Krogier was hesitant on allowing the Denmoth into the cave. Her protection, and that of the forest elf people were calling the sage, was his highest concern. Even above his own. The cave itself was desolate, barren beyond imagination. Even insects had the good wits to avoid this blasphemous cave. As they progressed further and further down it was becoming readily apparent just how.. wrong this place truly was. 
There was nothing specific that had him on edge, just a prevalent feeling of suspicion. 

As they walked the low corridors to the objective, a towering obelisk coated in words of magic, he idly ran his fingers along the walls numbly. Almost like the life of the stones themselves had somehow faded. For the second time today, it felt like home. Ancient forests withering into oblivion.

Would these stones still stand in a thousand years? A hundred? 

Such musings were best left for another time. The group made their way to the obelisk and the scholars went about their business. The Druids of his homeland revered nature as the beginning and end of all things, a cycle of endless death and life. Inescapable. That was the extent of his personal knowledge in the art of philosophy and prophecy. To speak with the animals and defend the trees was the only path.
To his back, the Denmother issued a low growl and tensed. 
Trusting her keen insticts, Belanor was quickly in hand. 

"Belanor.." Whispering to the weapon, "Give me the strength you showed in life."

No sooner had the words been spoken than trouble found them. The obelisk flared to life. Its radiance impaling him to his very soul. A hiss of pain embraced was the only sign anything was amiss, but inside he felt it. A squirming sensation just under his skin. 
There was no time to dwell on it as strange creatures shuffled out from the caverns, heralded by a worm of tremendous size. Its rotting body was grotesque to behold. Words of eldritch hate spewed from the man-shaped form in its maw, lost upon the Druid warriors ears. 

Incapable of understanding what it wanted he resorted to what he knew. 

Violence.

Under his armor a familiar heat was rising as the runic tattoos carved upon his flesh came to life. Feeding on his innate magic they gave strength to weary bones and bolstered resolve. 

The red haired woman, and the red demon woman, sprang to action with devastating results. Great flames burned clear paths through the enemy fodder while the Oni displayed her own prowess. 

In broken common he called out to his companion. "Wife, Sage, behind me. I will not allowing them to harm you!" 

Having no appropriate word for spirit companion, the Denmother was often referred to as his wife. With a limited understanding of the language it was the most fitting word. If told otherwise the big man simply stated it felt appropriate.

[hr]

The room spun with runes and light that stung his eyes, tore into his flesh, seared his broken soul, left him hungering for the release of death so often longed for in the quiet moments of his travels. How easy it would be to lay down and never wake up. Purpose, divine or otherwise, demanded his stubborn return to the path. To see this done. 
The rune on his chest ached but there was no time to reflect. 

The worm had come. Decayed flesh hung to its frame in a twisted abomination of natural design, its speaker even more so. A twisted and repulsive display of control over the arts of magic.. so similar to his own.

The nightmares that rose from the ground were horrifying to behold, held together by the disgusting host burrowing in their bodies. Jeggred could feel their pain at a distance now and wondered how he could have missed these hideous creatures until well after stepping into their den. 
The many tattered shrouds of cloth were thrown to the side. Jeggred was not a physical man like the other seekers, but his control over death was unmatched. Through his trials the secrets to rot were his at his mercy. Free to be inflicted on others. While the fire caster and the others cause their havoc, Jeggred set to work with his own. The creatures could not be controlled with necromancy as one would hope, likely the eldritch worm was a powerful caster holding their strings, but their bodies still lived. Breathed.

Felt pain.

The swelling green mist of his magic swirled over his fingertips and up to his elbow as he chanted the words of decay, a language of curses that sounded like mud slopping onto stone, and thrust his arms out at the encroaching hoard of insect creatures. Their wounds were already in a state of decay and now they were accelerated. 
Whole limbs turned to stinking bone and a watery soup of flesh and organs flowing from their useless bodies. The more damage a body had the quicker their wounds would rot. With their wretched forms in such disrepair they fell easily en masse to his debilitation. Unable to move or scream in pain they would fade away to nothing.

Those closest to him issued airless screams of pain as the blade struck their failing bodies. Though their lifeforce was weak, it was still there. Every drop counted as he stole their very souls for his own ends.