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It took some work, dragging Jillian over to the nearest tree while panting heavily and occasionally even gasping for air, but eventually Gerald managed to maneuver the woman so that she had her back against the trunk of the tree in a sort of slumped seated position. It was not much; it was just stable enough that she would not fall down unless she had any spasms during her unconsciousness, and it seemed a relatively comfortable place to leave her until he figured out how to help her. He figured that they probably had a little time at their disposal thanks to their gambit, with the dragon sisters making a loud spectacle out of decimating the crusader forces beyond the trees to the south. They were not so far into the thick of the forest that he could not see the battlefield, either, although his view was partially obstructed by tree trunks; the bigger of the two, the Red, bathed the entirety of Gariel Downs in an ominous glow as her breath incinerated dozens and dozens of crusaders in a single overflight, all while the air glimmered in its fiery luminance as it was filled with a rain of ice at the behest of the Green. The defenders, few as they were, seemed to manage the battle slightly better now, but not much; there were simply not enough of them left to form a line across Gariel Downs anymore, and the enemy was starting to slip past them. They had time now, but not for long.

Thoughts racing ahead many times faster than his feet could carry him Gerald shuffled back to where they had projected their combined Shadow Image from to fetch his staff, all the while trying to analyze the situation and evaluate how he could make this situation turn out the most beneficial for all the parts he actually wanted things to turn out well for. Jillian was suffering the adverse effects of severe magical exhaustion at the moment, so the obvious thing to do would be to restore her magical energy as quickly as possible, such as through piaan or by siphoning energy into her by using the Withering. There was no piaan nearby, though, and using the Withering would be... difficult. For one thing there were no crusaders in their immediate vicinity for him to draw the energy from, and even if there had been any he still had not memorized any spells capable of eliminating a target without killing it.
The possibility of attempting to simply channel his own energy into Jillian did cross his mind, but it did not take more than to crouch down to retrieve his staff for him to feel the soreness of his abdomen, back and chest, which in turn made him aware of how his throat felt even coarser than usual; his own magical reserves were dwindling, and even if they had not been he was not sure it would even be possible. His unique spell for this worked by him feeding his own energy to the Withering intentionally, after all, creating a current that ran into his own soul and could be used to pull energy from elsewhere and into his; that he could lead energy he took from elsewhere through himself and continue the current into another soul was amazing in and by itself, but for him to control a current existing only in himself so that his own energy was lead elsewhere? Highly unlikely. Even if he was successful in attempting it he would lose twice as much energy as the witch would receive, simply because the flow into her could only ever be the same as the flow into the Withering. It would kill him long before it revived her.
No, he concluded as he straightened back up, his joints aching at the exertion, the energy would have to come from elsewhere... but there was no sources of energy nearby, making his little conundrum go full circle. There was nothing he could do.

As he was making his way back to Jillian, still thinking in circles and trying to find a way to break free by discovering a third option, an unfelt wind blew through the leaves of the trees around them, and their rattling produced the by-now familiar voice of Anaxim.
"Two crusaders are coming towards you," it reported as sharply as its manner of speaking allowed. "We recommend that you move immediately. A hundred feet west of where you are should be safe; no crusaders are approaching that area."
Gerald looked up at the canopy above, scowling less at the faceless speaker than at himself, because even before thinking things through he knew that he would ultimately be unable to make the logical decision here. If the crusaders had gotten past the defenders and were coming this way from there he had only seconds to get away, which would be sufficient for someone moving with just one's own weight, but impossible for a frail wreck of a man carrying a quiescent woman. Of course he had said several times already that he had to ensure his own survival first and foremost, and he had even told it to Jillian specifically several times, but... but he had promised to do what he could to ensure her safety.
