Amras clutched the amulet, tangling the broken thong around his fingers. The green flame retreated, but circled him still at a greater distance. Hrulg rebounded against the wall, his eyes aglow. The half-orc--or the thing inside him--was slow getting up. Taija seized the momentary pause to deliver a crushing jab at Wallach's collarbone. She felt it break even as her foot connected with his knee. He dropped like a stone.

Clarity came back to his eyes. For a moment. The wizard fumbled his scroll case loose with bloody fingers, thrust it in Taija's direction. "Take it. If you can. Dhazjun...must...know." Then a growl. "Too weak the years have made us." The wizard started to shudder, but his face twisted in a horrible rictus as he looked past Taija...to Omar.

The demon within her screamed a warning, and she turn just in time to see the green flame disappear into the Khu'marin's eyes and mouth. The man's scimitar steadied, and flashed at Taija's exposed back. But there was Amras, his long knife intercepting the curved blade.

Omar howled. "This one is strong enough. Strong enough to stir the others. We will not let you best him here. Begone!"

No chanting of arcane words, no gestures. Just an all-encompassing roar and green fire and searing pain.

[--*--]

She heard coughing before her eyes cleared. As she blinked the last flickers away, she saw Amras, hunched over, as bloody and burnt as she probably was. Wallach's scroll case was in her free hand. The surf-breaker lay at her feet. And she recognized the place: the first corridor from First Hall. They'd been hurled to the edge of the Thin Land, leaving Omar, the demons, and whatever knowledge they were sharing to fester in its depths.

A moment's triumph.  A crushing loss.  And then the bite of failure, even as the world shattered around them, reforming in another place.  And everyone, all of them but Amras, gone.

"NO!"  Her veins boiled with rage, her mind for once united, two sides slammed together by desperation for lost comrades and hateful fury at the other demons' arrogance.  Got to get - How dare they - them back! - think to best me?  The pain of injury vanished beneath the tidal bore of anger.  A single movement of her leg hooked the Surf-breaker, snapping it into the air where a charred hand awaited, and Taija took two, long strides back into the Thin Lands.

The coughing.  Amras.

Her heels bit into the stone as she ground to a stop, the weapon dragging down her weakening arms.  Rage guttered, flames dying, stamped out by plain, brutal fact - it had taken hours for them to reach that place, hours of walking coupled with a vicious battle that she could not win alone and injured.  By the time she reached it - if she reached it - it would be far, far too late.  The Surf-breaker's heavy butt chipped the ground, scorring a line from that point when she dropped into a crouch, her horned head hanging.

Failure.  The one thing bitter to the whole of Taija.

Her gauntleted fist speared down on a collision course with the granite; at the last second she pulled the punch, the final embers of her anger frozen at the sight of the scroll clenched in the steely fingers.  Trembling, Taija slowly raised her hand, studying the broken Wallach's last gift to her; it blurred in her sight, and she swallowed hard, her throat thick.  "Right."  Hoarse but clear, the word whispered through the silent tunnel.  I'm sorry, Wallach.  I almost forgot.

A critical task remained.

She rose with difficulty, burned skin tugging painfully as she limped, blisters scraping against clothes, and those the sickly-white marks left by the shadows leeching her strength with their icy chill.  Returning to her injured comrade, Taija bent slightly at the waist, scroll-carrying hand fisted on her knee.  "Amras - can you walk?"  A question quietly spoken, concern threading her tone.  The half-elf was nowhere near as enduring as Taija's corrupted body, it's intrinsic durability further hardened by years of impacts and violence; his strengths lay elsewhere.  How he had survived, she had no idea - perhaps the amulet shielded him.  They would reach a healer if she had to carry him the rest of the way.  Of course, he might object - people usually avoided touching her.  So rather than simply grab and lift, Taija stopped short just shy of the ranger and held out her hand, for him to take or spurn as he chose.

That he survived was enough - a small blessing amidst a myriad failures.

Amras took the offered hand and levered himself upright. He looked like hell, not that Taija imagined she looked any better. "Let's get some walls between us and...that. And tell the paladins what's going on. I... Thanks for trying to save us all. For saving me. I thought we were all going to die. Or worse." The ranger shuddered. His eyes were red, but the gratitude in them was as real as the pain. He coughed. "I...I'm sorry about the other day, in the mess. I shouldn't have let them get to me."

Surprisingly, Amras' words actually helped.  She had tried - that she failed did not obviate that fact.  Still, Taija felt a deep stab of guilt when she considered those left behind, both the dead and the living.  The possessed.  If only she had used the amulet sooner.  If only she had moved with conviction more swiftly.  If only.  "To try and fail is noble, but still misses the mark; to try and succeed is the aim."  Words of her mentor, coming back to haunt her.

