World of Warcraft®

((Continued from "Little Gnome in the Woods" http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/13437403611 ))

"John, what on earth did you do this time?" The old woman chastised. Her wrinkled face scrunched together, watching with a scowl as the old man step down from the wagon. The old man replied from beneath his floppy wide-brimmed hat. His tone the practiced model of temperance.

"Nothing, dear. I didn't do a thing." Easing to the ground the old man placed his hands on his lower back and stretched. Temperance and patience.

"Nothing?" The old woman scoffed. "Nothing indeed! You rode the poor dear too hard for too long, and now she's gone and injured herself!"

"No dear." Temperance... "She's just an old nag, far past her prime." Patience... "Her legs were bound to give out sooner or later, Martha."

... and longsuffering.

"Nag!" Martha huffed and spoke sharply. "Watch your tongue, Johnathan." Martha leaned forward from her seat in the wagon. "Don't you mind him any sweet Nell. He's just old an' bitter."

John mumbled under his breath on his way to the side of the horse that had been pulling their wagon. "Bitter as only you can make me woman."

"What was that Johnathan? Speak up and be heard!"

"I was murmuring to Ol'Nell is all, dearest." John patted the old horses shoulder. "Isn't that right ol'gal. Now, lets have a look see."

Martha shifted in her seat while John examined the horse. They'd been heading east along the old kings' road from Dalson's Farm toward the Eastern Forests of Lordaeron. A place many still called the Eastern Plaguelands. In the wagon was a small load of basic provisions meant for Crown Guard Tower. Since they has lost their farm to the scourge the old couple had bounced from settlement to settlement taking work wherever there was a need just to make ends meet.

This run was no different than any other they had run before. They had received the order late in the day, but figured they could still make good time to the tower before nightfall. No part of the forests of Lordaeron was safe after nightfall, especially for those without the means to defend themselves.

Martha glanced at the forest around her. Shadows were getting longer and longer as the sun set at their backs. A cold chill touched her spine and she shivered. It was still seasonably warm, but it was something in the trees. Something dark and eerie that still clung to the wilds. Feeling the hairs on her neck stand on end she glanced over her right shoulder.

Back a distance south of the road, through a thicket of dead and diseased woods, sat Gahrron's Withering. Memories of ol'Del and sour business dealings stretched to the surface. For a brief bitter moment she was almost grateful to the scourge for their work. Almost. The old woman shifted heavily in her seat again, rocking the wagon.

"Are you about finished holding Nell's hoof? We ought to be gettin' along."

Old John glanced up at his wife. With well measured patience he let the old horse's hoof to the ground and stood as straight as he could, with a slight bend in his back. He lovingly patted the horses shoulder.

"I'm afraid we're not going anywhere just yet, my dearest."

He shifted his floppy wide-brimmed hat to the back of his head and scratched his bald forehead.

"She's finally gone lame." He mourned, knowing what would inevitably would have to follow.

Martha clasped her hands on her lap and sat still. The gravity of their situation sinking deep. The old pair exchanged a knowing look. One they had exchanged too many times before. It was the same look many others carried. Those who had survived the worst of times the scourge could wrought upon their lands. Their homes. Their families.

Their lives.

Now the merciful angel of death has come to finally claim the last of their family. Ol' Nell. The nag was the last of a long line that had been in the family for generations. Strong and willful, she'd never taken the saddle but for one person. Their son, the third in a line of four sons and two daughters. In that order. When he was lost to the scourge the mare never took a saddle again, favoring the cart or plow from then on. It was just as well, John figured. Everyone grieves in their own way.

"Some grief just never fades...." The old man muttered. This time his wife heard him perfectly, and nodded.

Fighting away the tears, packing down the pain, John gazed behind them to the west where the sun hung low and the shadows stretched far. He needed to get them off the road before nightfall. Perhaps they could make it back to the druid's camp by dark, though they were closer to Thondroril Bridge.

Just across the river was a gilnean gipsy that occasionally set up shop. She often traveled between the towers and Light's Hope. There was no guarantee she'd be there.

The old man glanced back the way they came once again. It was a tough call. One he would have to make quickly.

"I hate leavin' these supplies uncovered for the world to take." Martha uttered. She was thinking the same as John.

"Yeah. It's sixes really..." John mumbled.