Frowning, the necromancer turned his gaze south, where he knew the crusaders would come from even if he could not yet see them approaching. There were only two of them, and Anaxim had not mentioned that either of them were Favored Ones, which was an oversight he very much doubted that the ancient forest would have made. One experienced magus against two regular cultists was not an impossible situation; he could probably cast a spell to discourage them from approaching this specific area or even kill both of them before they could reach him. Magic was a force of incredible power, as his very own black magician had just proven by singlehandedly doing what an entire forest had failed to do, and in his hands it was a potent weapon of precision. If he left Jillian he would ensure his own survival, but at the same time guarantee her death, if the crusaders were even merciful enough to just kill her immediately. If he stayed there was a possibility that he could die, but he would stand a good chance of saving the witch's life; if he was lucky he might even be able to kill only one crusader and somehow pacify the other, and use that crusader's soul to recharge Jillian and his own energy and enable them to wield their magic anew. Surely such a thing was worth the risk, was it not? How hard could it be?

The decision made long before an acceptable reasoning behind the decision had been established, Gerald took up position between the inert Jillian and the battlefield, using the seconds of warning he had been given to calm his anxious mind and focus his thoughts on his magic, picking a spell and preparing the incantation in his thoughts. When he saw movement he began weaving his sorcery immediately, and even as he saw the first crusader's face - his expression wide-eyed with surprise - the fine mists that permeated all air was already rapidly condensating between his hands in front of his chest, forming a glob of viscous fluid hovering there, awaiting his command. The crusader had just enough time to raise his spear, then Gerald's will propelled the sphere forward. His opponent never really stood a chance, but stumbled backwards two steps and then started screaming in agony as the acid had already burned through his armor and was now dissolving his body. One dead.
The other appeared between the trees, a sword raised and ready, alarmed by his comrade's scream as he was, but still too far from Gerald to stop him; the warlock was sure of this, and grinned wickedly in his confidence. If he weakened [I]Spark Javelin[/I] enough it should only stun this man, and he could use him to revitalize himself and Jillian. The evocation was already on his tongue and fingertips, and the energy was already being collected from his soul...
Gerald's eyes widened with mind-numbing horror that instantly rendered him incapable of using magic, which would have been regretful, had his dread not stemmed from a realization that would have stopped him from using spells anyways. As he tried to draw the energy from himself to fuel this final spell, ignoring the metallic taste on his tongue, the feeling of blood running from his left nostril and the pain that burned in his chest and throat, he had felt [I]it[/I]; it was a sensation that was hard to describe, but felt somehow like standing over a black, bottomless abyss, feeling the eyes of an ancient, ravenous force upon you, and feeling a strong draft trying to push you over the ledge to fall into oblivion. The sensation aside, though, Gerald knew very well what he was feeling, for it was something he had sensed before; that he was weakening himself so much that he would no longer have the strength to resist the draw of the Withering. Even now he could literally [I]feel[/I] the sickly gray skin that was the corporeal sign of the plague spreading up his bicep and crawling onto his shoulder; he had to stop casting spells immediately, or external threats would no longer matter, as the Withering would swallow him whole and erase his existence in a matter of seconds.
Breathing hurt, he could not use magic, and a vengeful crusader was charging straight at him as fast as his well-trained legs could carry him; circumstances could certainly have been better, Gerald estimated grimly as he raised his staff in front of himself, all the while backing away from his opponent fearfully. There was no time, no time at all. The crusader was upon him in what felt like an instant, and all Gerald could do was to move his staff to block the other's sword, upon the collision with which he discovered that blocking a fast-moving object like that was actually a pretty difficult thing to do. The staff was shoved aside by the crusader's blow, and the mage only barely managed to even maintain his grip on it with his left hand as he staggered backwards, right arm extended behind him in search of support. He found the trunk of a tree. The crusader stabbed at Gerald's chest, and all he could do was to drop himself sideways as fast as he could, throwing himself on the ground while the crusader's blade narrowly missed and instead embedded itself into the tree.
No time to think. Panic. Gerald was scared, horrified; he had been so close to dying that he could scarcely even believe that he was still alive at all. And then the crusader was on top of him, strong, calloused hands closing around his feeble throat. A sensible course of action to take against a mage, all things considered, but since Gerald was already beyond casting spells all it served to do was to kill him... which was plenty, really. No time. No air. Fear. No strength. Could feel his necklace cutting into his skin, tightened by the crusader's hands as it was. The pendant rubbed against his chest and made a small bulge through his robe. Live. He had to live. Do something, Gerald! Do anything! Now!