The silent laughter within her burned as badly as any of her wounds.

A wry smile touched her lips.  "Don't worry about it.  Please."  His words warmed her, soothed some of the pain of injury; even so, while Amras' heart might be sincere, his guilt was misplaced.  Certainly the scorn and lacivious amusement might have played some part in his decision in the mess, but Taija knew where the lion's share lay.  Her anger lit a flame beneath her spirit, setting it to boil and releasing the unsavory vapors of her darker side.  They scraped the nerves of those around her like the sound of claws on steel.  Animals knew, even when she was calm - dogs barked, horses protested, cats fled.  People sensed it as well, but a hardened warrior like Amras could dismiss any nervousness until her burgeoning rage rubbed his face in her spirit's malevolent pulse.

It would happen again, sooner or later.  It always did.  It hurt, but she held no grudge against those it distressed.  It was a strong point in Amras' favour, in fact, that he could set it aside after feeling it.

Not wanting to offend - the ranger had his pride, after all - she gave his arm a gentle squees then released it, letting him stand on his own.  "I don't look forward to explaining this to the paladins," Taija muttered.  For many reasons - shame being one of the highest.  "But you're right, Amras.  We're not out of this yet and they have to know."  She threw another glance back into the throat of the tunnel, her lips tight.  "Storm's coming.  Maybe a big one."  The scroll went in her pouch as she turned to the way out, and something clinked, metal on metal.  With a rueful moue, the tall warrior dug through her possessions, finally coming up with a small, steel flask she offered to the half-elf.  "Let's go.  And please, take this - it'll help."

OOC - Potion of Cure Moderate Wounds.

Amras reluctantly took the potion and swallowed it. Slowly. The edges of his burns pinked up healthily, and his breathing grew steadier. He still had several nasty cuts, but none yet bled.

"Better. Let's get going."

Together, they walked the blessedly tangible distance back to First Hall. They were not disturbed, and though the sentries on the walls must have seen them coming, there was no call or challenge from the walls until they reached the gate itself. The dwarves opened those gates with minimal fuss, although the welcome inside was not precisely...warm.

Dhazjun was there, fully panoplied in mithril and adamant. His proud swathe of beard matched it for black-and-silver splendor, but neither matched the diamond-studded hammer he held in his hands. Morn was on his left, looking slight indeed next to the venerable paladin. Junior members of Moradin's order lined up three abreast to either side, and behind them were more dwarves with loaded, drawn crossbows.

Morn drew a breath to speak, but Dhazjun forestalled him with a raised hand.

"What have you done with your patrol, demoness? To your captain? Three days gone and to return, thus..." The common tongue was slow and ponderous as Dhazjun spoke it, every word carefully weighed and weighted.

It was good to see Amras regain some of his vigor, to watch his injuries age toward full health.  Not perfectly, but sufficient for a little more comfort as they walked.  Sometimes Taija doubted the efficacity of the potions she had purchased - sadly, there was never a way of knowing their potentcy without need, and by then it was too late to test.

Many warriors, she knew, staked their lives on their elixirs and draughts; Taija had never been able to trust such things, viewing them as a necessary evil apt to let her down at a critical time.

After their time spent in the dead, empty area far below, the walk in the dimly-lit, stone tunnel seemed like a stroll through a well-lit forest, with birds chirping in the trees, and Taija felt her exhausted spirit struggling to lift.  Heavy weights still held it down, weights with names: Omar.  Wallach.  Hrulg.  Felix.  Even so, the fortress was a welcome sight, the dwarven sentries silent support against what lay at their backs.  It wasn't until she entered that she realized why no challenge had been laid, that they were expected...and not with open arms.

Then, of course, things fell to pieces.

She could only stare in dumb amazement at what awaited them: Dhazjun fully kitted-out in clan armor and bearing a no-doubt named weapon - likely something along the lines of "The Stone's Vengeance" or, given his personal feelings, "Bane of Demons" - backed up by a small army of glowering paladins and a host of soldiers, their crossbows ready to loose armor-defeating, bone-shattering bolts.  For a moment, she felt hope as Morn opened his mouth; it turned to ashes in her mouth as his commander finally spoke, the accusation heavy in the air, unable to be drawn back.

And from those ashes came fire.

