They had escaped, for the moment. The short lived battle in the Ruins had ended on a poor note for the two powerful Daemons. Caught unaware, overconfident, they had allowed themselves to be defeated, if only just.

Vashal's leg was mauled. Having been crushed by the boulder, he would be stuck flying for some time, and perching on his good leg. His flaming blade was extinguished, with the hilt hovering in the air next to him. His brutish face was contorted in a grimace as he twists and snaps the broken limb, trying futilely to make it function.

Drumas was better off, but only just recently. The wound to his gut was healed, and the molten stone that had been covering his body was broken away. His solid blade was stuck to his back between his wings.

What both Daemons shared was a rage. They had failed not only to capture the woman, but to kill anything. They had holed themselves up in a structure they had found, by chance, upon a floating island high above the ruins. There were others there, lurking, but the Daemons had not encountered any yet. They were almost of like sorts... almost.

Maree stared blindly ahead. Nothing but black filled her vision. All her other senses were heightened to compensate for her loss of vision. Each foot step, every brush against a tree, even her hair shifting against her shoulders were all sounds she could hear distinctly. It was almost a wonder how she wasn't able to hear Al'Kaera's heart beating in his chest. A heart that she could hear though was Abbil's.

"Tell me a story of Nalinathris, Am Mathanuo. Tell me about when you were younger," Maree said to Al'Kaera. While they were extraordinary lovers and their first meeting seemed Fated, Maree did not know much of her husband. Knowing the path that she had chosen to take, Maree wanted to learn all that she could of the elf she loved.

She let go of his hand and touched his cheek. Her face did not turn toward his but the smile on her face was bright, warm, and beautiful. How tragic it was to see Maree is such a state; a ghost of her former self.

Meanwhile at the head of the group, Anaree was guiding them toward a place close to her heart, Valhaven. It had been the home she grew up in. There was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she was breaking a rule bringing them here. But, she had to question herself, if Molko had taken them there first then what was the harm in her taking them there? So maybe she wasn't breaking a rule.

Though there was a very strict rule her father had set for her that she was breaking. Anaree sighed. She never understood why it was that her father was so set against Anaree having feelings for Nachytsm. He was kind and gentle. The man was also a brute with no intelligence to him at all, but unlike others, Anaree saw a potential in him. And he could be funny when he wasn't even trying.

Anaree laughed at a memory and her eyes searched around for the big, ugly, brute.

A small, strange group wanders through the woodlands of Lochway. One, a beautiful, out-of-sorts looking Elvish woman, dressed in simple attire. That was Curtana. Another, a former-God who pranced about without a shirt, showing off his 'gorgeous' body. That'd be Dhaelhel. And then there was Jarlas.

Formerly a completely sexy bastard, having become a Zombie made his natural charms considerably less charming. He was marching along with a stalwart expression on his face, trying to keep the outward appearance of focus. Given his body didn't do much on its own anymore, that was pretty easy.

Inside he was turmulous as all get-out. Between his uncertainties and his lack of life, he couldn't have told you which way was up if you bothered to ask him at that moment. At least, on the first try. He glances to his side. He and Dhaelhel had ended up flanking Curtana, with Dhaelhel more or less leading them along.

It occured to them that they were probably the least armed group of the lot that had been sent out. Dhaelhel didn't take a weapon, but then, he was also a God, ish. Curtana was armed with a bow, but Jarlas wasn't sure how good she was with it. He hadn't really had a chance to check out her skills, aside from being adorably nervous around attractive men.

And Jarlas couldn't summon his favored weapon. It was painful because it would have probably accounted for his missing 'Legendary Weapon' requirement if he had it, but he did not. Instead he had a simple longbow provided by Molko. Little known fact; Jarlas was pretty shit with a bow. Give him a gun and he'll blow a pence out of the air ten meters up. Even a crossbow would've been better.

So it was that Jarlas' only weapon of any particular use, that he knew of among the three of them, was his summoning rod. Thank the light that had remained pocketed.

He was still in a moody, serious way of thought, what with Al'Kaera taking him aside and berating him for being dead. How was he supposed to stop that? Jeeze. Some people. He could've at least been a little sympathetic.

