==================
Chapter XIV: Sacrifices
==================

Wind gathered about the gathering within the Glomdoring Forest, catching along
stray leaves to shatter them against the hungry dawn. Robed in black, a circle
of Shadowdancers watched Metea bow over Druken's seemingly sleeping body. The
nearby bards had ceased their playing, their funeral procession songs having
been given over to the crushing silence that hung from the staring trees.
Metea's mind raced with the fact that this was the end, her life flashing
brilliantly before her eyes. A single tear trailed its way down her face and
landed upon Druken's pale lips, sullen and reposed. As she bent to kiss the
tear, Catarin turned away and looked onto the rising sunlight that peaked
through the trees like children playing hide and seek amongst gravestone
markers. Indeed, the dawn has come. However cruel it may be, it has come.

---------------------

After Murphy had raced away to whatever hole it was his kind hid in, Shayle had
found herself enraged at the disrespect shown thus far. Someone is going to pay
for this, she vexed as she spun around to find Metea leaning over Druken's face
with her lips close to his.

"That is enough. You will both leave now, or I will have you killed," she
barked, pointing a finger at Metea threateningly. Her order was ignored, Metea
placing her lips upon Druken's and kissing him like a farewell kiss to a lover.
Before she could grab her athame, the sunlight that raced through the forest
boughs and canopy centred upon Metea, illuminating her form as she continued to
kiss Druken. By the Lady, what in the Nil is going on here?!, she asked herself,
but a voice from within her mind rose to answer the question. Watch, my child.
Watch. Viravain's presence echoed out about Shayle, her divine power infusing
the Queen of the Night. Shadows rose about the place to fight the light that
was emanating from Metea but failed miserably to quench it. Druken's eyes
fluttered for a brief moment before opening, his eyes crossing comically to
stare at woman who now pressed her lips against his. The light that surrounded
her forced him to shut his eyes again, closing them beneath the brilliance.
Something stirred within him, pain, and loss filling his mind like echoes off a
mountainside. Just as it all had happened, it stopped. Metea slid from the stone
table, her body collapsing on the ground in a heap of blackberry hair and pale
skin. Shayle watched with confusion, glancing first to Metea's unconscious form
and then to Druken. She could not help but give a slight cry of surprise, seeing
him sit up and look about dizzily.

A gruff voice whispered from behind her, a voice that sounded as if to hold the
weight of the world upon each syllable. "Your shadowdancer awaits you, Queen of
the Night." Shayle turned to look at the back of Catarin, her golden armour
catching the dawn's first light in a resplendent display. If she didn't know
any better, she would have thought Catarin to be a newly awakened goddess, but
her straight back and her hair catching against the first morning breeze only
spoke of what the woman would not.

"Was she...did that girl just resurrect Druken?" Shayle asked quietly,
forgetting about the shadowdancers who now gathered about the stone table and
cheered at the dazed Druken. Catarin didn't turn around, her eyes still held
upon the morning sun that hung on the horizon. Silence was the only thing given
back to Shayle in response; a sickening silence that felt too much like a cold
despair and agony. "I don't understand...," she whispered more to herself than
to Catarin, her brow furrowing into a frown.

"No. You wouldn't understand," Catarin said simply, stepping into the forest
and away from the grove. Shayle watched her depart, catching glimpses of her as
the sunlight seemed to usher her away as it glinted off her golden armour and
hair. She watched the woman until she could see her no longer, and even then,
she continued to stare at where she had stood. Unbeknownst to her or to the
others, shadows crawled about the quiet form of Metea to embrace her as a
mother would nestle her child. No one saw Viravain take the girl into her arms,
an expression of reserved sorrow wrought on the goddess' face as she looked down
to Metea's pale face and closed eyes. The goddess turned her back to the dawn
and stepped into the maze of shadowed trees, disappearing as quietly as she had
come.

