Memories of Fire and Shadow

[Netherlyn]

((This arc is a continuation of the Monster storyline, so if you have yet to read that, please do before you read this... it will make much more sense.))

Remember the candles.

Netherlyn sat up with a start, her head thick with fog. A dull ache ran beneath her skull, and in hear ears rang the words she had heard over and over again in her dreams. She blinked, and when her eyes game into focus she was staring at a cold, gray stone wall. She held her head for a moment in a feeble attempt to gauge where she was, but her memory failed her. Her head began to ache more, so she stopped trying to remember. Gathering her wits, she slowly turned to look around, eyes squinting reflexively at the bright light filtering in through the stained glass window in the ceiling.

A brazier sat next to her, flames licking greedily up the sides, over the rim, seemingly greeting her from her slumber. Beyond this there was a great statue, hammer held high, bathed in the light from the window, marble rich with an unearthly glow. It took her a moment to realize where she was, but once her senses came into focus, she suddenly felt the first pangs of panic sting at her gut. She was in a holy place... a place she had seen many times before. This was Uther's Tomb... how did she get here? And why would she come to such a holy place? The sanctity of the very sheets on her cot made her skin crawl. This place did not welcome her, yet here she was. She did not know what she should do.

Pausing for a moment, she looked down at herself. From chest to waist she was bound in clean white linens, which smelled of some sort of poultice. Her arms were also wrapped tightly, bound by the hands of someone skilled at healing. She felt the bandages gingerly, running her fingers up and down her arm. She felt no pain save the ache in her head, and the one in her gut. She remembered. The wound Haldren had given her... the potion... she looked down again, urgently groping around her midsection to see if she was still bleeding. It was sore, and she winced when she touched it, but no blood came forth. She sighed. The potion must have worked, she reasoned. And whoever had bandaged her up had taken great care to see that she would heal properly, of that she was certain. Images raced through her head of being carted off to Stormwind, bound in irons. Of rotting in a cell, waiting to be summoned to trial. Of sitting before the King, and Lady Prestor, and the Archbishop. Of being found guilty of commiting war crimes against civilians, in the name of the Alliance. She would be executed for these crimes. And she could deny none of it. And she could not escape it. Malgren's words hissed in her ears, even now.

"Your powers, the ones I took such care in teaching you, and your 'servants', the ones I assigned from my own menagerie to assist you, I will reclaim. You will no longer need them."

Netherlyn shivered, pulling her knees up to her chin, and wrapping her arms around them. Her wound made complaint, but she ignored it.

"And I shall no longer require your services."

She was completely alone.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. They came echoing from the statue chamber, each one ringing against the cold stone walls, each one mocking her, echoing the words of her once mentor off the glowing stone of Uther's monument. She realized that she should have been frightened, she should have run, she should have done something. But in her cot she sat, chin resting on her knees, shoulders slumped, will gone. She could not flee from the inevitable. Malgren was right. No matter what she did, he had won. All she could do now was let it happen... the result of her wasted life. She had grown up thinking that the everything he had taught her was the truth. How easily she had forgotten everything her parents had taught her. How easily she had been corrupted. And she was the only one to blame. She let this happen; he had never once forced himself upon her. She sought his help, his aid. She had wanted revenge. And revenge he had given her. She recalled the moment she knew she had lost herself. Her parents... they had found them, lying in a pile, in the streets of her home town. She had burned them for fear of their return as Forsaken, as he had told her would happen. She wished at that moment that the flames of the inn had taken her as well, cleansing her of all her sin. But that was not to be. She was a monster... he had taught her that. And it was the one lesson he had given her that she knew she must remember.

She turned to face the source of the footsteps, and from around the corner strode a male Night Elf, dressed in priestly robes, eyes meeting hers. She felt like he was staring into her very soul. He smiled gently at her.

"Ah, so you are finally awake."

[Netherlyn]

The priest strode toward her, and she found herself staring into his eyes the whole time.

He doesn't know who I am.