Tension had built upon her in the Thin Land, beset by foes again and again; with allies to protect, Taija had held back, unable to fully release what lay within.  Her last battle had been the worst - against those she would rather have named friends than enemies, and a struggle more than physical, fought against her shadow-self's rage simultaneous with the battle against the possessed patrol.  Fury, pain, and helpless despair spiralled up in her, and her steely gauntlets creaked on the haft of the surf-breaker.  "What have I done?" she whispered.  Then her voice rose, breaking on the final word.  "I came back with all that is LEFT!"

I can reach him.  The crossbows, she knew, would not stop her, not with the fury upon her.  She would hit any protective line of dwarves like a boulder, shattering their stony facade, and kick Morn from her path.  Take Dhazjun by that gleaming, polished armor, bury that diamond-studded toy of his into his face -!

She closed her eyes, swaying.  Took a long, shuddering breath.

Leave me be!

Her eyes opened again; unshed tears of sorrow and rage made them slick onyx, the sapphire ring of their irises bright in the torchlight. "We met..." she hoarsely began, then shook her head, further clearing her thoughts.  When Taija again raised her voice, her words were as measured as Dhazjun's, though perhaps not quite so slow.

And she spoke in the tongue of the stone.

"Lord Dhazjun -" his due, nothing more or less "- Omar led us deep into the tunnels, where we found ourselves trapped within a Thin Land.  Shadowy spirits bedevilled us as we searched more deeply, seeking the extent of its threat to the First Hall.  We watched the spirits of fallen warriors do battle.  But when we turned to leave, the Thin Land would not give us up."  Slowly her hands relaxed, and the surf-breaker slid down, its butt dropping to the stone floor with a clash far out of proportion with the weapon's size.  She kept one hand on it, the blade reaching a hand-length above her head.  "We took refuge in a room, and..."

Her eyes flicked to the other dwarves, almost as if truly grasping their presence for the first time.  Should this be news for the lord's ears only?  Hang it all, Taija decided.  The old warrior had practically accused her in public - she might as well offer her report as a defense.

"We found writings upon the wall, ancient script of your people.  Wallach copied them, entrusted them to me before he was taken."  Her voice shook slightly, then steadied.  "Emerald flame came for us from warded urns, unwisely disturbed - it took our people, one by one, turning them against us.  Only by a gift of protection did I and Amras escape possession." She withheld stating from whence the gift came, unsure if it would land Morn in hot water or not.  "Last to fall was Omar - the flame within him sent us away, back here, after avowing to 'wake the others'."

Her chin tucked when she finished, her focus on the rolling Dwarven tongue scouring her clean of sorrow, anger, and the ugly, dark whispers.  Her alien eyes challenged the dwarven noble to judge.  Then, after a moment, she remembered Amras, and leaned back slightly to whisper out of the corner of her mouth.  "Sorry...figured on explaining before he broke my head."

They would probably want to hear his version, in any case.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:55, Fri 04 Mar 2011.

Again, before Morn could speak his piece, he was interrupted.

Amras couldn't really follow all of the dwarven, but he'd picked up enough in his time with the dwarves to catch fragments. "Demons in a Thin Land, sir. If it hadn't been for Taija, I'd be dead, and you'd not have gotten even that much information. It was..." he trailed off.

"It was horrible. We fought shadows all the way in. And they weren't the worst part. Felix, may his soul find rest somewhere, went and opened something he shouldn't have. Maybe the thing called him. But it took him, and he loosed other things. Demons of green fire. One of them has Omar now. Wallach and Hrulg are dead. Omar...Omar's worse. Whatever has him banished us. I think it was afraid because it couldn't get into us. I..." The ranger trailed off again, pale beneath his burns. The dwarves let him collect himself.

"Whatever is at the heart of that place is older than anything I've ever seen. Great War old. And Great War dangerous. Please, sir, look at the scrolls. Good people died to get them. Wallach...he--well, he might have been able to keep the thing out of himself if he hadn't been trying to scribble more things down. Isn't my place to say so, but this is bigger than getting an old Delve back in dwarven hands. At least it is now."

She hadn't exactly intended to name names, but Amras certainly didn't mean harm.  Taija supposed it could only help her case if they heard from another's mouth that she hadn't been the one to set the creatures free, laughing diabolically the entire time.  The Dwarves, for their part, seemed content to let the ranger talk, and Taija slowly dropped into a crouch, her hand sliding down her weapon as her head drooped.  Tired, she was.  Exhausted by battle.  Weakened by fury.  And soul-weary of being greeted with hurled insults and accusations.

Pull yourself together.  This is no time for whining.