-------------------------

The Glomdoring Forest was unnaturally quiet that day, a disturbing and eerie
silence falling over the trees amongst those who celebrated Druken's miraculous
resurrection. The wind did not dare rustle a single leaf, crows did not dare
give their shrieking call, and the shadows did not dare move from their places
as the forest wept for sacrifice.

=======================
Chapter XIII: Revenge by Fire
=======================

Murphy lay kneeling on the ground, his head bowed before a green flame. No
other sounds pervaded the room, save for the night breeze that howled against
the building in anguish. Shadows curled themselves along the floor, seething
and hissing beneath the weight of the flame's preternatural light. Two hammers,
both humming with the power held within them, added their voice to the still
room. Murphy didn't seem to notice the moving of his prized possessions, his
eyes closed and his thoughts on one single thing; the eyes of Metea that
haunted him continuously. What was that? What was that?, he asked himself, over
and over again. Her stare had followed him to the hellish chamber of the damned,
where he now knelt and tried to still his thoughts. Even now, however, her eyes
still remained burned into his mind. I have never seen anything like that
before, he growled to the nagging questions that plagued his consciousness.
So...she is capable of true evil. Very good. Very good, indeed. Maybe I will be
able to use you after all. Murphy opened his eyes and stood, his cloak billowing
about him as he looked at the large, green flame that danced before him.

"Your eyes may hold the answer I seek after all," he said aloud, the walls
catching his voice and throwing it back to echo in the empty air like whispers
of the dead. He turned to leave the large room, but something in the darkness
ahead of him caught his attention. Two small eyes, each giving off a silver
glow, watched him closely. Murphy narrowed his eyes threateningly, his hands
balling themselves up into fists. "Who's there?" he barked the question rather
than ask. Asking questions were left as a novice. Men don't ask questions was
what he was told by his old mentor. A mentor I ended up succeeding, a voice
reminded him. His blade had found its side in the old man's right temple, the
scream it produced only bringing a morbid, maniacal smile to his lips. The
silver eyes moved within the darkness, coming closer like a predator watching
its prey. The air on the back of Murphy's neck slowly rose, one by one, as the
eyes continued to watch him, unapologetic and malevolent. "Show yourself!" His
voice, like before, caught along the walls and struck the air mercilessly. The
eyes simply continued watching him, coming closer and closer as they seemed to
slither along the stone floor.

"You like games, I take it? Then, by all means, let me see the face of the man
who dares challenge me to a game," Murphy hissed, a dagger falling from within
his right sleeve into his hand. It was a trick he had learned from a Nihilist.
Catches them off guard, the woman had said. He had used the same trick to slash
her throat open as he made love to her. The eyes had stopped advancing, the
light of the ghostly flame behind Murphy granting enough light to show the form
of a small silver cat. It sat on its haunches, a long tail swishing back and
forth behind it while it watched him quietly. "A cat? Odd. I didn't know
Magnagora allowed filth such as you onto its streets. No matter, though. You
won't be alive long enough to return back from wherever it was you came,"
Murphy said with a grin, pulling the dagger up between his ring finger and his
middle finger. The cat simply sat there, its body partially hidden by the
shadows behind it. He moved to send the dagger flying into the cat's skull, but
he didn't have time to react to the creature's speed. Something tore at his
throat and then a searing pain throbbed into his right temple, forcing him to
gasp at the assault he did not see. He raised his hand to touch his neck,
bringing it away to see his own blood covering his calloused fingers. He
stepped forward, the pain in his temple sending him to collapse onto his knees.
He raised the blood drenched hand to touch what felt like the hilt of the same
dagger that he held only moments before, its hilt stretching out from where the
pain throbbed in his head. Behind him, the silver cat watched intently as Murphy
threw back his head and screamed. His cry of disbelief shook against the walls
before going silent. The green flame continued to burn, the only audience to
witness the fall of the basin's greatest killer and warrior. Its fire did not
waver in its watch, even when the silver cat walked onto Murphy's chest, a
satisfied purr boiling from deep within its chest. It notched its claws into
the body, slowly padding back and forth as it turned to stare into the flame
with a content smile spread upon its haunting stare.