Martha turned to gaze back the way they had come one more time. She was prepared to make a decision, but wanted to hear from her husband before saying anything. From the corner of her eye she saw the dark outline of a silhouetted figure on horseback trotting up the road toward them. She turned with a wide eyed hopeful gaze to John.

"I see'm." He told her, responding to her gesture. The faint glint of a grin curled his the creased edges of his mouth.

"Keep your hopes up..." John moved along the side of the wagon. He reached inside and pulled loose an old flintlock rifle whose barrel had been cut short. He checked that the pan was primed and set the hammer to halfcock. "... but just in case, Martha." He slid the barrel up beneath the seat to where she could grab the weapon.

In her youth Martha had a deadly aim. Now that the years had all but worn her away, she was still fairly dangerous at close range. Dangerous enough that John prefered she had quick access to the firearm.

The old man moved nearer to the rear of the wagon with a hopeful anticipation to warmly greet the stranger. With any luck they could return to at least the druid's camp with word for a rescue.

The coming twilight gave way to an unnatural chill in the air. It should have been John's first clue something was amiss, but it wasn't.

As the sun slowly ducked behind the trees and mountains the burning orange ball of light revealed more and more detail of their approaching savior. The figure looked decidedly more and more womanly the closer the figure approached. She was on horseback, trotting at an easy unconcerned pace; which should have been another indication that something was wrong, but it never occurred to John.

The womanly figure was darkly clad in form fitting robes trimmed in silver. The dark flowing cloak and deep hood matching. At any other time in any other night that visage alone would be cause for alarm, but at this moment it simply wasn't. John ignored all the obvious warnings and held out hope. They both needed something good right now. A kind hand or noble heart.

As the horse drew near it became obvious that they would receive neither. The weight of his folly feel hard on John's shoulders. His eyes widened as his gaze drifted from the rotted skeletal remains of the horse's head, down the length of is leathery neck, and up into the dead eyes of the rider.

Madness enveloped him. His mind swam with panic. He had to warn Martha, but he couldn't. All he could think to do was run. Run you fool. RUN! The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The sensation that something horrible was upon out fell around his shoulders like a heavy cape and with all his might the old man bolted forward.

His old legs and tender heart carried him a long distance before he had a thought to glance behind him. A short distance behind him he saw the bewildered face of his beloved watching him go. Ol' Nell reared up and kicked at her bindings until she was freed. Behind them both darkness fell.

A visceral nightmare opened its gaping maw threatening to swallow John whole. Hallucination or not, it felt all too real. Fear gripped him and he cried out in a panic as he drove himself off the road, north into the forest.

He had wasted enough time trying to convince Orwyn of his sincerity, and dealing with his public so-called-defender back in Stormwind. Either they would believe him or they wouldn't. But here, he would add a little bit of ammunition for the defense, as it were...working with the settlers, those who had not been run out by the Forsaken occupation of Andorhal. The Alliance had largely redeployed from the region - with only their long-standing camp at Chillwind Point as their outpost in the former Kingdom of Lordaeron - leaving the farmers to the care of the Argent Crusade and the Cenarion Circle.

More fool them, he thought. Fordring is too busy resting on his laurels from Northrend, he has been for years - and the Crusade's focus has mostly shifted eastward. And the druids are still clinging to the restoration of Hyjal, now that Ragnaros is dead...they did their job here, for the most part, so now they've run off.

So, that would be part of his "atonement plan"; he would minister to the settlers here, those that remained. And a goodly few did, many of them refugees who had survived the Scourge and come back to work the lands of their fathers. He had to admit, he admired their fortitude. Of course, such fortitude had not saved the people in Hillsbrad or Southshore. "Honorable defeat," some might call it. "Damned stupidity," others would say. He considered it an opportunity. He would only use the Light here, of course; he doubted the people would have quite as open a mind as he did.

He would also refrain from mentioning his Forsaken past, though the subject might possibly come up...

For now, however, he rode once again along the King's Road on the northern outskirts of Andorhal, on his way to one of the farms near the Thondroril. The riverbank separating Western and Eastern Plaguelands was still in pretty grim shape, though the druids that remained - those who had not been recalled to tend to the mess on Mount Hyjal - still worked to bring life back to this region, as they had in the woods around Andorhal and Hearthglen.

