[center][b] The Whitestone Mountains[/b][/center]


Jagged bolts of white-hot lightning stabbed down from the sky outside Arane's shelter, each flash punctuated by peals of deafening thunder and what seemed like an endless torrent of flesh-rotting rain. Excessive moisture, perhaps, was one of the most difficult things for someone like Arane to deal with, accelerating the inevitable rot of undead flesh that all of Eagoth's servants experienced. It was thus that she found herself and her companions huddled together deep inside a mountainside cave, shielding their bodies from the unwelcome downpour. They'd been waiting for hours, quietly conversing in Elvish - an unacceptable delay, if not for the hazards brought on by venturing outside. The chance for conversation, in its own way, was more than enough compensation for Arane - it reminded her of the days before she died; the celebrations she attended with her parents, the gossip and idle chit-chat she often engaged in with the daughters and sons of fellow Elven nobility... And, in these dark days, societal barriers were torn down, with she and her companions united in purpose and finding camaraderie in their shared experiences. She went on like that for hours laughing and telling jokes with her former bodyguards, her Captain - until, suddenly, the entire party went silent, elongated ears twitching practically in unison.

Outside, a sound broke through the din of the storm - or, more accurately, became distinct apart from the cacophony of Mother Nature's wrath. A look passed between Arane and Alaras, more than enough for her to confirm that her companion heard the same thing she did - the regimented beat of boots against rock and soil, the sort of lockstep only realistically possible amongst either the most impeccably well-trained mortals or the walking dead of Eagoth. These could be no average ghouls, though - over the sound of footsteps, Arane heard a faint marching tune, its sound too shifting to be borne of the insanity of a broken ghoul's mind. As it drew closer and closer, she wracked her brain for its origin, but she could scarcely recall anyone specific - a blessing, bringing with it less chance to be uncovered, if half-mortal eyes could even see through her arcane cloak.

Eventually, the sounds became so loud that even human ears would hear them over the noise of the storm - and it began echoing through the cave, though Arane made no effort to turn towards it. The less aware her party seemed, after all, the less suspicion they would draw.

"...It seems someone had the same thought we did, lads." Came the sound of a gruff, rattling male voice, so tinged with a lack of care that its experience was made immediately obvious. 

"And who might ye' be, travelers?" He said. Arane didn't respond - not for several seconds, at least.

"T-tuh... Tuh....Travelers. We are... Travelers. Sheltering from the... The..." Arane sputtered, clutching her forehead as if wracked by migraines, turning to face her guest.

"...The storm. It's called a storm. The shite fallin' from the sky's rain." A figure - the same voice as before - spoke. He was clad in steel plate, of surprisingly quality for one of Eagoth's men, dented and scratched by combat as it was. His body, on the other hand, was in far worse condition - though lacking many of the signs of degeneration that came with simple rot, the wear and tear of a soldier was more than evident, ragged strips of discoloured muscle and skin stitched into places where it had otherwise been eroded away. His jaw, perhaps surprisingly, was quite intact, as was the man's face, aside from the hinging joints where his lower jawbone would move to speak - ancient scars on the man's countenance spoke to years spent on the battlefield prior to his undeath, a greathelm clasped tightly under one shoulder, sword in the other hand, and shield secured across his backs by straps of dried, rotting leather.

More than a dozen men, similarly dressed, waited behind him, in varying states of wear and disrepair - but without exception, they were all *active*, moving and shifting about much in the way men did when bored with themselves, as slightly [i]off[/i] as their movements seemed. All, of course, were armed.

"Storm... Rain. Yes. I remember now. Do you remember, brother?" Arane said, tilting her head toward Carralon, a young, otherwise beautiful elven man that sat opposite Aralas. 

"Yes, I... The... The memory is becoming clear now." He nodded, reaching up to cup his chin. "I saw a storm, once, I think... On a... An ocean."

The undead commander - a Revenant Minor, Arane assumed - shrugged, leading himself and his men deeper into the cave, now fully under shelter. 