For once, all of her seemed to be in accord.  She took a final moment, wanting desperately to fall into a bed - bathing coming a distant second - then pushed herself up as Amras' narration came to a close.

"Thanks," she whispered, truly meaning the word.  Sometimes it only took a single candle to keep the dark at bay; Amras' generous acknowledgements of her efforts put strength back in her joints.  As she studied the ranks of soldiers, something within her growled and grumbled, but with a leash of pure will, Taija choked its complaints into silence.  "I'm hoping they'll listen, but you might want to take a few steps to the right if they don't."

As humor went, it was a poor attempt, but also all Taija could manage at the moment.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:53, Sun 03 Apr 2011.

Dhazjun looked, for the moment, more thoughtful than stoic. The rank-and-file paladins looked antsy, but their eyes were no longer on the returned mercenaries. The soldiers seemed outright nervous, and their crossbows dipped.

Morn wasted no time in leaping into the brief gap in the conversation. "First, whatever's gone, whatever's come, I'm glad you made it out. Both of you." He meant it too. "Rhonab talked about shadows, too...should've guessed there's a Thin Land in there. Look at them, my lord. Half-dead and charred, barely on their feet with weariness. Do you really think they'd go to such lengths to lie to us?"

Dhazjun turned to his war-captain. "You speak out of turn, captain." He didn't smile, but the ancient's frown relaxed slightly. "But you are correct. They told no lies. I do not think they lied by omission, either, excepting the demoness's unwillingness to blame her friends for their weakness. This is fell news indeed. I had thought we would find ghosts here. The tales of the Delve's fall are dark, and our dead do not always lie quiet when slain unjustly in their own halls. But a Thin Land...Moradin preserve us. We must send word to the Crimson Blades. Their order knows more of containing the shadows than ours."

"But this is our place." hints of battlefield roar rolled in Dhazjun's words. "And we will not leave it in darkness if it is in our power to end it. Give me the scrolls, and get to the infirmary. Your efforts have been sufficient, and you have earned the time to mend your wounds."
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:02, Sun 03 Apr 2011.

Half-dead and charred, and that was after she slipped Amras something to help.  Else, Taija figured, she'd be carrying the half-elf.  More weight slid from her shoulders as Morn took a chance with his support - not that she'd expected anything less from her commander - and slowly the decision finally tipped in their favour.

Guess I missed the chance to clip some beards...

The errant whisper was a last gasp; Dhazjun's decision took the wind from her traitorous thoughts, left them fumbling in the darkness of weariness, hunting for something to gnash.  Relief flooded the dark-kin - relief at the release of suspicion, relief at the cease-fire in her inner war, and final relief as Dhazjun metaphorically set his feet.

They believed.  They had an explanation for the madness.  They would not flee.

"Made it through another one," she murmured to Amras, with light irony.  For her, this situation had been as fraught with danger as the soujourn through the Thin Land.  Maybe not quite, she considered.  Allies - Amras, Morn - made things a great deal easier, and gods knew she appreciated them.  "Too much to hope the infirmary has long beds?"

Fumbling with her surf-breaker, she brought out the scrolls.  "The amulet," she hissed to the ranger as she stumbled forward, her burned, bruised body trying to do too many things at once and almost failing. "It's Morn's."  Reaching the dwarven lord, the dark-kin fought the fogginess in her skull to ferret out what she thought might be decent ettiquette.  At this point, dropping to one knee verged on being a guilty pleasure.  One hand laid her ponderous weapon on the stone, the other extended the pouch of scrolls.

"Lord Dhazjun, these are the mage Wallach's writings - the transcription of your people's words."

Gods.  Yet another weight off her, and probably the largest.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:31, Mon 04 Apr 2011.

Dhazjun nodded and took the battered metal case.

Morn (and, more quietly, a pair of Dhazjun's lieutenants) accompanied Amras and Taija to the infirmary. "When you've had a chance to rest, Taija, I'll want a full report. If things come out of there led by something in Omar's body, we'll need all the information we can get. Lord Dhazjun will have the scribes working on Wallach's scrolls right away, but whatever is in them, I want to know what that place is for boots on the ground."

The infirmary did, indeed, have some beds long enough for non-dwarves...though they were still somewhat short for Taija. "That can wait, though. Get some rest; let the clerics attend you. I'll make sure you two get the best meal we can manage. You've earned it. And sleep. I'll be back tomorrow to hear your report."

The short dwarf saluted them both and departed. As he left, acolytes approached with various salves and apologetic mumbles, curtaining off two adjacent beds so their patients could shed their kit and receive treatment.

[Exeunt]