He halted his horse, Antinnis, and listened. He could have sworn he heard...a scream. Someone in danger - it was coming from the east, ahead of him on the road. His hearing had become very acute since he had returned...yes, definately sounded like trouble. He gently nudged his steed into a canter, and headed in the direction of the noise.

The urge to feed overwhelmed her.

Curious. Of all the sensations which had been renewed when she drained that woodsman of his life it would be hunger which faded the slowest. The voodoo shaman Alakkal had warned her as much. Feeding off the life force of the living would never fully renew her own, but that was never the goal. It had provided certain benefits as well as certain drawbacks, one of which was the constant need of nourishment.

In time, she knew. She would break down this one voodoo technique and refine its process. Maximum benefit for the least amount of effort. In time. Somehow this old injured gnome would play a part. His condition was certainly interesting and warranted further study.

For now however the urge to feed overwhelmed her. It seemed as though it had been ages since she had felt anything so powerful and so wreckless. It was time to indulge.

She had spotted a wagon pulled to the side of the road. An old couple sat with worried faces. They hadn't run when they spotted her approaching. They didn't recognize her. Delightful.

The urge to feed slowly overwhelmed her, turning into a need. A dire compulsion that threatened to take control. Not now. Just a little closer.

Nearing the rear of the wagon the old man suddenly understood his foolishness. As they made brief eye contact she cast a fear inducing shadow spell through her gaze. She watch rather bemused as his old eyes widened, hope and reason draining. The sight of him fleeing confounded the woman seated in the wagon.

The perilousness of the moment was not lost on the animal at the front of the wagon. It kicked and thrashed at its bindings, its natural instinct to flee taking control. Taking control.

It was entirely possible that at the moment she felt more animal than forsaken. A perverse sort of glee filled her. The dead mount beneath her quivered with anticipation. It too wanted to play, and who was she to deny?

Bundling the unconscious gnome in her arms as if he were a sleeping toddler she swung a leg over the saddle and slipped to the ground. The undead creature that was once a horse leaped forward with a singular purpose. When finally the old nag had kicked her bindings loose she tugged hard and broke free, limping at a swift painful gait away from the wagon. Winnying cries of horror and distress. The undead steed blurred past the woman, closing swiftly on the nag.

She set the gnome gingerly into the back of the wagon, careful that he came to no further harm. Then she released the need within. The cloaked corpse bounded up into the wagon with a single leap. The old woman whipped around rifle in hand but it was too late. The hungry corpse placed a cold iron grip on an arm, the other wrapped tightly around her neck tilting her head backward.

Shadow enveloped the corpse. It poured from her like a thick cloak, warping her appearance, looking more the part of a nightmarish banshee. Her eyes glowed with dim shadow. She opened her mouth wide and began to feed, even now altering slightly the vampiric voodoo technique to better suit her needs.

Inky tendrils of darkness lifted from the old woman's face, reaching across space to the awful visage that leaned over her. The corpse allowed herself to be lost in the painful euphoria that filled her as she pulled the remaining life essence from this old woman. So much so that she had become blind to the world around her.

She didn't notice the commotion of the old horse when it was knocked to the ground. When it cried a dreadful winny as the undead steed began to feast. She didn't hear the old man cry out in horror as he ran from the road.

The banshee was completely lost within her singular moment, oblivious to the mounted entity that was riding up behind her.

He could feel the other like a man would feel a wave washing over him, even before he saw. As he slowed his approach, the feeling became much more tangible. He began to feel another presence as he drew closer, familiar as well - the unconscious gnome, a trusted associate of one who considered herself a mortal enemy. Hopefully, this will change that.

For now, however, his focus was on the other. As he had seen when he had recreated the scene in his mind, she was Forsaken. She seemed to have taken on aspects of a banshee, those who had been handmaidens of Sylvanas before she made the pact with the val'kyr. The angels of death had become her heralds...but the banshees still sang her song.

Powerful, he thought. Like a hurricane - and just as unpredictable, and as unstable. Too much, too quickly. She is impatient. Reckless.

Utterly oblivious.

He smiled to himself. For now, the aura he projected was that of a benign priest of the Light travelling the road, and his ornately-appointed white robes seemed to fit that bill. But his voice was tinged with a hint of amused malice as he spoke.

"I hope I am not interrupting."

That voice, like a crystalline spear, severed her concentration.

