"It is clear that the light here is not entirely natural.  I could burn a spell to detect the truth of it, but the fact is, my own two eyes tell me that the torches are at least somewhat magical,” Midge answered, “I've seen magical lights before - it's not a large trick to create light, after all - but none exactly like these.

The fact that the light doesn't entriely focus around the scones is more evidence to the fact that they are somehow magical in nature.  But where and how and why?  I cannot say, my friend."

Despite the frustrated chuff that escaped him, Ch’dau nodded at the mage’s assessment. “Save your spells, my friend,” he rumbled, “I feel we will need them for more important matters than this.”

"There are no traps ahead, as the Battle Lord has not shared with me such visions," Gib added quietly, "But there is potentially more that I can ask of the Mighty General." The war-priest asked a boon of his god, then, pleading for the ability to detect any evils that may lie in wait. After a moment of Gib scanning the room ahead, he solemnly informed the party of the presence of several evil beings looming in their path.

The Silver Cat nodded, again, his fingers flexing around the hilts of his blades. “Then ready yourselves, friends,” he rumbled unnecessarily, “and let us make short work of whatever lies ahead.”

With that and a battle-ready growl welling in him, Ch’dau pushed through the gate as prepared as he could be for what was to come.

((OOC: And away we go! Ch’dau will move in and toward the general direction of the “evil” as specified by the results of Gib’s spellwork, doing what the kazari does best when he finds it.))

Grimacing, Gib rolls his shoulders and follows Ch'dau into the chamber. Desperately wishing they had more time to utilize caution and strategy in their approach, he hefts his shield in a defensive posture and keeps his sword at the ready. Head swiveling from side to side, the warrior-priest of Therassor keeps his moss-colored eyes peeled for the pending ambush. That their enemy is unaware of the party's knowing they are near is too much to hope for, Gib doesn't even pretend at ignorance. Walking on the balls of his booted feet, he maintains his balance, ready to spring into action as soon as the opportunity presents itself. 

"Do not get too far ahead, Ch'dau," he cautions as they move into the room as closely as the entrance allows. "What's coming will require working together as much as ever before."

Aranwen's lips curled in disgust. It took no small effort to imagine these smaller cells formed what were some manner of hold, for those that were captured or perhaps even purchased. Would that she could see this place brought down to never be open again, but that was not in her power. All she could do was hope that this led to where they needed to go.

"Gib, do you feel anything from the passage we came from?" Aranwen asked, "We might as well be certain of both our fore and aft before proceeding."

"Now then, let's clear this path. I'd proceed as we can while you still have the blessing of the Battle Lord with you."

After Davena leaves the room, ghoul in tow, the odious Brother Hagan moves to Kithran's bed.  As instructed, he begins to tend to the rogue's ruined feet... but any observer could plainly discern that there is likely no need for him to reposition them so as to splay Kith's legs open wide. He takes several long moments to openly leer at her exposed body, though the pain Kith is in likely makes this secondary in concern. If anything, it is the time he wastes in his leering that is most concerning to the struggling thief.

Eventually, he chants over one foot, causing that unsettling feeling of the grave to seep into Kithran's body. Mercifully, however, the healing does take place; flesh and skin are miraculously knit back together, and the pain ceases. Hagan drinks in another long look before chanting over the second foot, with similar results.

Sometime during the healing of the second foot, Kith realizes that the paralysis is wearing off and the ability to move again is returning.  

The priest sighs and speaks. "It's a shame that you have to be saved for the likes of the ghouls, but it is the Dark One's will, I suppose."  He then retrieves the folded gown and offers it to Kithran.  

With a lascivious smirk, he offers, "If you are too weak, I can help you put it on, if you like."

Kithran doesn’t reach for the gown at first, too distracted by the horror of what her body had just gone through. It seems mad that she had just felt so much pain, so much more than she had ever dreamed was possible, and in the span of just a few minutes it is all gone. She gingerly raises herself up into a seated position, testing how her body feels, ignoring the man so giddy to touch her.

She felt the side of her stomach and flexed her feet. They felt perfect. The realization was revitalizing. Perhaps she was going mad, but she would have to think about that later.

Kith turned to the brother and smiled, “Hagan, no, I don’t think I will need you to put that on me quite yet, but I do have a question I’m hoping you can help me with?” She turns so that her legs are off the bed, one on either side of the lech, “The priestess says that I belong to the Dark Lord and to her, but are you not of the Dark Lord yourself, Brother Hagan?” She leans back on her hands, as though an offering to him, “Am I not yours as well?”

Before he can react, Kithran brings up her perfectly healed foot and jams it into his crotch, leaping up to shove him aside, and sprints for the door.

Hagan staggers back from the groin kick, doubled halfway over in pain.  Heedless of her nudity, Kithran rushes for the door, reaches for the handle...