The sounds of footsteps echoed up from a set of stairs that curled downward set in the east wall of where the daemons where hiding. A woman draped in a long red cloak with a hood drawn over her dark-complected face. A shock of silver hair laid straight over her shoulder and fell down like a waterfall against her breast. There was a sound of a chain beating against leather beneath the cloak with every step the woman took.

"It has been quite a long time since we last has visitors from the Down World," her silken voice poured over them. The mysterious woman stopped in the middle of the room and let down her hood. Pale blue eyes stared at them. A smile was spread across her dark face but it never reached her eyes.

"Please, allow us to aid you," she said as she snapped her fingers. Two more figures appeared out of the stairway. They were women too. Their skin was white as snow, their hair black as coal, and their eyes were curiously pink. The pair were dressed in nothing but a few ornate silver pieces of jewelry.

Nachytsm was prowling around the perimeter of their advance. He could always tell where Al'Kaera was, and, by virtue of his bond to Maree, he could tell where she was as well. Such was the nature of his bonding to the Ranger.

He was frustrated by the constant sensation of another body nearby. While he could sense life, in a minor sense, it was usually not very pervasive. For some reason, Ana was always there. He knew where she was, and that confused him. He wouldn't say anything about it, of course. Why would he need to?

At that particular moment in the march, his patrol was taking him closer to Ana at the front of the pack. He would be easily heard, crashing through the undergrowth as he was.

He was shocked to see Ana practically staring at him, a laugh on her face, when he finally became visible. He looks back at her for a moment before he mumbles to himself and keeps walking, so as to not disrupt the natural progression of the march. Al'Kaera was always teaching him the virtues of a steady progression. Unfortunately, in this case, that meant it would bring him close to the perplexing woman.

He almost felt like that smile was meant for him.

Drumas had turned and drawn his blade at the first sounds of an approach. He was prepared. He did not expect any sort of threat to himself, nor even to Vashal really, but he still wanted blood. A good kill would be most enticing right at that moment.

When the silver haired woman appeared, the Daemon's eyes flared for a moment at a familiar hatred. It was a woman, however, and of different complexion. Entirely different. Still, it could be a good distraction...

Vashal had turned more slowly, and laughs at the offer for aid. "What makes you think we want your help, Mortal?" He snaps his leg around one last time before trying, and failing, to stand on it. It was hard to tell by his gruesome expression if he was experiencing pain, or if that was just normal.

Neither of them seemed to care about the status of the women's clothing. They were interesting creatures, but the Daemons wanted blood, not friends. Not unless they were convinced.

Pathos made a few unintelligible grumbling noises. So, she claimed she could bring back the dead. It was a tempting offer. The love of Pathos's life had been dead for thousands of years now. That woman had ended a never-ending war between two people that were the same. It was only the color of their skin that had been different from each other. Now the two elven clans lived in peace.

"What abou' m'fish? Can ye bring tha' one back?" Pathos asked Shayla. His eye squinted as he looked at the woman. If he squinted enough she almost looked like her. It was an uncomfortable thought for Pathos.

He took the pole from Shayla and sat back on his bum. The sand was warm and comfortable. Pathos tossed out his hook after he had put another worm on it. And then he just sat in silence.

Looking up to his wife, Al'Kaera's eyes brighten somewhat. While it pained him to see her so, she was still radiant, beautiful. So strong, as well, he knew. That she maintained her grace, even with all that she bore in her now, all the pain and evil...

His expression dims slightly. The evil. He could not forget that would be within her until they acted to rid her of it. As a result, he knew he would have to be cautious in revealing more to her than he already had.

A light hearted story would suffice. "Ah," he says, his tone warm and soft. "I will tell you of the first time I escaped from the Conclave," he says. His eyes brighten again just at the thought; the story he had in mind was long, but would keep her entertained. He had managed to find himself all the way to Falashnalan, after all.

"Young Nalinathrian nobles are confined to the Conclave, that they cannot escape. We, like our Falashnali cousins, are oft stricken with wanderlust. Unlike them, we lived in somewhat more dangerous locales. So it was that, like my father, I found a means to escape from the Capital. It all started one morning..." he goes on, regaling her with the tale. It was a pleasant distraction.

Greenskin. She was a prejudiced one, then. Grothal scoffs out a laugh as he stands shakily on his feet. Patting himself down, he was pleased to find all of his armament- and limbs- still attached. Licking his palm, he rubs some of the dry blood from his face while he lumbers his way over to Neria.