He knelt down beside her, and gently grasped her arm, examining the bandage. He prodded her slightly, and when she gave no response, he stood.

"There seems to be no pain yet, though I cannot promise you that will last. You were very badly burned, and those wounds will scar... but not before they burn again, and itch like the devil. The salve I gave you will help, but whatever you do, no matter how bad it gets, you must never remove the linens. Otherwise they will get infected."

Netherlyn stared blankly at him for a moment, before nodding slightly.

"Good," he said, as he glanced at her midsection. "Does it hurt?"

"Always," she managed to say.

"I would ask what happened, but to find someone walking up the path from the cemetery, covered in naught but scratches and a bed sheet is odd enough. I believe that story can wait for another time." The priest smiled at her again. It made her shiver.

"I should have died," she blurted out.

The priest cocked his head to one side, a puzzled look on his face. "I wonder at what you have been through to make you say such a thing, but it is good that you did not."

Netherlyn looked up at him from the corner of her eyes, searching his face. He may not have known her, or maybe he did. Either way, she got nothing from him but genuine concern. "Why is that?" she murmured, resting her chin upon her knees.

The priest's face changed, just a bit, just enough for her to know something was wrong. "I will tell you when you have grown well again. No need for you to concern yourself with so much at once. Rest, and I promise I will converse with you at length."

"Converse with me now," she snapped at him, "or keep silent. What do you know, priest?" She felt instantly sorry for acting out, but what was done was done. His smile faded some, but he nodded, and pulled up a chair.

"You must know that I have done all I can for you. But this... this is beyond my knowledge. I'm not sure what you were doing before I found you on my doorstep, but whatever it was has left its mark on you." He motioned towards his own neck, touching it with his fingers. "Your neck... it is marred by some... darkness, some taint. I cannot discern the origin, but whatever it is, the one who did this to you was strong. The corruption may only be obvious there, but it has invaded your entire body. You might not feel it, but you carry with you some dread disease I cannot explain, but which shares an uncanny resemblance to one I have seen before." He turned and looked in the direction of the exit, pointing toward the outside. The cemetery. He turned back to her, and continued. "I fear that you might be infected with some new strain of the plague used by the Scourge to create their foul servitors. If you were to die..." he trailed off, looking at her, searching for understanding. She did not turn to face him, only sat and stared at the wall across from her cot.

The fire in the brazier cast a light orange glow over her face.

"The he truly has won," she said plainly, face revealing nothing. On the inside, her stomach was twisted in knots. He had lied to her... and she had believed him. She was as naive now as the day he had taken her away. And now it had cost her, again. Regardless of what she did, she was cursed to serve his ends, and the thought of becoming something she hated so dearly made her feel ill.

The priest looked at her, confused. "Who has won?" he finally stuttered.

Netherlyn looked at him, flames reflecting in her bright green eyes.

"Everyone," she said.

[Netherlyn]

Netherlyn was walking down the road, the bright horizon stretched out before her in radiant silence, save for the wind in the trees and the crickets in the tall grass. She felt the warm sun on her face and the summer breeze lazily rifling through her short black hair. It felt so good to be out in the warmth of the windswept field, on the dirt road, the song of nature playing as a melodious backdrop to a most perfect day. She felt something brush her hand, and turned to look, puzzled by the sudden intrusion into her walk.

Behind her stood a child... an odd place to get lost she thought. He had a runny nose, and large, watery eyes, staring at her as a child would after skinning a knee. In his arms was a small grey kitten, mewing and squirming as the child held it just under its front legs, rear ones left dangling and swaying beneath folded, dirty arms. She bent over to smile at the child, but when she got close, he took a step back, and dropped the kitten, which scampered off into the tall grass. The child's face screwed up in a look that could only be pain and confusion, and from beneath his ratty sackcloth shirt spidery veins of black began to crawl up his neck and across his face. His eyes glazed over, and before Netherlyn could grab for him to help, he fell back, flesh falling from his face, and eyes shriveling up into black sockets. She tried to scream, but no sound came forth from her lips; only the gentle breeze and the rustling grass and the chirping crickets disturbed the otherwise perfect day.

