[center][h1][color=lightskyblue][b]Nemeia[/b][/color][/h1][/center]
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Ducking under the clumsy blow of one half-crumbled skeleton, Nemeia staggered as another hammer her shoulder with the chipped blade of a longsword. Her armor held true and Nemeia righted herself. Nimbly dodging the optimistic blow that followed, she lashed out with her mace and promptly caving in the chest of the maligned spirit. The baleful energy that had enveloped the room filled Nemeia with growing discomfort, that almost seemed like pain. The wrongness, the unholiness of whatever foul ritual the creature was performing was unmistakable. The battle was proving difficult, the tide had shifted, and they needed the moon to restore balance. The Necromancer appeared hurt, assailed by some hidden evil. Galaxor bore fresh wounds, but fought on with his unbeatable spirit. The bounding spearman too had been painted with blood and still danced gracefully between undead. Nemeia would do no less. She would not let the other pilgrim's down.

Time came to a slow creeping halt for Nemeia as she drew a long, slow breath. Prayer escaped her lips. Old words shaped by her tongue, formed by her heart, and guided by Valradun's merciful teachings. She raised her free hand and a silvery beam of pale light shone impossibly from above, through the carved stone of the vaulted ceiling crowning the crypt. The dim light took form, shifting into a physical shape, erupting into a brilliant cylinder, several feet wide and tens of feet tall. It was no spell that required careful aiming. It was no precise magic that relied on expert timing. It was faith. And it was divine magic. It was the purifying radiance of restoration and the blessing of her Goddess.

Caught in the moonlight, ghostly flames engulfed the wright and the undead servants that surrounded him. Valradun's mercy reached out with holy fire. She had armed Nemeia well.

Nemeia had no time to observe what effect her divine magic had, instead she found herself desperately backpedaling, defending herself by mere hair lengths from a two handed hammer that thundered after her. Clothed in mail, the helmed figure that harried her stood several heads taller than her, and bore little of the decay of the other undead. He spun his weapon expertly, pushed her further backwards, sending sparks into the air as he smashed his hammer down onto the ground with each missing blow.

[color=lightskyblue]"Courage friends, Valradun is with us!"[/color] she managed, catching the mailed skeleton across the knee, slowing his pace as his kneecap almost fully escaped what remained of his leg.