...almost makes it.

"Halt!" Hagan cries out.  In unbelievable frustration, Kith realizes that once again, the priest's dark god has given him dominion over her very body, for she is frozen in mid stride, her hand agonizing inches from the door. 

"You filthy little bitch!" he hisses as he moves directly in front of the rogue.  His face is purple with rage. "I'll teach you some manners now," he growls. 

Brother Hagan is a fairly large man.  His robes do not show it, but his muscles are well defined; the man grew up as a laborer, and is rather strong.  With a sneer, he rears back and drives his fist as hard as he can into Kithran's side. The force of the blow sends her flying back into a pile on the ground; the sudden sharp pain and snapping sensation give no doubt that he cracked a rib or two in the process. 

Before she can react, the death priest is on top of Kith. She wriggles, twists, claws, kicks... but the larger man rains blows down upon her face, head, and body. She brings her arms up to try to block her face and ease the blows to her side, but his unrelenting attack wears her down far more quickly than it does him, and she begins to waver.

"No need to waste a hold spell on the likes of you, little vixen," he chuckles evily as Kith's strength begins to fade from the combination of his weight and the damage he has inflicted upon her.  "Besides, I enjoy a little spirit in a woman," he grins as he dabs at the corner of his bleeding lip.

“Go f*** yourself!” she rages and tries to strike once more at his crotch but he is ready for her this time.

His grip changes, and the rogue realizes that he has pinned her wrists. He reaches beneath his belt, tries to work between her thighs... Kithran rolls her hips, thrashes, struggles, only to earn an elbow to her broken ribs and a punch to the face for her troubles, and there is too much pain now to threaten him with a Kazari’s maw.

"Yes," he oozes. "Fight me. Don't give up yet, it makes it so much sweeter." And she wants to fight, but his last strike to her shattered ribs and her face has rendered her unable to do much more than stop herself from choking on her own blood and bile.

His knees are between Kithran's thighs now, the smaller woman has lost the ability to keep him back.  "Aw, don't cry," he taunts with a smirk and she spits in his face. "This'll give you something nice to think of while the ghouls are having their way with you." In despair, she can feel something firm and fleshy probing, seeking, almost there...

"You will stop this at once!" a voice of crystallized authority calls out from behind him.

The leering face blanches. "Mistress!" he sputters.  "She was trying to escape! I... you see, I..."

Davena, flanked by a different ghoul, cuts Hagan off as the man leaps up, fumbles with trying to hide himself back inside the robes. The priestess' face is a mask of cold fury as her gaze alternates between the dark-robed man and the naked, battered woman lying on the ground.

A perfectly maintained eyebrow arches questioningly. "You prevented her escape by beating and raping the prisoner?" Davena asks acidly. She does not give him a chance to respond, and Hagan sputters for a moment before falling silent.

"Kithran," Davena speaks evenly as her gaze shifts down. "Is his claim true? Did you try to escape?" she asks.

Kithran rolls on to her side, grasping lightly at her broken rib and immediately wincing at the pain. She tries to push herself back up into a sitting position, but is only able to get about halfway with what is left of her strength and consciousness. It is enough for her to spit blood at Davena in reply, and half-heartedly smirk in pain as she slips back down to the ground.

The blonde woman's lips draw up into a tight, sorrowful frown, and her head droops slightly at Kithran's answer. "I was afraid of as much, child," she replies in a tone that passes for actual remorse.  She kneels by Kithran's side, chants lowly, and the feeling of borrowing time from the grave floods the rogue's body, giving ease to the pain in her side, in her head. It is not enough to remove every ache, but Kithran finds that she feels drastically better. 

"Your spirit is admirable, Kithran," Davena speaks, "but your actions are terribly misguided. I have no choice but to punish you, darling… it truly pains me to do so." Kith attempts to mutter at her to stop using that moniker, but despite how much better she feels, as well as Davena’s threats, a weariness begins to fall upon her. Then, with a subtle gesture from the priestess, the new ghoul leaps forward, rakes its claws across Kith's leg... and once again, the rogue is paralyzed.

The priestess glances at Brother Hagan; the large man appears fully cowed. "Brother Hagan," she speaks in a tone of frost, "I told you that if you sullied her in any manner, that you would beg for death."

His eyes form wide in terror. "Please, Mistress!" he implores, falling down and pressing his forehead to the ground. "I am sorry! Please, Mistress, have mercy! Slay me now!"

Davena's mouth is tight with disapproval. "Silence, worm. You know of the pain to come, and hope to avoid it... but this is not true begging." She pauses for a long moment. "That will come, unfaithful one. It will come. For the moment, stay exactly there and I might consider a lesser punishment. If you so much as flinch..." the threat is left unspoken, but palpable.