She stood in horror in the middle of the road, a pile of bones and corrupt flesh and ratty clothes lying before her. Dust blew from the bones as the wind kicked up, and the white of a skull began to show through the decaying hair of the child's head. She tried to turn away, but when she did, the bones were standing before her, empty eye sockets staring into her, accusing her, haunting her. She tried to flee, but everywhere she turned, the eyes... the macabre grin... they followed her. There was no escape. She fell to her knees, and as the dead child loomed closer, he seemed to grow taller, and more menacing. He grew to great height, and at his feet knelt and wept a little girl, no more than eight, her dirty knees wet with falling tears and bloody from the sharp gravel of the road.

Lyn felt herself get grabbed by the neck, and pulled violently from the ground, up into the air. She tightly closed her eyes, and wished for her parents to come save her. She wished hard that they would burn this thing with their magic and that they would scoop her up and take her home. She felt the bony fingers tighten around her neck. She started to gasp for breath as her windpipe collapsed beneath the hand's iron grip. She could not keep her eyes closed, and when her lids flew open, she was looking into the face of a demon, evil grin slashed across his face. His hot breath dried the tears on her cheeks, and the smell of sulfur burned her nose. She tried to squirm away, but his grip only tightened. Her vision began to blur. She felt light headed. The world was spinning, and she couldn't hear the wind or the grass or the crickets any longer... only the muffled sound of her neck being crushed and the hissing heat that was the demon's breath on her face. She stared into his red, burning eyes. He stared back, and for a moment she thought she knew him. Before everything went black, she heard him speak, three words:

"You... are... MINE."

Netherlyn sat up, gasping for air, on the verge of screaming. Cold sweat covering her body from head to toe. She stared off into space, and for a moment the world seemed to stand still. Realization struck soon after, and when she knew she was safe she leaned back against the cold granite wall and held her head, still reeling from the illusion. This was the third night in a row that she had had this dream, or something like it. Each time she almost died, and each time it was someone different who was killing her, but it was all the same in the end. She awoke in a panic, in cold sweat, and she felt like she could not breathe. The first night it had been her parents, the next Haldren; tonight Malgren had tried to kill her while she slept. She always became a little girl, and the the child was always the same. He always died, and Netherlyn wondered if it was the same child she had killed those weeks ago. The eyes... the empty eyes. She remembered those too. Those were her first nightmare, haunting her dreams for years after Malgren took her under his wing and taught her to harness her hatred and his power, and turned her into a weapon... and into a monster.

She sat up, and brushed the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. The skin under her bandages had started to burn, as the priest had said. He had also told her that no amount of magic would help the scarring on her back, or arms... or her stomach. She would be barren, and for that he said he was sorry. No, she thought, don't apologize for something that is not your fault. This is part of my punishment for allowing myself to do all those terrible things. Each life I took is a life I can no longer give, and the scar will always remind me.

She knew that if she stayed here any longer, the priest would be in danger if Malgren came for her. And these dreams convinced her more and more every night that he would. She was a loose end, and powerless or not, she was a threat to him. She had not died in the fire as he had planned, or at the hands of the undead wandering Andorhal, only to become one of them, and serve him in undeath. She had somehow survived, and every living breath she took was both threat and insult to him. He would come for her, and he would kill her, and all those who helped her, or were even near her. Even the plague that festered beneath her skin was as dangerous to him as it was to her. She knew that trying to go to Alliance authorities would only get her imprisoned however, and probably executed. They would never believe that she had within her some new plague that might soon be used as a weapon against them. They would only see a murderer and war criminal standing before them, and when they put her to death, she would come back, and kill more innocents before meeting second and final death. There was really nowhere for her to go... except maybe home. She thought about her old house, run down, but cozy and warm, and full of smiling faces. She remembered her hiding place, and how she used to go down there during Horde attacks, but also to escape her lessons. It was her special, secret place; she had books, and a pillow and blanket, and a candle to read by. Only she knew it was there.

She needed some place like that now.