All the work she had done, the effort she had poured into her spellcraft, it all started to unravel. The euphoric tempest of emotions died leaving only the hollow vestige of her former self. Fear and panic trickled throughout, playing with her mind as these last phantoms of humanity faded. The shadowy cloak fell from her shoulders. Her icy hands released the woman, lowering her sweetly onto the bench. Her work interrupted, the old woman was not yet completely gone.

Utterly exposed and alone, the corpse suddenly became aware of both her condition and the person at her back, but could do nothing about either. She had thought these two old people foolish, but in truth she been the foolish one. Allowing herself to be carried away as she had. Her new found power filled her with confidence, breeding arrogance that blinded her with false assurance. Surely she was more than this... forsake corpse. It was a lie she so desperately wanted to be true.

It was a lie.

The strength she had sapped from the old woman drained like water through a ruptured dam. Suddenly very tired and weary she shrank down into the bed of the wagon and turned to the voice.

He was the proud image of a man of the light. His priestly regalia so white and ornately adorned instantly conjured images and memories of a life long past. As her strength faded so too did her vision. All she could see was the brilliance of the man contrasted sharply by the darkness of the fallen night. She had other methods of sight, honed in darkness over unknown years of persistent existence. Such methods would take time to regain. For now, she was all but blind as the world around her blurred into blobs of faded colors and light.

"Holy man..." Her voice grated against her throat. Dry and hollow. She clasped the edge of the wagon with one hand, ready to attempt an escape over the side and into the dark forest.

"I am exposed." Her other hand came up like a shield, as if to block a portion of his brilliance from her eyes, or perhaps a vain and useless attempt to hide in plain sight.

"Come to..." She continued weakly. "... to lay these... wretched bones to rest?"

"Holy man." He found that immensely funny. So much so...that he started laughing. The laughter went to fevered pitch, like a man clearly out of his mind. Just as suddenly as it had begun, however, it stopped.

"I have been called many things, child," he said after a moment. "But 'holy' has not been one of them for a long time." He raised his hand to pull back his hood. As he did, for a brief moment his "old face" showed - pale white and bald, his face riddled with maggot holes, frozen in an eternal grimace...if she had spent any time in the Apothecarium before the Pandaria campaign, she would have recognized him instantly.

Just as suddenly as the dead face showed, the living, healthy one took its place - skin naturally bronze, eyes the pale blue of a winter lake, white eyebrows, slight age lines in his face. Then, the man shifted again...still quite visible, albeit wreathed in shadows. His steed also changed, from a living creature to one similar to her own, in deep blue livery, horns gracefully rising from its head.

That is something you whelps will never understand. His lips did not move, but she could hear each word clearly. Light and Shadow, Shadow and Light. One cannot exist without the other. Too often, those of our calling choose one or the other, believing that mastery of one gives them power. Mastery of both, my dear - that is the true path to power. He stared at her balefully. A lesson I learned when my essence was contained in a vessel similar to yours.

Cold dead eyes blinked. Dry leathery eyelids scraped over lifeless orbs. Everything was a blur of shapes and shadows, yet that voice...

Her cold heart ached within its chest cavity shivering a chilled wave of realization throughout.

"...n-no..." Her thin dried lips mouthed her whisper. Had she the strength she would have run, would fled this place. She knew the stories, heard the rumors. His reputation was well known and well merited. A creature to be idolized but at the same time feared. "Sss-se-se..." The withered lips mouthed.

Joints crackled as they once had, signaling her return to the ghoul she had always been. So short was her victory. Too short. That same numb resolve sank its way deep within her bones. The one that accepted whatever fate came her way. If this were her end, then so be it.

The corpse curled forward to her knees. Thin frail arms with clawed digits pulled back the deep black hood. A head of dry faded blonde hair expanded to reclaim its common shape. Wild and unkempt, jetting backward in the manner of a disembodied banshee's. Her head bowed.

"I... am honored,... my liege. These dead eyes..." She breathed long dry breaths, merely for the sake of speaking. Her voice now hoarse, like a forced whisper. "... useless. My shadow sight... may yet return." She breathed. "Though I know... your voice. Your aura..." A bony hand stretched forward as if lightly touching an ethereal presence. "... is distinct."

"Rumors of your... demise are... unfounded then. How... may I serve?"