Davena returns her focus to Kithran as she draws her shiny, broad bladed knife and kneels by the naked woman's side. "Dear one," she speaks softly, her voice full of emotion, "I want the best for you, I truly do. But there are boundaries that must be respected. Trust that must be earned. And every opportunity I give you for trust, it seems, you spit upon it."

She places a hand on the rogue's belly, traces a fingertip to Kith's navel, then down and to the side. "Now darling, understand," Davena says, "this will hurt quite a bit. I pray that through this pain, you will begin to truly understand the folly of your actions. I can offer you so very much, if you will simply accept the gifts. But as long as you continue to fight against what is right and necessary, I will be forced to punish you."

With all that has happened, Kithran can hardly rage against her even in her mind anymore. She would like to fight; would like to move, to scream, but the exhaust mixed with the all-too familiar paralysis is so much that even that unknown knife Davena brandishes with such remorseful fervor does little to spark the fear she had entreated earlier.

The priestess leans forward, plants a soft kiss on Kithran's forehead, and makes a soft, sorrowful smile. After a long moment's pause where she holds deep eye contact with her prone victim, she drives the blade into the rogue's lower abdomen.

Kithran's exhaust vanishes as incredible, unthinkable, unbearable pain floods her consciousness, only to somehow be further amplified as the Mistress of Death twists the wide blade inside of the rogue's body. The knife is then withdrawn slowly, tearing and mutilating flesh further as it forges a new exit path.

Kith is barely able to register the alarming amount of blood flooding up through the hole in her belly, such is the bounding pain. Davena, on the other hand, is utterly calm... and somehow, every word that she speaks is clearly heard and understood by the bleeding woman.

"Kithran, you see," Davena speaks as if discussing the finer points of a ballroom dance, "I have a great deal of education on the inner workings of the body. I have learned, for instance, exactly where I can cut without causing immediate death. Oh, if your wound were untreated, it might well lead to your demise... but you are strong. You would fight it for some time."

With the pause, she drives the knife into Kith's abdomen on the opposite side. Not quite as deep this time, but still excruciatingly painful. She then continues speaking. "There are actually few places one can stab without nicking some organ or another, but gut stabs are still very unpleasant, wouldn't you agree?"

Kithran can’t move, can’t scream, can’t flee this life, her consciousness, or the unrelenting sound of Davena speaking into her thoughts. She cannot even beg her with all that she had and was for her to stop; though she wishes to all of the gods that had long forsaken her, and the Kazari god she graciously forsook in this moment, for just one second to plead to the priestess for mercy.

The knife is withdrawn - this time, thankfully, without the twist. Kith can feel her eyes roll back in her head, but something is denying her the solace of unconsciousness. Davena's expression is sorrowful. "No, child... you may not faint," she states. "I am so very sorry, but you need this pain to help you truly learn your lesson this time."

The knife is wiped clean, then sheathed.  Davena's eyes are almost pleading. "Darling… please.”

Please stop calling me that, she cries silently to herself, as Tara grins at her in the streets of Calestra.

“Let go of your stubbornness and learn." Davena then forces two fingers into each wound, twisting and tearing the flesh inside, causing blinding waves of pain to rack Kithran's body on and on and on...

After confirming with Gib that there are no evil creatures in the passage behind them, Aranwen nods to Ch'dau, and the hulking Kazari shoves the iron gate open in the course of entering what appears to be some sort of cell block. 

The smells of death and decay are much, much stronger here.  It occurs to you that the stains on the broken table likely arose from torture or human sacrifice.  The light itself grows strange in this area... the intensity of the greenish glow seems to fade one moment, then swell the next. 

When the chuckling comes, you grab your weapons tightly in reflex before realizing that the voice is, in fact, human. 

"So, you have come to seek your deaths?" a man's voice calls from the darkness ahead.  "D'hurgen has heard your prayers, and they will be granted!" he exclaims.

Momentarily, the insane giggles start to make themselves heard ahead.  The weird echoes and strange lighting play tricks on your minds; you cannot be certain how many of the enemy there are, but it feels like more ghouls than you have ever fought at once.

And then, you hear the clang of a metal gate slamming home from behind you.  A familiar voice speaks calmly.

"This gate always did have a funny catch to it," Garn casually explains from the other side of the bars.  "But if you close it just so, it locks quite securely."

The big warrior grins evilly.  "My Dark Mistress sends her regards.  She would enjoy watching your demise, but she is otherwise... engaged at the moment.  Goodbye."

The warrior drags the flat of his blade back and forth along the bars three times, creating a loud clanging noise, before stepping back down the hallway.  The obvious signal causes the volume of the giggling to raise in intensity and fervor, and the ghouls close in on you.