[Netherlyn]

Days seemed to run together... nights were filled with the same twisted dreams of death and omen. Nethelyn found herself caring less and less what happened to her. She wondered if she should tell the priest everything, and put herself at the mercy of the Church; perhaps they would believe him if he told them that she was plagued, and they would take care in seeing that threat removed before she was put to death. Living this way seemed less and less like an option. She found herself silently weeping some nights, wishing that she had let the last bit of blood run from her gut and that she had died there on the floor of the burning inn. The flames might have consumed her, and maybe she would have not come back. It was fear of death and the unknown that made her drink that potion... not the will to resist everything that was Malgren and his plot. She knew that she was a part of his plan whether she wanted to be or not, in life or in death. She no longer had the luxury of free will.

Every day the priest would change her bandages, or at least check them, and every day she would come a step closer in her mind to telling him. I am a criminal. I am a murderer. I am a monster. She would unconsciously run her fingers across her stomach, along the scar that Haldren gave her. She stopped really thinking about anything but what the logical conclusion to all this would be. She would die. She did not notice the growing concern of the priest over her mental well-being. She did not even notice him retire to his desk to write letters at night, by the light of a candle. She slept more and more. She never spoke to him, except in her mind. I am a criminal. I am a murderer. I am a monster. She thought about stealing out into the night and walking into the cemetery, and letting the undead have her. That night she dreamed of the hollow eyes again... and she dreamt it was her that Forsaken had been eating. She woke up screaming, and the priest had to give her a sedative to relax her and make her sleep again. The drugs gave her the first blissfully dreamless sleep she had in years.

A few nights later, Netherlyn awoke to the blackness of the midnight hour. She had been dreaming of her parents burning... their flesh charring and skin peeling. She dreamed of their faces... their lips melting away under the hungry flames. She had burned them. She had done it because she was told to. Only in her dream it was not little scared crying Lyn that had done it. It was adult, corrupt, monstrous Netherlyn that had done it. She stood before the bodies of her parents, igniting their bloody robes with but a thought, all the while Malgren's hand rested on her shoulder. She remembered him telling her that if she did not burn them, the plague would take their bodies and they would come back as Forsaken to continue the cycle of raiding and killing. The fire would purify the bodies and send the souls past the Nether.

Something snapped in the back of her mind.

The fire.

[Netherlyn]

She left that night, wrapping herself in her bed linens, taking nothing else with her. While the priest slept, she crept out into the main chamber of the shrine. Uther stared down at her with eyes of white marble... cold, accusing eyes. He seemed to be goading her on, driving her out with his stony gaze. She shivered. The night air was brisk, and she had naught but the sheets between her and the winds that were creeping through the trees. The low whistle of the wind through the dead boughs made the night sound like the very voice of Sylvanas herself. As she made her way out of the shrine, she spotted a ghoul, ponderously limping across the front of the shrine, along the cemetery road. The priest had told her that the wards in this place would keep them out, but Netherlyn knew that once she crossed the threshold it was up to her legs to keep her safe. She had been bedridden for days, and walking was chore enough. Running was probably out of the question, but she knew she had to leave... and she knew where she must go. Past Chillwind, with it's Alliance eyes watching for her. Through Alterac and its snow-covered valleys. She had no boots for her feet, and she is not relish the thought of waling across the frozen ground. Then she had to sneak past the Alliance war camp, and past Tarren Mill, and past Southshore. She knew they knew her face there, so she would have to travel by night. Once through Hillsbrad and past the great wall things would be easier. The beasts of Arathi were vicious, but so long as she followed the road, she would reach the Thanadol Span, and soon the Wetlands. Once she was there... she had a difficult decision to make. Travel to Ironforge, where the adventuring population was highest, and risk being caught, or continue on to Storwind, and run a greater risk of being recognized. Ironforge was busier, but the chances of her running into someone she knew or that knew her were far less there than in Stormwind. And she had a "friend" there... someone who owed her a favor. And she intended to collect. Her dream had given her a new determination. She would not surrender to that cowardly, manipulative demon. She would do what he never expected. She would kill him.