-------

Night hung over the city of Magnagora, the Megalith casting its wretched glow
upon the nearby buildings like a mother nestling her babe into her breast. At
the toll of midnight, the clang of a large bell announced the arrival of the
darkest hour onto the streets. Underneath the powerful and resounding echoes of
the bell, a scream shattered the night's tranquillity; no one heard the
maddening scream nor heard the defeat strangled within its cry. The bells of
twilight had given their voice in praise of night, and in a room where a green
flame threw its light onto the floor, the first trickle of blood praised the
shadows that would soon find themselves whole.

=======================
Chapter 12: Light of the Night
=======================

"Little can be done now," Shayle said remorsefully, her voice sullen and soft.
She stood in the middle of a circle of Shadowdancers, adorned with a ceremonial
robe that depicted the ending stages of life. She had created it herself as a
young girl, but she hoped she would never have to wear it; she hoped in vain.
On a black marble table was the quiet form of Druken, his eyes closed and
wearing a simplistic black robe. High overhead, a full moon shined its light
mockingly onto the clearing within the Glomdoring forest. Shayle stood with her
back to the seemingly sleeping Druken, her mood dampened by the funeral
procession. She couldn't look at him, seeing a great friend who was never going
to open his eyes and greet her with a smile. Her heart felt heavy, breaking and
shattering its hardened resolve. This needs to be done, Shayle. Be strong, she
thought to herself, spotting Shamarah amongst those gathered. She had never
seen a grown man cry, but that ended when Shamarah carried Druken and placed
him on the table. His eyes were still bloodshot. She turned away and finally
looked down at Druken's peaceful face, the wound upon his neck carefully
covered with a black scarf. She thanked Xenthos for his foresight, knowing she
would have lost her composure if she had seen the reason for Druken's death.

As if innately mourning, the forest about the funeral procession was eerily
quiet; not a single crow was heard giving its screeching call, the wind was
still and silent, and the trees themselves seemed to be bowing before the
memories of the past and adding their silent tears to the ground. The only
sound was the haunting melody of a small group of Harbringer bards standing off
to the side, their voices burning through the silent air like fire through a
forest of paper. Shayle listened for a moment to the melody, adding a small
amount of Night into the song to create stillness about the gathered
Shadowdancers. The mixture of Night and the bardic power would have been
breathtaking in any other situation, but now, it only added to the dreary
funeral. It is time, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath and slowly
exhaling it into the crisp air.

"As the time...," she started to speak, but a rustle within the nearby leaves
and the brilliance of a glowing light caught her words quickly and carelessly.
Shayle turned and glared at whoever it was that would have been foolish enough
to trespass on this moment. To her bewilderment, she saw two Celestians
standing with their heads bowed. She knew one by the name of Catarin but the
other, however, she was not able to identify.

"We are sorry to interrupt, Queen of the Night," Catarin whispered softly, her
presence causing a mutter of disapproval from the Shadowdancers that circled
Shayle. "We do not mean to be disrespectful.” Shayle nodded curtly and looked
to the other Celestian beside Catarin, a younger version of the woman though not
as war-hardened. Her face was soft, almost opaque in its translucence, not to
mention she was much younger than Catarin. However, there was something
different about her. Someone seemed wrong, as if she had lost faith or purpose
like a mad man gone sane. Catarin noticed Shayle's inquisitive expression and
smiled slightly. “This is my daughter, Metea.” Shayle nodded her head once
in greeting to the younger woman, who simply stared at the ground as her hands
cupped themselves together.

“Why do you interrupt us, Catarin?” she asked, letting her eyes catch
Catarin's and forcing a pinpoint amount of Night into her words to quell any
lie that might have flown like a bat from the woman's mouth. “If you wish to
discuss politics or anything for that matter, now is not the time.”

“I'm afraid not, Queen of the Night. We have come here to help,” Catarin
said, her eyes going beyond Shayle to look at Druken's form on the stone table.
Shayle watched her for a moment, not sure as to what she was entailing.