Aranwen had no words as she stared at the man. It just didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

And then it did.

Her eyes burned with molten fury, but she had no words for this despicable creature. Instead, she turned her back, moving to the front and center of the group.

"Eyes forward! Ch'dau, Gib, with me! Cover Cedric and Midge," Aranwen spoke, her voice colder than it had ever been heard before in present company, "We can only go forward now."

She may well have led them to their deaths, and that was why she stood at point. Even if they were to die here, no, especially if they were to die here, she'd do what she could to keep them safe as long as she could. She lifted her blade, holding it forward and ready, mindful of her stance and her placement. The stone was solid beneath her feet, no errant foliage to slip on, and she willed herself to be as unyielding as the very firmament. She'd take down every damnable ghoul she could, pay the price of every step and their safety with her blood, until either they stopped coming, or she was dead. 

It was all she could do.

“K’pan de’cha!” The kazari expletive was literally spit at Garn as the coward hid behind the gate, taunting them.

Ch’dau should have been surprised by the big monkey’s duplicitous turn but, somehow, he wasn’t. He had been suspicious of Davena and Garn since their convenient disappearance from Crandel in advance of the zombie assault that had occurred there. To have those suspicions validated in this moment, in this place, and to have the true depths of their deceit revealed, kindled a bonfire of fury in the Silver Cat that even he wasn’t aware was possible. We will meet again, t’mbili, he snarled inwardly as both he and Garn turned, in opposite directions, from the gate, and you will not be smiling!

"Ch'dau, Gib, on either side; cover Cedric and Midge," Aranwen commanded, her tone as cold and even as her steel.

The kazari’s acknowledgment came in the form of a short, barking roar as he stepped to the bladesinger’s right side. Blood for Rrowl… A second short roar sounded, even over the clanging together of his blades… and DAMN the Hunt! I will not go until I have killed every cursed thing in this place!

Ch’dau was veritably slavering, now, as a third roar escaped him, longer and louder than the previous two. His rage had etched a horrifying semblance of a smile, each and every fang displayed, on his felinoid features as the ghouls pressed in.

Garn wasn't a well-known companion but his betrayal was sickening nonetheless. Huffing his frustration, Gib moves immediately to the position Aranwen has commanded and readies himself for the onslaught. At the first sight of the ghouls (OOC: if there's time without risking injury), he squares up and bellows, "By the might of the Just Commander, even Therassor the Righteous General, I command you, BEGONE!"

Those fell denizens that resist his limited ability to channel divine commands are met with sword and shield. Furiously intent on ending their existence fuels his sore muscles. Righteous anger at their betrayal and the horrors he imagines Kith is experiencing sharpen his focus.

"Stay the line!" he calls, mostly to Ch'dau, well aware of his friend's rage. "Garn will receive his punishment soon enough."

The obvious connection between Garn's affiliation and Davena isn't lost on the warrior-priest. Somewhere deep in his soul, he knows that she is a part of this horrendous hive, but his good heart cannot readily accept that she is truly still aligned with that treacherous warrior. He hopes, but the hope is a fragile and thin pane of rose-colored glass that he has no doubt will be soon enough be shattered.

Staying in the back of the team, Cedric noticed Garn wasn’t so eager to head into the next room with Ch’dau and Aranwen. He could totally understand the big warrior. It was clear there would be a lot more of the undead in that direction, including the ones Solanis’s power had already forced away. And yet, even though they’d known each other for less hours than there are days in a moon, the young priest hadn’t considered Garn a coward. As he wondered about it for a moment, the warrior clearly grew impatient and gestured for the cleric to move forward. Cedric nodded silently and smiled.

Ah of course! Since Aranwen and Gib are in the front ready to take on the shamblers and gigglers, someone needs to bring up the rear in case some of the walkers sneak behind us. Very clever!

For no reason really Cedric crouched slightly as he stepped through the gate. It must’ve been due to a habit born out of the need to mind the floor beam when heading down into the vegetable cellar back at the abbey. Fetching potatoes, turnips, onions, beetroots and whatnot had been just one of the chores the young students had grown used to doing every day. As they’d grown taller, Cedric and his fellow students had been forced to start crouching on the cellar stairs to avoid hitting their heads. Everybody learned it sooner or later, but it took the thickest ones a few lovely lumps in their foreheads before dodging the nasty beam had grown into a habit. Cedric had never been the smartest…

Raising his eyes from the floor, Cedric gripped his staff tightly. In his mind, if he didn’t count losing Kith and Davena, they’d gotten this far fairly easily… Almost too easily for his liking. The evil priest or priests knew they were here, on their turf. They sure would know how to set up a proper ambush or where would be the best place to attack and kill the intruders. What were they waiting for?