He could scarcely believe his luck. He had feared that Euphrati's serpent-like whispers would have reached the high echelons of the Forsaken hierarchy, and from there to the masses. But a thought occurred to him - Euphrati's battle was personal. It had been so when both were vessels of rotted flesh. It was so now. She would not go whimpering to Sylvanas; she would handle him herself.

His gaze went from the cowering Forsaken, to the gnome, back to the Forsaken. When he spoke, he spoke with his normal voice, though his form remained wreathed in shadow-flame. "The gnome in your custody is of interest to me. I recognize him as someone of importance to an old foe in Stormwind..." A foe I must now mollify in order to have any form of access to Stormwind beyond dealing with these damned lawyers, he thought to himself. Outwardly, he smiled, and raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "What is your interest in him, banshee-priestess? I understand you pulled him from a plane crash; I saw the wreck." He was not referring to the plane when he mentioned "the wreck".

The corpse remained bowed. "A chance encounter, my liege. The little creature... was transporting... stolen goods. I was... hired to aid... in their recovery." She held a bony hand out at the bundled gnome. "I felt... something... different."

Exactly what was different she left unsaid. True to his reputation, he would undoubtedly know how the shadow plays within the little mortal. As a priestess of the Forgotten Shadow it was her obligation to study and understand such an anomaly.

Personally it was her duty. Curiosity defining much of her nature.

"I... need to know. How? Why?" She pushed up to one knee, her joints groaning with complaints, and leaned toward the gnome.

"Whatever the costs." The shadow toys with him and I must dig the answers from his mind and flesh if necessary. She wiggled a bony clawed hand above the gnomes' head as if she were manipulating a marionette. There was no magic. It was merely a gesture as she explained.

"The key... to my... 'embrace'..." she glanced back at the old woman laid across the wagon bench. "...and so... much more... may lie somewhere... within."

The thought occurred to her then. His "interest". He wants to take him from her.

Puzzled, she recoiled a bit. Surely she could not deny him this little creature, but such a chance to study such a thing of shadow... She did not want to part with the gnome. He was her's, after all. She found him. Claimed him. Kept him from dying where surely he would have perished. Fate, no, The Shadow, it wanted her the find him.

For what other reason then, if not to study and understand him?

Her internal battle was obvious. She did not want to part with the gnome. It was hers. Yet she clearly could not deny Sekhesmet what he willed! She was nothing to him. A pawn at best... and yet...

A bony claw rested on a sack of grain. Unconsciously it began to close. Claws dug into the sack, tearing through its woven skin to slowly leak its contents. Her voice, while hoarse and monotone, managed to betray the slightest hint of agitation.

She merely glanced up at the nebulous-blurred shape of the man before her and coldly stated. "I must know."

"Must?" The polite smile faded into a snarl of contempt. Impudent whelp! he thought. What fools are they raising from the grave in Lordaeron of late?

When he spoke again, it was in the mind-voice...and it was pure rage. MUST?! Foolish girl, do not speak to ME of "must"! I have probably forgotten more than you have ever remembered, and still I know far more. You're just like every other so-called "practitioner" of the Forgotten Shadow - you want it, and you want it now, with no regard as to the consequences. Still clinging to foolish dreams of manifest destiny, a Forsaken Lordaeron that will soon spread northward to destroy Quel'Thalas for good, then southward to consume the gnomes, the dwarves, the humans...and from there, the sky is the limit, am I right?

His laughter was now darker, mocking - showing the true madness of the corrupted mind. Being brought back to full flesh and blood had not changed what he had been as a walking corpse; the decades of intellect and experience had been joined with cruelty and sadism. It was said that the stone floor of the town hall/laboratory in Tarren Mill was permanently stained green from the embalming fluid of those who had tried to run rings around this man.

"All you care about is the accumulation of power," he said in his normal voice once more. He dismounted, and drew his tol'vir khopesh from his belt; his other hand grasped a staff, banded white and gold, with the sigil of the Church at its head. "That is not what we do. Knowledge is power - and to truly know power, you must first know how to wield it. You use it with crude, blunt force. There is no subtlety, no grace, no precision...no reason. The lumberjack near Hearthglen was just for giggles, wasn't it? Don't bother to deny it. I was once like you, fresh out of the ground - killing the living was fun, was a diversion. Only later, when I rose in the ranks of the RAS, did it gain a purpose."