“Help us? I'm afraid there is nothing you can do.”

“No,” another voice spoke abruptly, Metea walking passed Shayle confidently
and purposefully to stand beside the table. Shayle's hand quickly went to an
athame that hung from the belt about her waist. A hand gently grasped the hand
upon the dagger, and Shayle looked to find Catarin next to her with an
expression of resolve written upon her face. She opened her mouth again to
object and to command them both to leave at once, but she saw Metea place a
hand atop of Druken's forehead and her words caught themselves in her throat.

--------------

Murphy stood with his hands folded in the arms of the black robe he wore,
standing off to the side of the Shadowdancers nearby. He was moderately
surprised to see Metea and Catarin impede on the funeral, though he was there
in hopes they would come. A messenger had hurriedly burst through the study
doors of his personal home, the man haggard and out of breath. Upon being
threatened to have no breath in his body, the man quickly released the reports
of Catarin and Metea leaving New Celest just a few moments ago. Murphy had
smiled at the news, causing the messenger's eyes to grow large with worry. He
did not waste time getting himself ready. With those women, it won't take long
, he said to himself, his mind going over how he would end the life of the
woman named Metea. He had his wyvern brought to the front door, and without a
farewell to the bedazzled and confused messenger who saw him out, he took to
the skies without a backwards glance. Murphy headed south of Magnagora, two
massive hammers strapped to his side and quivering as if possessed by the souls
he had slain prior. They're going to the funeral of that shadowdancer? He
watched them enter the forest, and soon, after he had tied his wyvern within
the southern parts of the Glomdoring forest, so did he. He quickly pulled a
cloak about himself, black as night save for the small specks of dried blood
that littered its hem and arms. He had never had them removed, always
preferring to have the blood of those he had killed near him. So, what exactly
are you planning to do, my dears? Just going to give your last respects? Why is
that so unbelievable? Murphy thought, his hands coming to fold themselves up
into the arms as he stepped out into the clearing and saw Shayle watching the
dead body of a man on top of a stone table. Murphy had to control a bout of
laughter, quickly biting down on his tongue to keep it from escaping into the
quiet funeral procession.

He had heard of the man's death. Odd as it might have seemed, he had to
congratulate the killer whole-heartedly. It wasn't easy to kill someone without
being seen. Furthermore, it wasn't easy killing them in their own home. I will
have to find out who did it after I kill these two worthless bitches . When
Metea and Catarin appeared from the other side of the clearing, he could barely
control himself. The look on Metea's face was priceless, as if she had lost her
own soul. Don't worry, my dear. I'll put you out of your misery , he thought
snidely, lowering a hand to the battle hammer that hung on his left hip. Murphy
grinned triumphantly as the girl came almost into arm's length of where he stood
, putting a hand on top of the corpse's forehead. His temples pounded with
excitement, the call of the kill rising from somewhere in the nether regions of
his stomach to pound repeatedly at his chest like a drum. With a forward step,
he pulled his war hammers out from their hiding places and flung them over his
head. Catarin and Shayle both started at the sight of his face, contorted into
a mixture of rage and blood lust. A force brought itself about his feet,
holding him to the spot. Enraged, Murphy looked down to find the earth boiling
up passed his boots and onto his legs. Metea didn't appear to notice his sudden
appearance. Her eyes were closed and her head was bowed. He roared defiantly,
trying to tear his feet loose of the hissing vines and soil that held him as a
prisoner.