"Well, we'll be joinin' ye', then. Never marched through the damned rain 'less I absolutely feckin' had to, an' I don't intend ta start now!" The Revenant laughed, expelling a series of gasps of moist, foetid air from his lungs. Arane was thankful she could ignore the sheer pungency of the smell, though she couldn't help but long for being able to tell when something did smell unpleasant, nonetheless. Still, it was likely for the best in a land of rot, corpses, and endless death.

"You can... Join us." She said.

"Uhuh. Not much of a conversationalist, I can see, so we'll be leavin' you to your devices."

Arane nearly let out a sigh of relief, narrowly managing to suppress the urge. Her disguise worked! That was an incredible relief, but...

As minutes ground on into hours, the only sounds being the storm outside and the gambling and chatter of the undead men, she began to grow restless. Arane never particularly liked waiting, though she was easily capable of patience, but that simply wasn't what was bothering her. 

The soldier hadn't seen through her disguise, but he seemed experienced, by his haphazard manner - and judging by the number of well-armed, fully mindful ghouls at his apparent command, he must surely have been competent. He was perhaps friendly, even, but that did not mean he would fail to do his duty - by making note of a strange party of lonesome, half-present ghouls wandering through the mountains, apparently able to do so despite their lack of memories. Would he report their presence? Tail them himself? That was a risk Arane wasn't sure she could afford to take.

Eventually, though, she was forced into action. The rain began to let up, slowing to trickle, and Elven whispers passed between Arane and her companions. Theirs was a strange language, pronounceable by the human tongue but just as difficult to learn as any of the least-spoken tongues of mankind, effectively usable as a coded tongue among her kith and kin.

[i]"The storm will end soon. We cannot risk allowing them to leave."[/i] Arane said. Her companions each nodded, though not in perfect unison. Hands wandered beneath cloaks, reaching for wickedly curved, sharpened elven blades - others for the long poles on their backs, the tips of polearms hidden beneath bundles of cloth. The undead men moved, too, though only to stand and leave - and the elves were upon them. Aralas was first to make contact, the singing blade of her metallic blue poleaxe shearing through the spine of one of the soldiers entirely, only to shatter his exposed shin-bone with a mule's kick to his leg mere moments afterwards, then shattering another's ribcage with a return swing from the weapon's hammer-tip. In those few moments where none of Arane's victims understood what was happening, confusion reigned -  Carrolon's backsword sheared a soldier's wrist from his arm, deflecting his counterblow with a parrying blade. Elara, the party's archer, pinned one of the risen dead to a wall of rock with a careful shot from her reflexed bow.

Haleth, a veritable wall of elven muscle, charged headlong into battle, bowling over a pair of the soldiers with her sheer might, while Arodin kept another two at bay with his partisan.

Arane, for her part, busied herself with her commander - the Revenant Minor, a veritable beast of a man. Her familiar cackled as her fingers danced through the air, weaving magic through the air as the Revenant charged toward her. A sabre, curved toward the end, appeared in Arane's grasp, glowing with golden light - and Arane smiled, muttering an Elvish battle-prayer under her breath.

Though she managed to parry the Revenant's first blow, he struck with incredible force, unbefitting of a corpse. No words were spoken - this man was a soldier, after all, and he had scarcely little time for words in the midst of battle. His focus was hard as steel, unbreakable by most means - that much was immediately obvious to Arane as she danced out of the way of another blow. His swordsmanship, too, was impressive. He moved too quickly for Arane to easily bring her blade under his guard, especially with a shield at hand, despite her incredible dexterity.

[i]No matter,[/i] she thought, sucking in a sharp breath. 

She stumbled, blessed blade briefly soaring out of her grasp. The soldier, seeing an opportunity, permitted Arane's fall, her hand briefly brushing against his plate. He brought up his arm, ready to skewer her with a stabbing blow...