His smile took on a much colder look. "I suggest, unless you would like to be left as a puddle at my feet, that you leave him with me...and you run back to the Undercity and actually learn something from your teachers for a change."

Her sight may have been poor, but her ears sharp. Sharp as the blade that he pulled free, she wagered.

The influx of raw-pure energy drawn from her newly acquired vampiric ability had conjured up a tempest of equally raw emotions. The chaos had been too much for her to handle, and it nearly consumed her. It had all finally calmed. As with all life, her emotions faded into the dull malaise of undeath.

She understood his words. His lessons, his counsel. All very clear. The madness was also familiar. Many a Forsaken had it from their raising. Others gained it later on, perhaps as an alternative to nothingness; which is where she had returned.

The threats and insults were also very clear. Some tiny part of her was amused. Another part of her enraged. Offended at his blatant violation of her claim to property. That's all this gnome was to her, in the end. A thing to study. Through his snarls and sneers he spoke truth. She was young and foolish, only recently deciding to find her purpose. To draw herself out of the decaying tower within the ruins of Lordaeron she called home and bring meaning to her existence. She had supposed it to be one sided. Her purpose was simply to discover. To learn. To know.

It was power she was after. Power for its own sake, as if it were a collection of books on a shelf. Or novelty items from a faire. No regard to what would happen once she got it, nor how she could ever handle it.

She could hear the words of Father Lankester:

"Power is the third virtue of the Forgotten Shadow, and the most difficult to attain. A Forsaken who grabs greedily for power might encounter power too great for him or her to handle, and die in their attempt to master it. [...]"

"Girl." She repeated with a very faint smirk. It had been a long long time since someone had called her such. A poignant display of his own power, really. Sekhesmet had certainly cut to the heart of the matter and laid it bare. She was grasping for power.
Power which he possessed.
Power which she was not yet ready to hold.

"I am..." She held out her frail bony arms. "... weak, and could... not stop you." She relented. Her first wise decision in this matter.

"A Forsaken who succumbs to despair and seeks no personal power has no reason to exist; he craves nothing, desires nothing, he sits alone and pines for his old life. To the cult, Forsaken who do not seek to better themselves might as well still be part of the Scourge."

The corpse sat backward, feeling oddly comfortable in the moment. The weakness she had felt, a residual effect of her impetuous spellcrafting. It was beginning to wane. Soon she would have strength enough to be on her way.

"You are wrong." She stated flatly. Her voice hoarse, dry, void of emotion. "There was... no glee..." She gestured at the madness she had sewn. The old woman laying comatose on the wagon bench. Her undead steed tearing at the flesh of the old mare. The cowering creature that was the old man, now hunched in the darkness. Frightened beyond all reason and alone. "There was... only ever... purpose."

"Without purpose..." She placed her hands in her lap and stared blankly at the blurred blob of a figure in her vision. "... what then am I?" She asked flatly, void of emotion. More of a rhetorical question perhaps.

"The quest for power requires caution, forethought, and a subtle touch."

... none of which she had exercised.

A lesson well learned.

He gazed at her for a moment, the anger and cruelty fading like a morning fog. He smiled warmly, even though he was still shrouded by shadows. "It is a wondrous thing, the hunger," he admitted. "But a creature who exists only to feed is a mere beast, a rabid dog biting whoever comes close. They are no better than the rotbrains. But you are no rotbrain, I can see this; you have potential. You have a gift, but you have no idea how to use it properly."

He clipped his tol'vir blade back to his belt, and with his newly-free hand he opened a pouch at his hip where he kept spare vials and potions, and pulled out a skull-headed key. "This opens a compartment in the main hall of Tarren Mill," he said. "I found it among Saavedro's belongings after his...demise, when I returned to Stormwind; he took it from my mausoleum in Brill. Inside the compartment is a libram I composed when I was the town's Shadow Priest. Treatises on the Shadow, on proper uses of our powers. Surrender the gnome to me, and it is yours. Show it to Lankester, to Lazarus, to Aelthalyste....and to Melisara in Tarren Mill. They will know it comes from me."

Saavedro was a foreign name to her. She understood nothing of his demise nor of Stormwind, but none of that really mattered.

His counsel and instruction was reward, honor, and payment enough. Now he offered more. Accepting in such a casual, comfortable manner, practically reclined as she was, just would not do. With aid of the wagon bench the corpse managed to press herself up and over the side of the wagon bed, falling hard and rather undignified to the ground. Strength was gradually returning, and she managed to maintain hold of the wagon side to pull herself back up.