Energy. He had no magic, but he still had energy. Could not use the Withering; panicked and weakened as he was, lowering his guard against the plague would doubtlessly kill him. Send out energy, then. Into the staff. The emerald was filled with light, as always... but he did not need light. He did not need a staff. No air... quick. Feel. Control. Narrow, elongated, sharp. Imagine and command. Make it real, Gerald. No air. Quick!
And suddenly the pressure released from Gerald's throat and air rushed down to his lungs anew, all while the crusader astride his stomach groaned in pain and clutched the bleeding wound on his left right side. The staff remained in Gerald's hand, although now the emerald was covered in blood... and its form had changed to that of a spear-blade. And then even more blood coated it, as Gerald desperately stabbed at the crusader again and again, until this one slumped lifelessly to the side.

Sitting up with a jolt, trembling with every fiber in his body and into the deepest recesses of his soul, Gerald pushed himself backwards with his hands and feet, dragging his butt across the ground as he did so and dirtying the behind of his robe. He stared at the bleeding crusader with wide, terrified eyes - and then, as the realization that he was not going to die after all finally penetrated the fog of fear that clouded his mind, those very same amber eyes narrowed, burning with fearsome intensity even as a furious scowl replaced his mask of horror. His emotions were in turmoil, and he knew it - as a mage one had to know one's own emotions, after all, or one could never hope to accomplish true mastery of magic - but right then he did not care particularly. This... this uncouth, puny little [I]insect[/I] had nearly killed him! He had not been this close to death since back when he was still Gerald Remdal, the Academy instructor and widower, before he became Gerald Glass the exile. Back then he had been at the mercy of his fear and had not fought back, even as the man who had called himself Gerald's father for years destroyed a large part of the Academy to erase all trace of Gerald's necromantic experiments and flames roared all around them.
But not this time. He was stronger now, and even if he could not control his panicking mind at the time he had still had the presence of mind to do what he had had to. He had cast aside his humanity, as he knew he someday had to do more permanently, and brutally murdered the one who would be his bane.
Gerald coughed violently and painfully; the strain was too much for him. He had to calm down, start thinking rationally again. He tried to breathe deeply, but it was difficult at such advanced stages of magical exhaustion as he was getting to. His robe was stained with blood from the man he had just killed, and the top of his staff and nearly half of its length was practically coated with blood. The glow had left the emerald as Gerald's energy no longer coursed through it, but it retained its new form, and would continue to do so until he changed it again. Altering its shape was something Gerald reluctant to do under any circumstance, at least as long as there was someone present to witness the change occur, for several reasons, one of the most prominent being that in situations such as the one he had just narrowly survived it was a good trick to keep up one's sleeve. Changing the staff also inadvertently revealed the fact that he was a necromancer, and even if an observer was at peace with this... what were the chances that word would not spread once someone knew that he, a weak little man inflicted with plague, was the current bearer of the legendary Omni?

This was bad, of course... by killing that crusader he had wasted a source of energy he could have used to help himself and Jillian, and by exhausting himself to this degree he had effectively crippled himself and his efforts of pacifying an acceptable victim even further.
Gerald thrust the butt of his staff into the soil to lean on it, cursing under his breath all the while as he closed his eyes and concentrated on sensing his surroundings, hoping that he might sense the presence of other crusaders slipping through the forest that he might manage to ambush or set a trap for, but alas, he could not sense anyone. As a matter of fact he could barely even sense Jillian, and it was not just because her presence had grown weak with her exhaustion; the accursed static of the forest effectively limited the range of his magical senses to just several yards. There could be crusaders standing behind every tree around them right now and he would not be able to sense their presence - not with anything but the conventional five senses, anyway. And so he was back where he started, with Jillian unconscious, himself weak, and the ambient -
He covered his face with his left hand, groaning with annoyance. Spirits, how stupid was he allowed to be, really? There he was, halfway planning a suicidal attempt at trying to capture one of the physically far superior crusader troops alive while he himself was weakened to the point of worthlessness, all to get a supply of magical energy to rejuvenate the two of them with... and all the while he was letting himself be irritated by the fact that he could not sense these crusaders past the enormous amount of ambient magical energy in the forest. He did not need a crusader; he could tap into the soul of Anaxim itself!