The going was slow, and she had thought she was going to die several times on the road to Southshore. The Undead in the cemetery had been ruthless, and she had stumbled no too few times trying to get away from them. Lucky for her they had short attention spans, and if she stayed out of reach long enough, they would give up. She did get wounded, once... a flailing claw attached to a particularly hungry ghoul had raked itself across her left shoulder, opening four parallel red gashes to the bitter night air. By the time she arrived at Chillwind, the wound had started to sting from the night air, and the dirt from the beast's taloned hand. She drew the bedshrouds over her head, and hurried past the forms walking about the campsite. A few heads turned to look in her direction, but for the most part she was ignored.

The trip through Alterac was much less stressful than she had anticipated. She had found a set of woolen boots near a pile of bones outside of the Ogre encampment, and even though she had to try not to think about what had happened to the previous owner, they would protect her feet through the rocky landscape, past the Ogres and their ruins, and down into Hillsbrad. At one point she had to hide behind a rockpile when she caught site of two Horde running through the Ogre encampment. They both had pets with them, but were in such a hurry that they either did not notice her, or did not care. Either way, Netherlyn counted her blessings. She knew that the rest of the way would be easier, but if she ran into any more Horde... she shivered, but not from the cold. The thought of dying and coming back made her ill, and she sat for a moment in a rocky crag, the smell of the Ogres wafting through the little valley making her wince. Once she managed to gather herself up, she broke for the welcome green valleys of Hillsbrad.

The air down here was thicker, and smelled of wildflowers. Netherlyn took a breath, inhaling the crisp air, and remembering better days, days spent laughing in carefree ignorance. She caught herself daydreaming, and turned to press on. She would be damned if she let some Horde happen across her in the middle of a field with her head in the clouds. The fire... it burned in the back of her mind, like a beacon, guiding her where she must go. She used to know the ways of flame, but the magics that Malgren had taught her had wiped all that knowledge away. Fire she commanded, but a bale, wicked flame, cursed by devils and borne of malice. The flame she sought was different... elemental... pure. The thought of it caressing her skin as she brought it forth, its dance alluring and bewitching as it played upon her hands. The flame of her childhood. The flame of a mage of Dalaran.

Days spent in shallow coves and holes, in the hollows of great trees and the abandoned burrows of beasts gave way to nights of hurried travel, the threat of discovery looming larger by the day. She had crossed into Dun Algaz, and from here she was safe from the beasts of the field and the Horde both. Now she had to play a most dangerous game of hide-and-seek with the patrols of Dwarves and the groups of adventurers that regularly traveled here. Thelsamar was a a popular flight point for the Alliance gryphons, and the beasts and their riders flying overhead made her uncomforable. Here they flew low, and she could easily be spotted. By now her legs were exhausted, and her calves cramped up every time she stopped. She knew she would not be able to run if pursued. She only hoped anyone who caught her had the sense to take her in alive.

Two days later, after barely sneaking past a unit of mountaineers and lying her way through a group of inquisitive adventuring youth, she arrived at the gates of Ironforge. She had thanked whatever powers were watching her that they had been so young... lest they knew her face. The winding mountain road led up to the gaping maw of steel and stone that she had seen so many times before. How long had it been? Weeks at least...months perhaps. It didn't matter anymore. She had finally arrived, and her bloody, blistered feet, and her road-weary body would have at the very least a warm bath, a hot meal, and a bed to sleep in. Alexander owed her that at the very least. With her makeshift hood pulled up and travel-worn bed linens clutched tightly at her chin, she hurried, not too quickly, past the guards, and into the great Commons chamber. The heat of the mountain struck her, but the mild discomfort was most inviting. Without lingering for too long, she made her way through the Mystic Ward, along the far wall, away from the Temple, toward the Forlorn Cavern, and a safe place to sleep. She only hoped Alexander would not sell her out. All she had was her story and the favor he owed her. She hoped that would be enough.