A stern silence filled the air about Metea, her eyes slowly opening to look
down at Druken's face. Murphy watched her turned her face to look at him,
watched as she held up a hand and put it against his chest, and watched, while
screaming, as something that felt like burning water poured out from her hand
and onto his robes. His screaming caught in his throat, finding himself unable
to turn away from Metea's intense glare. His arms would not obey his mind's
command to crush the Celestian, trembling in fear as he saw something he had
never seen before in her dark, tumultuous eyes. She leaned forward and pressed
her lips against his ear, her breath hot against his skin. “Feel as I feel,
Murphy. Feel as I feel.” His mind reeled at the hatred that roared to life in
her voice. A moment passed, and from the night sky, a large shadow blotted out
the sneering moon overhead. Is if called, two large talon legs cupped
themselves around his upheld arms and dragged Murphy into the air. As the
wyvern bore him away from the Glomdoring forest, his eyes could not tear
themselves away from Metea's burning stare until both the forest and she were
well out of sight.

=======================
Chapter XI: Uncommon Plans
=======================

Incense poured out from several wooden sconces that sat against ravenwood
walls, their small forms dotting the hallway that lead to the study of the
Queen of the Night. Sitting on its haunches, a barghest watched the pair of
twin doors ahead, its breath catching in the crisp autumn air. Shadows clung to
it protectively, hissing and snapping at the air ravenously. The barghest perked
its ears for a brief moment, turning its head to stare down towards a spiralling
staircase that vanished upwards and downwards. It growled and barred its teeth,
spittle falling from its maw as something moved just beyond the reach of the
torches that hung from the wall. From the stairs, a silver cat climbed its way
into the hallway, its tailing swishing behind it casually. It watched the
barghest, sitting down across from it as their eyes locked. The barghest turned
its attention away from the cat, returning its vigilant watch of the twin doors
of the study. There they stayed for the rest of the night, one staring at a
pair of doors that refused to open, and another preparing the next stage of
uncommon plans.

------

Shayle stood within the confines of her study, her hands gripping the balcony
edge as her mind went over the last few days. It had all happened quickly.
Druken's body was found massacred in the forest, its throat torn open as if
something very large had found him a delicacy. Try as she might, she found no
real reason why an outsider would want Druken dead so badly. Unless it was a
direct attack from Serenwilde, but the forest would have let me know, she
thought to herself. The first pangs of a headache knocked unwelcome on her
temples, eliciting an agitated mutter from her as she shook her head. None if
it made sense; Druken's sudden death, the being that killed him, and the sense
of being watched since the moment his body was found. That final thought made
the hairs on the back of her neck rise, the constant feeling she could not
shake. It was unnerving. She had tried to contact Viravain, but no answer came
of her communion with the Mistress of the Webs. Enough, Shayle. You're letting
this get the better of yourself, she scolded with another shake of her head.

A knock came on the twin doors of her study, bringing her away from pondering
her own thoughts and back to the immediate moment. What now?, she thought
bitterly, making her way to a ravenwood chair that stood before a large desk.
"Enter," she said loudly, letting a bit of Night into her voice to cause the
person who dared disturb her thoughts to quickly open the door and shut it
behind him. Shamarah stood with his head bowed, his eyes not daring to meet
Shayle's. She frowned inwardly at his behaviour, her eyes narrowing slightly
enough to show she was far from amused. "What is it, Shamarah?"

"My Queen, another body was found with the same torn throat as Druken," he said
quickly, knowing full well now was not the time to falter in his words. Shayle
cursed herself and the Fates repeatedly in her mind, using every unladylike
word she could think of.

"Sit," she said, as if Shamarah were nothing more than a subservient pet. He
quickly sat down in one of the two large, full-back chairs that stood facing
the desk. Shayle turned away from him and stared at a tapestry that had
recently been donated to the Shadowdancers by a skilled artisan. She found
herself trapped within the scene it portrayed; a barghest howling at a
blackened sky, with a silver cat sitting with its piercing blue eyes facing
her. In the background, the Master Ravenwood Tree stood with its branches
slithering towards a starless horizon as if starving for the shadows that hung
just beyond its grasp. A cough from behind brought her from the tapestry's
hypnotic scene, back to a study she was dreading to stand in at the moment.
"Who was it?" she asked, keeping enough Night in her voice to bend Shamarah's
will beneath her own. Still, she held her back to him, with her hands clasped
behind her.