An inhuman scream abruptly tore through the air, accompanied by a booming explosion, and as the warlock opened his eyes to look to the south - where the sound had come from - he was met by the sight of the Red of the dragon sisters plummeting to the ground, leaving a trail of thick black smoke as she fell. The crash from the Red hitting the ground was by far drowned out by the shrill cry of sorrow and fury from the Green sister.
It was then Gerald saw what had caused this disturbing turn of events, for on the ground - only several dozen feet from where the red dragon now lay, motionless and smoldering - was a large area that had been charred even more thoroughly than the other trails of earth scorched by dragon breath, in the center of which stood a lone bearded figure in white robes, his gilded chariot behind him burned to a molten heap but the man himself seemingly unharmed. Raising his left hand casually, Kevalorn conjured forth another curiously elongated form wrapped in black fire, like an unholy lance of flame, which he sent darting through the air at blinding speed with but a turn of his wrist. The Green only barely had time to create a hasty magical barrier to protect herself, but even then the awesome power of the Avatar of Hazzergash shattered the translucent shield and knocked the second sister out of the sky as well.
Backing away from the scene he was witnessing from afar, Gerald watched with horror as this abomination - this mockery of a human man with the power of a demonic lord - called forth masses of black flame that rushed across the battlefield and immediately set the remaining trolls ablaze, and then turned his attention towards the dwindling number of Anaximite defenders. Gerald forgot to breathe altogether for several seconds, just watching this one man singlehandedly thwart even their last desperate attempt at halting the crusaders' advance. Thanks to the dragons' great destructive power the surviving crusader forces had been reduced to a few scattered groups - two thousand men reduced to just a few dozen, with all their wyverns dead, all surviving horses having fled and only a couple of belagons left - but it all meant nothing as long as Kevalorn was still there, still uninjured and still guarded by a small army of his abominable animated corpses. They had done well, Jillian and he; he was certain of that, all things considered... but it was just not enough. Jillian was unconscious and his own strength was broken, and they had not even begun to face the greatest threat of this battle yet.

"Anaxim," Gerald said out loud, suddenly tearing his gaze from the slaughter taking place at the hands of Kevalorn the Holy and going to kneel by Jillian. He lowered Omni to the ground beside him, taking a moment to transform the emerald back into its original shape before letting it go. "Do you hear me?"
"We hear all this within our domain," the trees replied promptly, and not as arrogantly as the choice of words could make it seem; to it, it was simply stating the facts.
"I am sorry, but the battle is lost, Anaxim. I need to escape."
"We have reached the same conclusion, Gerald Glass." This time there was emotion in the voice of the forest, but its tone was far from conceited. If Gerald was to guess, he would say that Anaxim sounded regretful and... frightened? "We have told this to the first and second Guardians as well; the rest We fear we cannot save. The outsiders are too strong."
"I know," he nodded, gently reaching forward and taking Jillian's right hand in his own. Her fingers were cold, but then again, so were his. "Have Crone and Renold gotten out yet?"
"The first and second Guardians are still at Our heart; Elder Crone is trying to erect wards to protect Our heart against the demon, and Elder Renold has elected to stay with her and protect her for as long as possible."
"That won't be enough," the necromancer shook his head sadly, even as he raised his left arm above his head and let the spacious sleeve of his robe fall back, revealing the gray and plague-ridden arm to the chill autumn air anew. "Tell Renold that I can't escape on my own, and that I need his help. Tell him my location and that he needs to come here immediately. Can you do that?"
There was but a brief pause. "We already have," Anaxim reported, sounding even more anxious than before. "He will be here shortly. But... what are you doing, Gerald Glass?"
Still holding Jillian's hand with his right one, Gerald placed the palm of his left hand on the tree trunk she was leaning against, feeling the rough bark against his sickly skin and, past that, a massive flow of magical energy coursing through the plant. "I need some of your energy, Anaxim. To restore Jillian's strength, and my own."