Then he froze with an abrupt, awkward jerk, metal screeching as his armor turned inward, spines punching through his muscles like an improperly sized iron maiden. What once protected him was now a nest of spikes, punching through his body in so many places that he was totally unable to engage in any movement but pathetic shaking. The battle was far from over, though - Arane had only managed to defeat the Revenant thanks to the element of total surprise, and many of his men yet remained. Noblewoman or not - she was no longer sure - Arane was no layabout, charging in to join her guards in battle, summoning her arcane blade back to her hand. 

Thankfully, the veterans, skilled as they were, lacked the sheer physical ability of their commander. It was a simple enough matter to send one smashing against the rock walls of the cave with a powerful blast of force, arcane blade passing through another's armor to sever his spine like a hot knife through butter. Clutching the skull of said veteran in her hand, Arane cast yes another spell - and his flesh evaporated, transforming into a storm of reddish smoke that swarmed over any of the soldiers it touched, sapping the moisture from their flesh so intensely that it dried up into thin strips and began to flake away with every motion. To cast so many spells in quick succession was difficult, to be sure, even tiring - but Arane was a potent spellcaster, and mental exhaustion was something she was more than willing to accept for the sake of ensuring the safety of herself and her comrades.

Soon enough, though, the cave went silent - relatively so. Half-corpses crawled about the ground, attempting to claw and bite, but they were of little threat.

Arane finally allowed herself that sigh of relief, watching as the number of foes before them rapidly dwindled. Even her familiar was enjoying itself, its foul made dissipating to reveal a glowing, golden countenance, clawing strips of flesh away from its foes and buzzing around as an incredibly bright, annoying distraction, carried on glimmering, dragonfly wings.

Rising back to her feet, Arane looked the soldier in the eyes. His helmet was removed at the time she cast her spells, thankfully - he could speak, but little else.

"Lady Tiedriel!" He gasped.

"Yes, Lady Tiedriel... You heard of Eagoth's attempts to dispose of me, then?"

Seeing no point in being obstinate, the Revenant spoke freely, unafraid despite his predicament. "What the hell are you doing here, in these mountains? You should've been killed by the mortal navies!"

"I never met them." Arane explained, offering the Revenant an entirely nonchalant, uncaring shrug. "You understand that I can't alow you to leave her alive, yes? Or... Would it be un-alove?" She chuckled. The man, surprisingly, chuckled in turn.

"Aye... Thought as much."

No longer worried by the rigours of combat, Arane worked her spellcraft, flicking her wrist - the spines shifted, just enough to shatter the man's bones into hundreds of pieces, ripping his flesh - and the spines vanished, leaving his armour as it once was. 

Around her lay dozens of corpses, and Arane joined her bodyguards in ensuring that each and every one was pulverized into dust. They were soaked to the bone, unfortunately - too wet to burn.

[b][center]Deep within the Whitecap Mountains[/center][/b]

Arane could scarcely remember travelling to the Whitestone mountains - the name brought to mind the very same peaks that she now ascended, but she struggled to discern whether the images brought to mind were derived from her own experiences or merely the study of paintings and books. That, perhaps, was the greatest curse of undeath - doubt in oneself, and the faint pull towards obedience of one’s creator. Arane lacked the knowledge of necromancy to know why this was; whether it was Eagoth or her own mind that was to blame - but as she clambered up one stone step, she supposed that, after all, it didn’t really matter. Her mind had been made up years ago - Eagoth and his empire would be destroyed, or she would achieve her final death trying.

The massive stone fortress that towered before her, its greyish-white face barely visible against the mountain face, reminded  her of her own mission in some ways - like her, it had survived for decades beyond its ‘death’, persevering in the face of constant, punishing assault that it could do scarcely little about. Like her, it refused to collapse despite the overwhelming odds she faced. And like her, Arane thought, it might prove to be the salvation of the living despite its half-death. Arane hoped for as much, at least.

The further her party travelled up the mountains, the more Arane began to question her choices - her goal, the destruction of Eagoth, was of the utmost importance, but how would she reach it? Could any of the other Revenants be trusted to not betray her to Eagoth? The mortals across the sea, perhaps, could, but what reason would they have to trust a supposedly rebellious Revenant Major?