The stench in the cell block was almost unbearable for the young lad. Sure, due to his profession, he’d seen and handled dead people many times and not always had the deaths been recent. But in here, the smell was far worse than anything he’d experienced so far. He felt like gagging, but forced the bile back down into his stomach.

Then he heard the giggles… No! A chuckle! A human chuckle at that. Straining to see beyond his friends, Cedric wanted to know if it was the same priest of the Death god they saw running away a moment before. Hatred burned inside of the young man, hatred like he’d never known before. The undead yes, he did hate them a lot, but they or at least the zombies, were simply mindless monsters created by the owner of the dry chuckle. The gigglers on the other hand… He now began to hear their mad laughter as well… The gigglers were worse, but they too had been born from a mind far more evil.

Cut off the head… The young cleric can almost see his father hitting a snake with a shovel and hear his voice utter the words. The priest is the head… Cedric’s mind started to run through the prayers he knew. Was there something he could do to stop the deathbringer from commanding the ghouls? What about the walking dead themselves? Could he…

The thought was cut off first by the sound of the gate slamming shut and then by a male voice speaking behind him; a voice Cedric couldn’t immediately place. It was very familiar, but the words made it totally strange.

"This gate always did have a funny catch to it," the voice casually explained from the other side of the bars.  "But if you close it just so, it locks quite securely."

When the recognition came, the priest almost didn’t want to turn around. He… No… He… They couldn’t…

The big warrior grinned evilly.  "My Dark Mistress sends her regards.  She would enjoy watching your demise, but she is otherwise... engaged at the moment.  Goodbye."

Before Cedric was able to clear his mind enough to act, Garn had already disappeared into the shadows and the sound of giggling had increased in volume and intensity. Turning around again, the boy grasped his holy symbol and sent a silent prayer to his God.

This party has faced many horrible experiences of late.  So very much death... and worse, death that refuses to stay that way, that rises back to claw and bite and rip at the lviing.  Cruelness and evil and treachery, abominations that should have never seen the light of day, unspeakable acts that should not exist within the realm of reality.

And yet... the pack of malevolent, insane walking dead advancing upon the party in this reeking, oppressive den of corruption is every bit a waking nightmare of its own.

Gib and Cedric raise their holy symbols aloft, imploring the gods of goodness to turn back these hateful creations of the grave.  Midge begins chanting words of arcane power.  The gods of good are faithful and respond to the entreaties...   though in this space sanctified to evil, they perhaps lack some of the influence they may have otherwise had.  Even so, the first line of the undead are turned back, bade to flee the fight by the powers of Solanis and Therassor.

Midge completes his casting, and from the cracks in the stones, a massive swarm of centipedes, scorpions, and other stinging creatures arises, which immediate set to biting and stinging, ripping the flesh away fromthe advancing ghouls.

And yet, still they come. 

Just as the first of the giggling monsters reaches the companions, a voice from behind the undead chants away, plunging the cellblock into total darkness once again. 

The companions fight against both the creatures of the grave and the panic of the darkness.  Aranwen stikes true, very nearly dismembers a ghoul even in the dark.  Gib catches one on his shield, stabs, pushes it back.  Ch'dau is cut by the claws fom the grave, feels that awful paralysis seep into his bones... yet somehow, be it by the frothing rage he is gripped by, or perhaps by the grace of his feline god, he is able to resist the grasp, and instead rips the creature nigh asunder in response.

In the dark, a ghoul slips past the warriors and launches itself into Midge.  The cidal goes down with a scream, the undead beast on top of him, clawing and biting. 

Cedric calls to Solanis, and the god of light answers, dispelling the supernatural darkness.  Aranwen uses the opening to cleave the ghoul on top of Midge nearly in two.  The little caster is still alive, though he is quite obviously in the grasp of the paralysis.  For her trouble, the Bladesinger is ripped from behind, though she is able to shake off their power. 

The fight becomes one of attrition.  For every mighty blow the party lands, it seems that a ghoul lands a scratch or bite in return.  The blessing of Solanis appears to have been useful, as for a time, Midge is the only one who succumbs to the paralysis.  Still, each time a giggling abomination falls motionless, it is replaced with another. 

The initial charge is halted by Midge's paralysis and the rush of the attacking ghouls.  Soon, it becomes a situation of desperation similar to the feeling in the woods when the horde was faced; there seems no end to the undead foes.

Still, the party fights on gallantly.  Gib slashes a ghoul open, bashes its skull in with his shield.  Ch'dau roars in violent fury, rips the arm off of an undead abomination (which actually seems to give it pause; this one turns and flees), but is cut again.  Aranwen shrugs off lesser wounds, lays about in the full glory of the sword trance, twisting, flashing, spinning, slaying.