"That... is inadvisable." Now there was no doubt: the forest definitely was afraid.
"I'm sorry, but we desperately need the energy. And..." He paused, considering whether he should really say this last part or leave it unspoken, but ultimately decided that it was a too weighty argument to leave unused. "And the battle is lost, Anaxim. We can't stop the Guild, much less Hazzergash, and once he realizes what has happened he will most likely burn you to the ground."
"We know this," the voice reluctantly admitted, sounding less scared now, and more just boundlessly saddened; it was, after all, the only participant of this battle who was actually incapable of fleeing. "But Our energy is not solely sapient, and far from human; We are plants, and we are ancient. We cannot foresee what effect Our energy may have on you."
"I know," Gerald muttered, staring intently at Jillian's face as he did so, and clutching her hand more tightly. "But I have to try. [I]Cowath usth Unim.[/I]"

Just like that Gerald fed his energy to the Withering, and used the current to suck energy from the tree, and through that tree the entire forest, and by doing so he was granted a moment's oneness with the forest that would doubtlessly be branded into his mind forever. The thing that Anaxim had always thought impossible for mortals to understand because of them being a different kind of existence altogether... in this moment Gerald understood. Just then the veil that concealed all energy in the forest lifted from his senses, and his magical awareness spread its feelers through the tree and felt everything in the forest through its soul, and saw the world as the forest did. He saw the Gariel Downs, shrouded in an entire mist of residue energy from the several thousand lives that had ended there, still rising from magical contours that grew ever fainter as the energy drained from the corpses and was released into the air, where it became one with the forest's energy. He saw the agony of the wounded, their life gradually slipping between their fingers as their outline before the eyes of the forest weakened... and he saw Kevalorn, surrounded by puppets of flesh and steel, wrapped in fiery darkness, with a power at his heart that outshone even the colossal being that was Anaxim.
He saw the web of energy that spread throughout the forest, faint towards the outer fringes and stronger the further towards the center one got, ever growing in intensity until it reached the heart, where the Tree of Life stood as a humongous beacon of life and power, the nexus of all the energy of the forest. A pillar of light amidst blackness, as the area immediately around it was all tainted and warped by the evil presence of Hazzergash's Demon Prison. An extremely powerful force stood before the heart, weaving magic, and another, lesser being sped across the forest above its boughs, rushing southward with amazing velocity.
But most of all, past the overwhelmingly immense flow of energy that came rushing into himself, Gerald saw the emptiness of the forest through the forest's own awareness. The Anaxim Forest, once a stronghold of nature that had been filled with life and freedom unlike anywhere else in Rodoria, was now void of movement, still and dead; the forest itself lived on, but the creatures that lived there - the animals, insects, the rangers and druids, the Guardians - were all gone. Nothing moved in the shade of Anaxim's leaves except human forms that were permeated with hatred and bloodthirst. The Crusader's Guild; their sin already polluted the very air of the forest, and they would do even worse before their rampage was done. The scent of evil carried on the breeze... the deo'iel would doubtlessly send more of their people here soon, not to hunt down those who had done this, but to cleanse the area lest Shards of Sin arise from this disaster.
The energy itself felt surprisingly pleasant; pure and cool like water, light like the air, but also raw and fickle. The first thing the necromancer did was to feed Anaxim's energy into the Withering instead of his own, to preserve his own energy and not let the forest's energy overwhelm him, and then he quickly directed the flow through himself and into Jillian. Anaxim's being was so tremendous that he felt that he could have restored the witch's energy a hundred times over without ever even notably weakening the ancient trees, and had he gained the energy from somewhere else he might have done just that, and boosted her and his own power to many times its original limits, but since he did not know the consequences of infusing living creatures with natural energy he felt that it was probably wiser to only restore her to her usual full strength. This was accomplished in but a moment; her soul was mended with the energy of the forest, but her body would still need time to heal. She would recover, in time.