As she waked through the rough-hewn passage into the Cavern, her burns started to itch. And for some reason, her scar, her everlasting reminder, decided to make complaint. She froze. Slowly she turned, scanning the darkness of the Cavern, looking all round, for him... he was here, she could feel it. Under her breath, a nervous curse of her own foolishness passed her lips. She had forgotten the greatest risk in coming here:

Haldren.

[Daedraug]

((Ha! My guild mate, not yours!! :P Great job again - for a different perspective on things this is sorta connected: http://tn.yzeens.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&t=726))

[Netherlyn]

Alexander had been more than happy to see her, going so far as to embrace her when she entered his abode. She knew that what really made him happy was the fact that she was calling in her favor for so little... she could have asked for much, much more. He gladly gave her a new set of clothes, a much needed bath, and full access to his library. When he asked why she would want the books, she responded with nothing but a glare. He never asked again. She studied day and night, pouring over dried-out tomes and ancient manuscripts, looking for her answer. She read book on the arcane, books on the diabolic, books on the holy. She read legends, lore, fact, fiction, anything that could give her insight into her predicament. All the while, Alexander was her most gracious host, asking no questions, making no complaint. Netherlyn hardly slept after the first night, which had extended into midday by the time she awoke, and many a discarded candle littered the floor of Alexander's study. Once or twice his apprentices, a pair of gnomes, peered in to see her, but when she did not respond to their curiosity they grew tired of the game and left her be. Alexander made her tea, ran to the Mystic Ward to buy her ingredients and more candles, and all the while was completely smiles. Had she not been so engrossed in her studies, she would have been concerned with his over-zealousness. But she had to find something... she knew what she was looking for was right there, in front of her.

The third night, Netherlyn awoke sore, her head laying on the open face of an ancient tome on troll magic. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and reached to light her candle and begin to read once more. She had been growing more and more restless with each passing day, as each book and each scroll and each journal denied her. Stacks upon stacks of discarded books lay strewn about the room, in various states of disarray. This book was no different. Her head was pounding with a dull ache from reading so many pages... the words were starting to run together, and they all spelled the same thing: futility. There was no precedent for magical conversion. It seemed that the schools were too far skewed, too different to be combined. The powers of the warlock were of shadow and flame, but borne of the fel, the stuff of demons and devils. The power of the mage was one of the natural; if she had found anything it was the similarity between the powers of the druid and the magi. But still nothing was to be found about any sort of fusion. Nothing like this had ever been attempted, at least so far as Alexander's collection was concerned. Her scar had not stopped aching for one moment since she arrived, and the distraction had been grating on her last nerve. It was good Alexander had been leaving her alone these past twenty-four hours, and she was equally glad the gnomes had not began poking around again. She closed the tome and tossed it aside, leaning her elbows on th table and resting her head in her cupped hands, rubbing her temples furiously. There were only a few books left, and once they were all exhausted, she would have to leave for Storwmind, and risk visiting the Great Library in the Keep... something she did not relish trying. Conviction was one power she had not lost, and even though it would more than likely get her killed one day, she needed it to drum up the courage in her mind to follow through with this. She tried to lie to herself and say that it would be in the next book, or the next after that... but the lies stopped working a day ago. Hope or desperation... she wasn't sure which.

As she reached for the next book, she noticed a tome bound in red leather and ebon fastenings, which had been hidden in a small alcove behind the other books. Dust and cobwebs covered the volume in thick layers of disuse, and the title was all but obscured beneath them. It took some doing, but eventually Netherlyn was able to remove the book from its hiding spot and lay it neatly on the table in front of her. She wiped the dust away from the cover, and upon seeing the title, shivers of possibility ran up and down her spine. The candle flame flickering in her eyes, she scanned the midnight letters affixed to the front cover. She tingled with excitement... but her excitement was mixed with a sense of foreboding; she silently mouthed the title, letting each unspoken syllable rest on her tongue: The Way of the Blood. She pulled up her chair, sat down, and slowly cracked the book open, the crinkle and crack of dry parchment breaking the silence of the dark room. The letters were not Common, but the language was plain to her: Demonic. The book had been written in the tongue of the Burning Legion, one she knew all too well. The illuminated letters and diagrams filled her head, and she drank in the sweet knowledge with a voracious thirst. The book described in detail the studies of an ancient Warlock, by the name of Donovan, and how he discovered a way to utilize the powers of flame and shadow without the need of a demonic host. This is what she was looking for... everything she needed was in this tome, she knew it.