On the ground, Midge feels motion return to him.  However, the cid mage also feels despair clutch at his heart.  His wounds are deep and very serious.  The party is sorely beset by ghouls, and the gate behind the party is locked.  There can be no retreat.  

To add to it all, he is out of spells.  The cid grabs his sling, though the area is not condusive to firing missinles without risking a strike to an ally's back.

A ghoul pushes by Gib, leaps onto Cedric.  The young man struggles valiantly, but is no warrior.  The warriors are all involved in their own fights.  Midge bows his head, closes his eyes, and begins to chant. 

Pulling himself painfully to his feet, the little wizard feels a little bit of his energy slip away as the flames spring from his fingertips.  He reaches into the ghoul's back, sets it ablaze, causes it to release the young priest, who is able to then smash its head with his staff. 

The fight wages on.  The first wall of insects was dispersed when Midge fell; the diminutive caster creates it anew, carefully placing it so as to chip away at the strength of the ghouls without harming the companions. 

Ch'dau is finally injured enough that the paralysis takes him, forcing Aranwen and Gib to try to help protect him, meaning that Cedric has no choice but to defend himself.  Aranwen is staggered.  Gib lays another ghoul open, but his own wounds are draining him. 

A ghoul leaps on the helpless Kazari's back and begind to bite at him.  Gib, Aranwen, and Cedric are too entangled to intervene immediately.  Midge, barely strong enough to stand, considers his options.  "Ch'dau!" he cries with a strained smirk,  "put in a good word for me with your cat god, yes?"  He then chants a different incantation.  When complete, he flings a bolt of green energy at the ghoul on Ch'dau, striking it fully in the back.  The impact eats a large hole into the creature's body, and its flesh sizzles in several more places from the splash of acid droplets, causing it to slip to the ground off of the Kazari.

At the same time, an ashen-faced Midge also wordlessly collpases to the ground.

Despite the spellcaster's touching sacrifice, the situation is still desperate.  Soon, Gib and Cedric and likewise paralyzed.  Everyone is heavily wounded.  Aranwen fights on alone, though there can only be moments until the end. 

Suddenly, a man's voice calls out.  "Stop."

Instantly, the remaining ghouls cease thier attacks and step back.  A black robed man steps forward into the light - though leaving several ghouls between himself and the party.  He is tall, solidly built.  He is clean shaven and has close cut dark hair.  This is not the same priest who lured you into the trap. 

"You have fought well," he speaks in a calm, smooth tone.  "You have all acquited yourselves admirably.  Even so, you cannot win this fight."

He smiles softly.  "You need not all die here, however.  Surrender now, and I vow before the gods that no harm will come to you." 

The priest glances around the party, where all are motionless save Aranwen.  "It would seem that this choice is yours alone, Bladesinger.  Live or die - make your choice now."

Aranwen gasped, her throat almost raw from the song she had been singing until the combat stopped so suddenly. Her blade wavered in her hand, the tip unsteady and moving back and forth with her panting.

Though she stood beside Cedric, Gib and Ch'dau's bodies, she felt more alone than she had ever been. The walls echoed her lonely song back into her ears, taunting her with that hint of a second song, as if she were in the duet she longed to hear once more. Her eyes barely registered the man before her in her fatigue, her body shaking, her armour worn, her flesh rended and bleeding. She staggered, landing on her knees, her training barely keeping her blade from touching the ground as she gasped for breath.

Perhaps to die wouldn't be so bad. She knew one day it would happen. One day she'd have no more strength, and fell by battle. But... was this really the battle she wanted to be her end? To fall in battle was almost guaranteed for her, a soldier, a blade singer, guided by her emotions and resolve. If she had to die in battle, she wanted it to be one where she fought alongside friends until the end. Their unmoving bodies robbed them of their agency. Not a death she'd desire, especially for Ch'dau... and if she died here, perhaps... perhaps... on the other side...

Don't die for me

The most important of her promises rang in her ears, and she knew. Presented with this sadistic choice, Aranwen knew which option she had to choose. It didn't matter if breaking her oath now would result in a quick death. Only by staying alive could she hope to make things right. Only by staying alive could there be hope, that she had the chance of making safe this path so filled with peril.

It felt like a betrayal.

A betrayal of the three who still lived. And she made this choice for them, without their consent or will. And she knew they would not like it. Maybe they wouldn't forgive her.

Aranwen looked at the blade in her shaking hand, chipped where it had struck bone. The blade the others had followed freely. A blade she didn't deserve if she made this choice.

With what strength she could muster, she staggered up to her feet, bringing her sword up. It was no combat stance; she held it horizontally in front of her.

The clang of the blade falling to the ground echoed through the chamber, otherwise silent aside the ghouls and their incessant, sadistic giggling.