Another dose of energy was stolen, this time for himself, and Gerald broke the connection, tumbling backwards in the grass as he practically threw himself away from the tree, his senses suddenly seeming to collapse upon him as his awareness abruptly shrank from encompassing the entirety of the Anaxim Forest to just himself. He felt tiny and insignificant... but otherwise fine. He could feel the strength of a fully charged soul coursing through himself, and noticed no ill-effects of having absorbed natural energy; it seemed to have worked even better than expected.

Twigs behind him broke, and Gerald turned in his sitting position to see dozens of blood-soaked, dismembered and mutilated corpses stalking through the trees from the south, having made their way across the now-cleared Gariel Downs and continuing on their way towards the forest's heart. Anger filled the mage, unexpectedly; these mindless husks, guided only by the will of Hazzergash, were bound to kill not only Jillian and him, but to destroy the magnificence of the forest that he had just experienced firsthand. He was at full strength right now, which meant he was even stronger than before the battle; the Withering made him weak, and the injection of energy he had just given himself had temporarily remedied that weakness. He felt power surging through his very being, like his very essence was charged with lightning, explosive and ready to leap forth and rend the world asunder. He had power, and he was not going to waste it!
Gerald crawled back towards the trees on his hands and butt until he felt his staff, which he seized. He stood, raised his arms before him and, with eyes positively glowing with infernal intensity, spoke the first syllable of a spell...
Only to find the arcane words abruptly chased from his mind as a distraction he could not ignore emerged, for just then the ground trembled so violently under his feet that he lost his balance and fell. A thunderous crash deafened him to the loud creaking of the trees behind him as their boughs snapped and broke off, and entire towering plants fell over, leaning against those still embedded into the soil to keep themselves from dropping completely.
The warlock looked up just in time to see the gigantic form that loomed over Jillian and himself, having overturned several trees to reach this place and now lying on top of them, before the elder dragon threw upon its jaws and unleashed an inferno that enveloped all the walking dead approaching them. The scales of the Elder Green shone in the light of his breath like polished gemstones, and his great claws dug deep into the trunks of the trees he was sitting atop, splintering the wood as he tightened his grip to keep himself steady. The stream of fire lasted about five seconds before it ended, leaving nothing behind of Hazzergash's puppets but ash and cinders.

"We have to get out of here!" Gerald shouted to Renold, the second highest ranking Guardian of Anaxim, the two thousand year old dragon who now loomed over the tiny humans. "Right now!"
"I know!" Renold growled, keeping his gaze on Gariel Downs as he bent his body down between the overthrown trees and reached a huge clawed hand, palm upturned, toward the warlock. "Climb up!"
"Take the woman, too!" the human demanded, even as he crawled onto the other's paw.
Crooning impatiently the Green tore its eyes from the battlefield to look down, spot Jillian and quickly - but not ungently - scoop her up in his free left hand, closing his fingers around her body carefully not to crush her. He clutched both her and Gerald close to his chest, which radiated warmth like a furnace, and began stretching his body upwards, digging the talons of his feet even deeper into the trees he was sitting on as his wings spread wide.
"Hold on!" he warned Gerald, and then his wings came down with a force that flattened every leaf and blade of grass within several dozen yards against the ground and blew up clouds of ash and cinders into the air where his breath had just incinerated their enemies. His enormous body lifted off the trees several feet until a second beat of his wings raised him above the trees of Anaxim anew, and a third propelled him forward, briefly skirting Gariel Downs before banking to the left, making a sharp turn, beating his wings again and darting to the east with speed that grew only more intimidating with each mighty beat of his wings.
A ball of black fire emerged from Gariel Downs and chased them across the sky for a little while, but it soon enough dissipated as it failed to connect with its target, and as the wind blew in Gerald's face with crushing might, blowing back his hood and making his hair whip about wildly, he appreciated the heat radiated by the Green's glimmering yellow-scaled chest. They flew on, and soon the trees beneath them gave way to open lands, and they flew straight over Anaxim City, hiding behind its walls while its namesake suffered.
And they kept flying east, away from the Anaxim Forest... toward the darkness looming in the sky ahead that marked the Land of Eternal Night, and even farther ahead the jagged horizon that gave name to the Ashen Jags. They survived... but the battle was lost.