The key to her salvation...

[Netherlyn]

Night gave way to day, and day again to night before Netherlyn closed the book, and leaned back in her chair, satisfied. She could not have asked for more. For the first time in as long as she had been in exile, she smiled, and it felt good. All she needed to do was find a dagger, and her journey could begin. She had stayed here for too long, and she feared that Alexander's absence from the study for the last few days was more than a convincing indicator that he had sold her out. To whom, she could not know, but they would probably come soon, under the pretense that she would pass out from lack of sleep, and be easily taken. She had no doubts that while she slept, he had read what she was reading, and knew. She had been powerless at his doorstep, and that was all the reason he needed to give her to anyone willing to pay for her. Not long ago, she may have killed him for merely suspecting that he had turned traitor, but now... she was so close to regaining what she had lost, that another lost friend meant little to nothing. She had little time to consider anything else but finding the knife and doing the deed. She would need linens too... and she hoped the rudimentary mending knowledge she gained over the past few days would stop the bleeding in time... there could be no more death but Malgren's.

She headed down the stairs, and glanced around the lower floor. Alexander was out, as were his two apprentices, no doubt meeting with her eventual jailers. Or so they thought. She searched around the mantle, and found that he still kept the black metal kryss there, still sharp even after all this time. She had given it to him after he had helped her, had given her the list from which she chose the names... both of which are etched upon her mind in stone and iron, never to fade, never to dull. Deadraug and Haldren... one a rogue of such bloody repute that she thought it almost too easy, and the other a Paladin with doubt so deep that she was convinced she could make him do anything for her... and him. Now, they were her deadliest enemies, sworn to her destruction. They had rallied not around her, but the priestess who had joined their ranks to spy on her. Once she bore this woman such ill-will, but now Netherlyn halfheartedly wished that this priestess had stopped her, and that the fight had never happened. The only thing she had left was the death of her former master... once that was done there was no reason for her to live. She would never see her parents again... and...

She shook her head, flinging the stray thoughts away, out of her mind. She had to hurry. They would be back soon.

Up the stairs, knife in hand, Netherlyn set to work. She opened the book to the marked page, and began to read, half-aloud. She studied the diagrams closely, and memorized the patterns, tracing them with the tip of the blade. There could be no mistakes. There would be only one chance, and she had to do it perfectly. Any variation would bring no result. The linen she had found in the drawer readied, loose coils drooping over the edge of the table; the knife gripped in her hand, a piece of spare bandage wrapped around it to keep it from cutting her. She picked up the small piece of wood she had taken from the unlit stove, and placed it between her teeth. Sweat began to bead in small droplets on her forehead. She wiped them away with the back of her bandaged hand. Now was the time. If she did not die from this, she swore to the gods, and to the souls of her dead parents that she would find Malgren, and she would kill him. After that, the fates could do with her what they liked. Bracing herself, and pressing the cold steel tip to her bare flesh, she began. Like the book... like the pattern... each one perfect... each one...

Inside her head, she screamed in unbridled agony. Outside, no one heard a sound.

The hour was long, painful, and bloody. The book... her salvation, had been spattered with her life, and the table it sat upon was no better. The kryss gleamed in the candle light, red and black. Netherlyn stared at the blade, eyes heavy from loss of blood, body slumped in the chair, head barely able to stay up. The red... the black. Fire... and shadow. The dagger clattered to the floor, and her arm fell to her side. Before her eyes shut, she saw them standing before her... were they smiling? Her eyes fell closed. The sounds of the city faded.

All that remained were memories of fire and shadow...

And a voice...

Netherlyn...