There is naught to do but fight. Grinning, giggling, rotting creatures are everywhere despite Therassor's and Solanis' power piercing the unholy walls and Moreno is forced to hold the line. Then darkness... that cursed ink, and once again he finds himself using his other senses to navigate the battle.

Nothing in his training had ever prepared him for this. Knowledge such as he received in the temple and education within the ranks of his unit are all useless. Now, now comes the test of his mettle. With Aranwen's song in his ears, he begins reciting the funeral dirge he had somehow thought he'd be able to avoid, as foolish as such a thought is for someone in his line of work.

Give me strength
Give me courage
No more am I 
No more am I

Light returns at Cedric's plea and just in time as a ghoul grips the edge of Gib's shield and attempts to tear it away. Twisting, the warrior-priest pushes the creature back and thrusts true. 

My heart is yours, my General
My soul will be with you
In the Halls of Heroes Fallen
I shall make one final march

"Ch'dau! Put in a good word for me with your cat god, yes?" The Cidal's wavering call carries above the sounds of battle and Gib's eyes widen. What are you doing, little friend? Risking a glance, he see's the insane undead tossing bloody fur from the Kazari's back and hears the spidery incantation of their arcane spellcaster. Green liquid burns away at the fell creature, but Gib is forced to return his full attention to the fight in front of him before he can see the results.

Give me strength
Give me courage
No more am I
No more am I

Injured, weary, nearly overwhelmed by more than just the putrid smell of the walking dead, Moreno knows that death isn't too far off. Sheer numbers have won this day for the side of evil. He knows not how much more of this beating he can take but what he does know is that he will not disappoint his god or his allies.

From this, a warrior's battlefield
I fly to your silver banner
I've received my orders well, my lord
The call of your battle horn

Two ghastly ghouls leap high and low while another attempts to crawl over his shield. Hacking down on one creature's shoulder, Gib grinds his teeth against the pain that shoots through his calf. Oblivion calls him. Cold, aching, everlasting. First his flesh burns with icy claws radiating upwards from his leg into his abdomen. He's falling backward, the weight of the ghoul on his shield turning his body. He can't catch himself. He can't move. The freezing heat takes his whole body but he can still move his eyes, still feel the will to move. And there, as he falls deeper into that void, closer to the stone of the floor, he witnesses the sightless eyes and blood-drenched little body of his Cidal friend. That quiet, studious, cheerful soul extinguished. Crashing into the earth, the priest of Therassor is positioned such that he can see the final events unfold, his own song ending as Aranwen's does.

Give me strength
Give me courage
No more am I
No more am I
For I am yours

Even in the blinding dark, the Silver Cat’s rage was all consuming, all important, and, though he couldn’t see his attackers, that fury allowed him to ignore the paralyzing effects of the ghouls and continue laying waste to any of them he was able to reach. That aside, it became clear, soon enough, that his rage and his companions’ skills would not be enough to let them see the end of this battle. The dead were relentless, never-ending, and, despite the best efforts of all, the tide of battle quickly turned in favor of the death-god’s minions. As he angrily let himself accept the fate that was to come and his injuries multiplied, Ch’dau felt himself, at last succumb to the icy touch of the grave which robbed him of his ability to fight any longer. He struggles against the paralysis, of course, furious that his friends are forced to try and defend him. Angrier still that, despite their attempts, the futility of the fight compounds all the more.

He can do nothing but watch as his honored companions also, one by one, begin to be staggered and stilled by the neverending press of ghoulish gigglers. When one of the abominations leaps on to his back and starts rending flesh the kazari can do little more than hope that the vile thing chokes on whatever meat it chews from him…

“Ch’dau!” Midge’s weary voice shouts, “put in a good word for me with your cat god, yes?”

The creature on his back falls away, then, being devoured by whatever spell the little Cid had sacrificed the last of his life energy to cast.

…The kazari still can’t move, can’t even coax a roar from his throat as he watches the wizard crumple to the fetid floor. I shall meet you at The Hunt, my brave little friend, he thinks, still raging on the inside and fighting to free himself from the grip of the grave, May you find a place of honor beside Rrowl and may Keziri keep you warm.

Gib and Cedric, by now, have been frozen, too, and only Aranwen is left to continue the fight on her own. He has long known the bladesinger’s prowess, known her honor, and loved her heart but, in this moment, powerless to continue fighting at her side, he would have given anything to see her simply disappear from his sight and be set free from this particular hell. I will see you on the other side, as well, my beloved Khatun. I have…

“Stop!”

The ghouls. Fervent in their assault until the word was spoken, suddenly cease their attacks. From their midst a tall, well built human, with close cropped hair and a clean shaven face, strides forth from the horde. "You have fought well," he said, his tone calm and even, “You have all acquited yourselves admirably.  Even so, you cannot win this fight."