Sighing, the noblewoman let her dainty, silken fingertips brush against a nearby tree branch, the cold of gathered snow utterly imperceptible through her deadened hide. So far up, the mountains seemed practically dead - truly empty, unlike the foul parody of existence that dominated the places below. Perhaps the castle’s inhabitants used magecraft to feed themselves - or perhaps the fortress was abandoned due to a shortage of food in the wake of Eagoth’s conquest. Learned as she was, Arane simply didn’t have the answers - and the only way to find out was to enter the castle itself.

All it took was a quick, gentle turn to the right - toward the looming fortress - and the environment around Arane suddenly seemed to change. She could practically feel how her Captain’s mood shifted, a hand wandering to the haft of her poleaxe as they found themselves trodding upon matte, runecarved stone, a stark contrast to the broken steps - if even that - that dotted the rest of the mountain range. Had she not known the hour of the culmination of Eagoth’s conquest, Arane and her companions might have even assumed someone had been here recently, clearing away snow and debris, grinding away imperfections in the stone that would’ve proven dangerous to anyone walking upon them. Still, it would’ve been outright idiocy to call the pathway welcoming. Despite the decoration that studded it, whether runes or wintry flora, it was clearly designed for defense, only just wide enough to fit a wagon through, perhaps a handful of men abreast. It was difficult, even, to tell where the mountain ended and the fortress began - Arane swore she could see arrowslits carved into some of the smaller outcropping peaks nearby, but even Elara’s keen perception could give little but a shrug in response to her inquiries. The snow, of course, played havoc with their vision - but, even so, she wondered what could possibly be at play here.

More foreboding, perhaps, were the stone figures standing sentry closer toward what appeared to be the fortress’s gates. Each of the dozen was an elven warrior, three abreast on each side, three male and three female, though all carried unique armaments and suits of armour. Arane, however, was far more concerned with how their eyes seemed to follow her every move, though she knew such artistic feats were well within the capabilities of the most elite sculptors. Why such attention was paid to an ostensibly hidden fortress, however, was another question entirely, but it was a question for another time. For the time being, she and her fellows remained preoccupied with the grueling climb up towards the keep, difficult even for the untiring bodies of the risen dead. As of yet, though, natural difficulty and issues of morale aside, she had yet to meet any threats along the climb.

For that reason, she wasn’t entirely surprised when she arrived at the top, nor were her bodyguards, judging by a brief glance forward and back. Alaras, of course, led the way - even if danger was not expected, it could always strike at a moment’s notice, even in a land of rot and hopelessness.

Perhaps, though, Leria was not a hopeless land. Before Arane's very eyes, in fact, stood a spark of that which was so rare as to be valued more highly than the finest diamond - she knew not what, but as her hand reached up to brush against the cold metal of the fortress's gates, she hoped she would find it within

Except the steel wasn't cold; it was warm to the touch, as if heated by a nearby hearth. Anywhere else, it would've been insignificant, but here among these frigid peaks, it seemed to burn hotter than the sun itself. Arane's eyes widened, but before she could even turn to inform Alaras of the possible danger, the doors swung inward, unbarred. There was space for a portcullis above, she noticed, and for a second deeper inside - why, then were they left open?

Alaras, faithful as always, pushed her way ahead of Arane before she was able to push further on her own. The rest of her bodyguards followed closely behind, hands wandering close to their weapons - but they had no need to speak, communicating simple, clipped messages in Elven battle-sign. Deeper inside was a massive, empty chamber, surrounded on all sides by yet more defensive measures from arrowslits in the walls to murder holes in the ceilings high above - a killing zone designed to allow the easy slaughter of anyone that managed to break through the gates. In such darkness, it was difficult to see what the chamber was made of, but the way the floor squeaked with every step she took instantly told her it was made of some kind of finely polished stone, scuffed as it'd become thanks to the ravages of time. However, curious as she might have been about the room, Arane was well aware that she wouldn't find what she was looking for by dawdling, silently ordering  Alaras to lead them through the gate looming ahead.

