Nestor had made it no more than halfway through his cigar when some commotion off to the side drew his attention; it might have been difficult to make out – such was the hour – but the Demonspawn's unnaturally bright eyes could make out the surprising entrance of the Yoni (Indeed, I'd become so accustomed to the creatures standing there some ways off, just around the bend from the portico I stood at, they may as well have been another pair of statues...)

Statues; Nestor eyed the nearest warily, as though half-expecting any one of them to suddenly step into life – and had only just begun to return his attention to the Yoni when an unannounced blast of some concussive force slams into him, lifts him bodily into the air and sends him catapulting toward the solid stone of the castle looming behind him. 

A blinding light and splintering crack followed – and without warning I found myself flat against my back, pressed up against the wall; shattered bits of ice lay strewn at my feet, stone crumbled against my shoulders as I shifted -- I felt remarkably fit despite – apparently age-old reflexes had saved me the instant before death... I stooped down to pick up my cane (which had somehow survived – a bit nicked and scuffed now, but intact). Raising a hand to my head, I patted absently at my hair whilst wondering for a seeming age on the last images I had seen before momentarily... leaving... as it were. Not much like any concussion I had experienced in the past. I had time enough to ponder the grim realisation that I might simply be in shock, when quite without warning it hit me.

The werewolf. The strange cloak. The strange poweder. And with that the connection – of course! A Fission of Soul... but that had been banned by the first convention of the more 'modern' veiled world and the ban upheld by every convention since! I sprang into action; I could hear more now – the rustle and breathing of a few thousand creatures descending upon the castle from all sides. No doubt many – or perhaps even all! – of them bearing the same burden. 

“Nothing for it!” Nestor remarks cheerily to himself, before leaping toward the walls, beginning a rapid ascent – not so fast as the invisible werewolf assassins, perhaps, but he moves with a practised ease all the same; ability clearly unnatural in form as he finally pulls himself up and over the rooftop parapet. I could sense nothing at that point – just the vague murmur of souls giving up their last breath below me, each newcomer delivering another stone-shattering -whump-, one that could be felt almost to knock me off my feet, should it catch me unawares. But I was running by then – running and still carrying the same train of thought: 

The Reaper would really have something to be upset about now (Ice began to form again, growing, pulsing – I ran faster) – Hoarding souls for personal use... well, that was one thing. And so was dragging souls back from the edge of death to be re-lifed... or, whatever the hell it was had always managed to concoct wights... but just obliterating them entirely? Tearing little holes in the fabric between worlds with each blast? The former two were simply grey-area, the latter amounted to full-on warcrime (I come to a halt, skidding for several feet such is my rate, only slowing as the ice roots me firmly to the stone floor. I raise my cane – more for dramatic purpose than anything else... it seemed suitable at the time.... definitely not drunk. But perhaps a tad too tipsy for being reasonably expected to stave off suicidal-werewolf-bombers. The rolling clouds overhead intensify, little spots and splotches of hail and wet snow begin to whip down, borne on the strengthening wind.) I idly wondered if the Reaper even remembered the purge her kind had once carried out on the Demonspawn when we... no -they-... first tried it... couldn't entirely blame them... How old -was- she, anyway? It was always impossible to tell, with them – they wore their personality like some sort of cloak, deflection serving as their most effective (even if most transparent) defense. (The falling sleet and snow intensifies, little bits of ice mingling now, whipping down from above in a fury)

I would see if I could last a tad longer than the Yoni – with any luck – and at the very least it would give the others a little more precious time to mount an effective defense.

Or turn and run like hell, which was seeming all the more likely by the second.

All that aside, I really just wanted to see what new lighting storms Max had cooked up during his foray into the Reaper's World of the Unliving.

I gave a laugh at that, raised my arms and closed my eyes as I allowed the cold to descend over me. I knew full well I would not have had a chance in hell of fighting so many Werewolves single-handed (not at least under any circumstances I liked to think of...), not to mention seeming-zombified, exploding werewolves... but slow them I thought I could. 

And with that the driving cold of the storm sweeps across the battlements – less effective, perhaps, against Werewolves than some more susceptible creatures – but it arrives with a swirling force of cold and wind to be reckoned with; ice and snow to melt and cling and freeze to fur, sheeting the ground in an instant, at times even shredding skin and fur alike with its force.

Nestor, meanwhile, remains entirely unaware to the goings on -inside- the keep.