The trace of a smile whispers across his face as he continues; "You need not all die here, however.  Surrender now, and I vow before the gods that no harm will come to you." 

…He cannot speak them, but a string of curses and expletives and promises of a slow and painful death stream through the kazari’s mind even as the D’hurganite priest lets his gaze pan slowly over the mostly paralayzed party before settling deliberately upon Arnawen, again. "It would seem that this choice is yours alone, Bladesinger.  Live or die - make your choice now."

Kill him, Ara, Ch’dau willed silently, Take away his control and fight until the rest of us are free and…

He saw Aranwen look at them all, her eyes lingering and, perhaps, languishing on him, in particular. In that moment, whe his frozen turquoise gaze locked to her grieving, golden one, he saw her decision flash and flicker…

No… No, Aranwen, my Khatun, my heart…

Anranwen forced herself to her feet, turning her eyes away from him and, instead, toward the death priest who demanded her capitulation.

…Do NOT…

The bladesinger held out her blade horizontally and, bowing her head in acquiescence, her eyes cast to the floor, now, let the steel fall from her grip.

No… Helpless, the silver Cat watched as the blade fell. NO!... Ara, what have you done?!?... The sound of steel ringing from stone, in that moment, hurt him more than any wound giggler, goon, or gesticulation ever had and, though the sound was prevented from escaping him, the kazari roared

The roar may not have escaped him in a physical form but, in his mind, it was perhaps the loudest (and, should he care to admit it, most anguished) roar that had ever escaped him. The volume of it threatened to deafen even his own ears. Spurred by Ara’s sacrifice, so soon in the wake of Midge’s, Ch’dau prayed more fervently to ALL of his gods than he ever had… Release me from this hold, he begged¸and I will bring blood and honor to last the Kazari for eternity!!!

The dark robed priest smiles widely at Aranwen's action.  "Your wisdom outweighs your pride, Bladesinger," he observes.  He looks to the ghouls.  "Disarm them." 

Immediately, the giggling monsters comply, removing weapons, holy symbols, and such from each standing party member.  At the priest's signal, they bagin to march Arawen deeper into the cellblock, while dragging the rest of the party along.

The priest himself falls behind and moves to Midge's side, then arches an eyebrow in surprise.  The mage's eyes are open, the stare blank and vacant... but his chest still moves shallowly.  "The little one still lives," he observes flatly, "though only for moments more, I suspect."  He shakes his head.  "I'll not waste the effort... and a little evidence won't be a bad thing." 

He gestures to the motionless cidal.  "You may eat this one."  The giggling of the ghouls increases to a fever pitch, and several of the creatures leap atop of Midge, ripping at his flesh and jockeying for the choicest bits. 

With the mage's doom fully sealed, the rest of the party is forced deeper into the dark dungeon.  The greenish light grows very dim here, often only flickering sparodically.  Aranwen's torch is extinguished, leaving no other source of light. 

The group is taken through another iron gate to a far more narrow hallway.  Upon reaching another set of what appear to be cells, each individual is locked inside their own dark room.  The stench of death and decay is truly appressive here. 

The priest takes his leave.  "You will remain here at my leisure," he explains.  "You have no weapons, no way to call upon your gods.  You live - for now - because I allow it."

He pauses, smiling slightly.  "If you are wise, you will be good houseguests, and I may reward you.  If you make a nuisance of yourselves, you will have no value to me, and I will deal with you accordingly.  I hope that you understand, and are wise enough to comply.  If you attempt escape, the ghouls will rend you to pieces, and I will not intercede again."

He bobs his head.  "Goodbye, for now."

With that, he is gone, and heavy darkness descends.  Nothing but the smell of death and the sound of insane giggling remains.

Aranwen was silent, almost deathly so. She made no movements save those which proceeded her in line with her captor's expectations. Only when the cell had been locked, and all visible enemies had left them in the gloom, Aranwen sighed her head tilted towards the ground.

The man had said that they could not reach the gods from here, but that didn't stop Aranwen from kneeling, holding her hands together as she prayed. Perhaps the first time she had ever done so.

O' Solinari, Nim'megil, and Rrowl
I am no priestess, no cleric, no holy woman, but I beseech you here and now
By my choices and false leadership, I have stolen honourable death in battle from those who followed me
I have made what may be my final gamble, with lives not mine to cast
Suffering lies ahead for us, of that I am certain
So I beseech you, in memory of Arthras and Midge, for the sake of Cedric, Gib, Ch'dau, and Kithran
Even should they come to forsake you in the suffering to come or already done, I beg of you, do not forsake their souls
If anyone must be forsaken, let it be me
Let it be me

Aranwen was glad for the darkness. All the better to hide the tears that flowed from her closed, golden eyes.