frozen frame.

Approaching up the corridor, a mass of rotting zombies filled the space. At least a hundred of them, crammed shoulder to shoulder. Gnashing teeth. Putrid skin. Jaundiced eyes. The stench overwhelmed Whirda's senses. She could hardly draw breath.

"Wake up!" Van Helsing growled.

"There's too many," Whirda murmured. "Too many..."

"But me some time!" The professor was on his knees, pulling vials from the pouches hanging at his waist.

"How?"

The teeming mass shambled forward. An arch extended high above them, scrawled with the same demonic language. The letters glowed sickly green, casting the leering faces in the incandescent hue.

"You are Whirda Windstrom!" Van Helsing roared. "Figure it out!"

Whirda nodded, but the odds and her exhaustion stole her strength. For the first time since Luskan, so many years ago, Whirda Windstrom was afraid.

She thought of Nyx, lost in the darkness. The grip on her kukris tightened.

She thought of Dobson, a pawn in a game far beyond his reach. Her feet ground into the stone, her muscles taut and flexing.

She thought of the elves, powerless to protect their home. Her fear was replaced by furious determination.

She thought of her mother. She attacked.

Whirda met the wall with a primal growl. Her blades blurred in the green light, hacking limbs from bodies, biting deep into decaying tissue. In that moment, she was no longer Whirda Windstrom. She was a consummate, faceless warrior. A swiping limb passed an inch in front of her face. A second later, its grasping hand flew high, spitting brackish blood.

The first row of undead faltered and fell, holy fire devouring everything in its path.

Whirda shifted tactics. A savage gust of wind exploded from her. The undead groped and scrambled for purchase, driven back before the onslaught. But they were clumsy things. Many fell, flailing. The others tripped over their fallen cohorts, mindlessly driven forward by their blood lust.

"Get back!"

She heard the professor's rumbling voice distantly. The image of her mother filled her head. Her face, bloated and lifeless, succumbing rapidly to the assassin's poison. In her rage, she drove forward, into the heart of the writhing mass.

"Whirda! Get back!"

A kukri dove into a gaping mouth. The zombie's head veritably exploded as holy fire ate its way outward, popping its eyes with a spray of gore.

A clenched fist struck the side of her head. She stumbled, nearly fell. The bodies pressed in, sensing weakness, constricting her reach. Her movements became compartmental, the cuts more shallow, relying on Lady Tyrande's enchantment to do the brunt of the work.

Slowly, inexorably, despite herself, Whirda gave ground. Fingernails raked at her armor, seeking skin. Another zombie spun away, the skin of its chest eaten away by fire, revealing organs stubbornly pumping in undeath. Two more took its place.

She turned, looking beseechingly at the professor. Only then did his words register. He gestured frantically, holding a vial between two fingers. The contents bubbled and frothed, spitting coruscating sparks. Whirda jerked her head in a nod.

As the professor hurled the vial, a gust of wind threw Whirda back. The vial passed over her head, landing amidst the throng.

The vial detonated.

Whirda threw a hand over her eyes as blinding purple light filled the space. Destruction spread from the point of impact, ripping the creatures apart. The whole cavern shook with the force of it. The sound was deafening. Whirda tucked into a ball to mitigate the damage of her landing.

The professor caught her in strong arms, skidding back to reduce her momentum. They fell, and she tumbled from his embrace, landing face down on the rough stone. Her ears rang. She spit dirt and gore from her mouth.

When she stood and blinked the spots from her vision, the corridor was empty. No corpses, no blood, no nothing. It was as if the very stone had been scrubbed clean.

Above, the green-glowing arch went dim.