In the next handful of hours, Arane's party passed through many more such rooms - killing zones, trapped halls, stairways, and empty living quarters caked in dust alike. None seemed poorly maintained aside from dust accumulated over decades of disuse, shielded from the outdoors as they were.

Finally, though, their wandering was brought to a brief end - ahead of Arane and her companions was a large, wooden platform, held aloft above a dark pit by ropes and windlasses - an elevator, it seemed. Again, silent messages passed between the group - and Elara, the most lithe among them, slipped a hand past the metal bars protecting it, deftly unlocking the elevator from within. Haleth stepped forward, testing its weight, then placed her hand on the crank inside with a nod, gesturing for Lady Tiedriel to follow - and so she did, stepping inside as the contraption descended into near-total darkness.

Arane felt her heart drop into her stomach, anticipation growing so overwhelming that she swore it was about to kill her. From what little she knew of the fortress, this elevator was likely to lead to its temple, the innermost part of the entire complex, the point which would be most difficult to reach or damage. If she was going to find what she needed, this was where it would be. This was where the structure seemed warmest, insulated completely from the outdoors, and heated by some as-of-yet unseen source.

As the elevator came closer to the bottom, however, darkness began to flee in the face of bright, golden-blue light that poured into the shaft. The presence was faint, but Arane immediately recognized the source - something toward the bottom of the shaft was lit by arcane lanterns, much akin to the small lights conjured into being by the mages hailing from her lost home. Nervousness, with that realization, boiled over into sheer excitement, so much so that Arane couldn't help but practically charge out of the elevator, into the towering hall that awaited beyond, its grand, arched ceiling supported by thick columns of stone. Had she paid more attention, she might have noticed the intricate statues huddled into alcoves along either wall, or perhaps the paintings of grand scenes from Elvish religious faiths that adorned the ceilings. She was far too focused, after all, on what she thought was her prize, her companions vainly urging her to caution.

Opposite the place where Arane entered the cathedral was a shrine, flanked on each side by pristine suits of white-gold Elven armor, positioned at permanent guard, their hands resting atop the hilts of their swords. The shrine itself was just as intricate, perhaps more so - every surface was carved in relief, polished to an impeccable shine. Overtop the shrine towered the shapely form of a simply robed woman, a statue of the Elven mother-goddess, Minuvaia, her hands outstretched in imitation of a welcoming, motherly embrace. Of course, gorgeous as the display was, it was not Arane's goal.

Walking up the last few steps before the shrine, Arane's gaze fell upon a sparkling, starry black opal, its mere presence enough to suffuse her body with otherwise unknowable warmth. Unthinking, one hand rested on her stomach where her unborn daughter rested in magickal stasis, while the other reached out to touch the gem before her. 

Her vision swam with burning light, searing pain shooting through every deadened nerve as if they were still alive. In the distance, nearly invisible beneath a cloak of blinding rays, she saw something that left her utterly breathless.

Dozens upon dozens of suits animate armor, charging into battle against teeming hordes of the risen dead, hundreds of voices crying out for the chance at righteous victory.

By the time sight returned to her, Arane realized that Alaras's hand was on her shoulder, worriedly bracing her - but she was more concerned with the sudden realization of what she held in - no, what was now embedded into her hand, protruding from the center of her palm. It was a focus - a lens through which magic could be focused to great artifice, if only she possessed the fuel, the lives of those who last inhabited the fortress reforged into an instrument with which they might see Eagoth torn down from his throne.

"*Rixis*." Arane growled, much to the confusion of her bodyguards. "...Tomorrow, we depart for Nergthron. My familiar will inform the fleet to relocate more closely to this fortress."

"Rixis, milady? Are you certain? The danger he poses is... Incredible, to say the least, especially consider the Locus, and-" Elara began, only to be suddenly cut off by a wave of Arane's hand.

"I know. He's a bastard and a coward, but he's the only other Revenant I can reach that is... Sufficiently capable. Besides, the craven has one thing right - I've heard tell he has no love for Eagoth. The... Steeds. We will need steeds, if we are to travel so far. Perhaps a peace offering, too - and plenty of wards." She chuckled.