"It was Arkzrael, my Queen," he said, his voice lowering to almost a whisper.
Shayle spun around and stared at him, his head still bowed and his eyes staring
at his hands that were held in his lap. The revelation shook her enough that she
had to put a hand on the back of her chair, her mind swimming with news.

"No....Are you sure? Arkzrael?" she hissed, her nails digging into the chair
deep enough to leave puncture marks. Shamarah nodded, his eyes still not
meeting hers. She let herself fall into the chair, her hands coming to her brow
as she felt her stomach turn. Arkzrael. Fates be damned, Arkzrael. She had just
spoken with Arkzrael only yesterday, just as the sun had fallen beyond the
horizon and Mother Night had swarmed the heavens. "How long was she dead?" she
asked, not daring to believe that one of her most trusted Shadowdancers was
indeed gone.

"No more than a few hours. The wounds were fresh and the body hadn't entered
into the decomposing stages, my Queen," Shamarah replied, his voice carrying
with it a haunting sound that sounded too much like despair. Shayle nodded and
shut down her emotions completely, putting them aside to allow herself time to
analyze this new addition of news.

"Thank you, Shamarah. Please prepare a Ritual of Penumbra with the
Shadowdancers immediately," she said hoarsely, her voice threatening to break
beneath the deafening silence that clung to the room. "I will be there shortly
to lead it." Shamarah nodded, his face not rising to meet Shayle's watch. With
a slight bow, he opened the twin doors and left Shayle in her study. She stared
at the closed doors, letting herself lean back into her chair. Whoever this is
killing my Shadowdancers will pay a very large and very painful price, she
swore as she stood abruptly, causing the chair to skid backwards and hit the
tapestry behind her. Its rocking scene caught her attention, bringing her into
its picture again. The barghest's up-lifted mouth howling at the night caused
her skin to crawl uncomfortably, with the cat's piercing blue eyes watching her
with an almost eerie intelligence. She shuddered and turned her head to stare
again at the twin doors. "Run, you bastard. Run as fast as you can. When I find
you, not even the gods will be able to save you from my hands," she said to the
empty room, her eyes glaring at the doors as if they were the murderer. Shayle
vanished in torrent of shadows, her presence leaving the silent study to bury
one that she had called her own.

-----

Shamarah closed the study doors behind him, his head still bowed. As the doors
clicked into place, he raised his head and walked to the middle of the hallway.
He caught sight of a silver cat that raised his head at the sound of his
approaching footsteps, its softly glowing eyes considering him for a moment.
His lips curved up into a cruel grin, making the cat give a cautious hiss to
the sudden change in his appearance. He threw back his head and let a
blood-chilling howl ring through Night's Needle, spreading out into the dark
forest of Glomdoring like a chilling omen of death to come. As Shamarah's
canine-like howl filled the forest, his body arched and twisted itself. Bones
crunched together while fur sprouted from the pores of his skin. Finally, the
same barghest that had been watching the doors before stood before the silver
cat. Its cold, calculating green eyes glowed sickly from within the thick cover
of shadows that clung to its black coat of fur. The cat stood and watched the
barghest for a moment longer, something kin to a mischievous smile spreading
across its tiny mouth before it turned around and sauntered off down the spiral
staircase, its tail disappearing within the darkness below. The barghest watched
the cat disappear, before it glanced over its shoulder to the twin doors of the
Queen of the Night's study. A heavy growl thundered in its throat, its eyes
narrowing and its fur standing on end. Following suit to the silver cat, the
barghest bounded down the stairs and out of sight.

The last vestiges of night clung to the Living Forest, an autumn breeze
rustling the leaves on brooding trees that refused to look away from a pair of
creatures that moved beneath their boughs. A woman's tormented scream pierced
the silence of a nearby Ritual of Penumbra being held by a towering tree whose
branches clung at the night sky hungrily. Beyond the forest, day was returning
with a cold vengeance, and night was fleeing the basin until the hour of her
next callous reign.