"Shadow... Light... Fate... Pure chance." She spoke as she moved, holding to the wagon as ballast. The corpse slowly shuffled around to face the undead man made whole. Bent forward in much the same attitude as the old woman, the corpse straightened her spine as much as possible. Dry tired joints popped and crackled with complaints.

"Mine... was never to... learn... of him." She glanced at the bundled unconscious gnome in the bed of the wagon near her. "I was... only meant... to deliver... that I may... learn of you. My liege." Cold eyes, faded by death, gazed upon the man before her. The blob in her image remained a only blob, though a little less blurred.

She bowed her head. "He is yours."

Her other hand raised weakly. Bony fingers wiggled, activating a minor spell. Connecting herself with the shadow and darkness that surrounded them in the night. Inky clouds drifted across lifeless orbs, settling in the crevasses of her eye sockets. In nearly an instant the image before her gained a unique clarity. Where she focused only those edges and shapes became defined. Colors were still either muted or non existent.

She could make out the shape and features of the man before her. Indeed, there was a strong resemblance. She had only ever saw the undead master from afar and in passing. It was a scowl however that was difficult to forget.

The image of the key he held took shape in his hand. "My liege. With this key... I am... your servant, my lord. I will do... as instructed."

Sincere hands accepted his offer. Her bony claws clutching the key close to her chest cavity. She remained standing, head bowed, waiting in reverence to further serve her lord in whatever capacity she may.

"Matalynn... my name... in life. Other epithets... I have carried since. Please call me... as you will."

Through her delicate connection to the shadows she called to her steed. It lifted its gore stained bony head and glanced her direction. Methodically it turned and plodded along the road in her direction.

Within the dark recesses of whatever universe an unconscious mind drifts, figures of shadow danced with pinpoints of light. Words echoed in the deep making little sense. Below it all the rhythmic thump of a shadow-heart beating lulled away any pain.

Deeply bruised and rather broken, the body of the old gnome lay still in its tightly wrapped bundle of dark cloth. A simple spell of light radiated throughout, knitting the deeper more perilous injuries. Staving off internal bleeding, slowing the rate of swelling, and shielding from sickness and disease. Only for a time, until more talented hands and more potent powers could begin the more intensive healing process.

The shadowflame around him diminished, and he pulled up his hood. Once again, he was just another priest, and Antinnis was just another horse with a saddle. There was no telling what the beast's "true form" was...he liked to keep people guessing.

She had broken almost completely at the prospect of "power beyond imagining". He smiled to himself; the book had indeed contained spells in it, but were largely treatises on the rudimentary powers of neophyte shadow priests. People who shouldn't be using all that much power at once. The book was a guide to how to get started properly without burning yourself out from within from too much power. But that would be a start; the three high priests of the Undercity and the mistress of Tarren Mill, would recognize the tome, know how she had got it, and know that she had his blessing. Even in this much more fleshy, more living form, his name carried weight in the Undercity.

It was an ace-in-the-hole he would keep close at hand, in case Euphrati got any funny ideas...

Once he was certain she was gone, he put a hand on the forehead of the unconscious gnome, and closed his eyes. The damage he had sustained from the crash, and likely from the rough treatment of his captor, was extensive. He let Light emit from his hand through the body to at least stabilize him. "It's off to Hearthglen for you, Doctor," he said, smiling. "And fortunately, we have a means of transport..."

The old man was probably halfway into the Hinterlands by now, he thought...and the part of him that still considered himself human thought it would be a crime to just leave the bodies here. Through careful use of levitation (enough to get a bit of blood and gore on his robes for the proper effect), he was able to move the remains of the old woman and the horse, and used some fallen branches and stones to make a makeshift pyre. Using a couple of extra sticks, he crafted a makeshift wooden stake in the shape of the sigil of the Church, and stuck it into the ground not far from the pyre, but far enough where it wouldn't also be burnt up. Then, finally, he lit the pyre, cremating the remains.

Satisfied, he returned his attention to the wagon. Though his steed was not meant as a plow horse, it did not complain when he hitched it onto the reins, and sat up in the "driver's seat". With a click of his tongue and a gentle snap of the reins, he wheeled the wagon around and headed west, then north up the Hearthglen road...