His eyes were raking her backside as he approached, for reasons both male and professional. "You could have removed a limb or two, if you've the strength," he jests.

He might have spoken with a loud boom just to amuse himself, but she was clearly on the look-out, and he remembered the Demons, and the Dragon.

And the Paladin.

More serious, he settles himself next to her and also peers through a hole in the stone. "Why save a mere Greenskin like myself," he goads quietly, trying to get his bearings. "If not for thanks, then for some other payment." He flickers his gaze towards her briefly, his eyes red and a smirk twisting his massive mouth.

The coppery haired elf walked on in awkward silence between the two men, silently wishing she could shrink into the size of the tiny ants that she had seen crawling over a wall. Readjusting her pack that she carried, she pondered over her unasked questions. How far were they to go before they met up with the others again? How would they know when to meet up again? What was her role in all of this? And most important of all, how did she end up in the middle of it all?

The half-elf's ears twitched slightly as she listened to the forest around them. Well, not exactly the forest itself. Spirits were talking around the forest about the strange group treading in their territory. Some where curious, others were more than a little upset. At least none were ancient. She would probably be able to ask them for help if the need arose.

They weren't her only weapon, though. Curtana carried a dagger and a bow along with her along with her pack. The blade was more of a hunting knife, but would serve as a weapon if it came down to it. The bow was her true specialty.

Looking off to one side and in front of her, she gazed at Dhaelhel and could not help but have the blush rise upon her face again. Little had she known that it was actually Dhaelhel that had visited her dreams instead of just a wild dream of her own. The visit had been.. Pleasurable. But it did not make it any less awkward in the waking reality. She honestly thought that somewhere in her subconsciousness, she had truly wished that of Dhaelhel.

It also did not help that she knew that Dhaelhel had feelings for -her-, and Jarlas as well. Those two had already fought over her numerous times, and now they were alone together.

The wish to be an ant rose again.

"How much longer until we're gonna stop?" Curtana asked, trying to break the uneasy silence between the three.

"Mortal?" the red-cloaked woman repeated. Her tone was highly amused. Her laugh was dark and husky, but quiet. It made the two Xhes beside the woman twitch nervously. Their eyes danced around as if something dreadful were about to happen.

"I am far from being mortal. Daemon, I presume? You are nothing but the dirt beneath my feet that I tread on each and every single waking moment of my unending life. You shall bow before me and pledge allegiance before your very existence is erased from time and memory, disgusting fiends," the woman said. The humor in her face was gone. It was replaced by a cold stare of utter hatred.

The Xhes to the woman's right made a very small and faint coo in the back of her throat from fear. Eve's eyes flicked over to the Xhes. The poor one-winged woman's eyes widened in sheer terror. Her body began to shake tremulously. Her hand rose up with the fingers formed like claws. It seemed the Xhes was fighting against in invisible force. The hand, out of her control, eventually grasped the tender cords beneath the skin of her throat.

The Xhes choked for air. The other began to silently weep.

The Xhes nails bite into her skin and blood is drawn.

"You can either become my ally or you can die just like this poor, pitiful, disgusting creature," Eve stated to the daemons. The Xhes uttered a cry before she ripped out her own throat. The creature dropped to her knees as blood sprayed from her neck as her hand still held the precious chords that had been beneath her flesh seconds ago.

Both Daemons watched the show of power with mixed amusement and revulsion. Amusement, because they were both creatures that enjoyed a good death. Repulsed because this woman thought she could do the same to them. Still, it was a good show, and earned her an audience. From Drumas, at least.

Vashal was less convinced. "Try it," he threatens, the ugly expression on his face widening. Spreading his massive wings, he laughs at her. While he was only a Lesser Daemon, compared to Drumas, he was still quite powerful.

The larger Daemon might have admonished the lesser, but he, too, was curious as to whether or not she would actually be able to take control of him. Vashal, he did not know. Drumas was certain she could not control him. Greater Daemons had tried and failed at that. Only one man had ever managed it, and he had released them like a fool.

He fixes a look at her, that spoke of his permission, but a threat; if you slay him, you are next.

The woman's white brow rose slightly. "Do you mean the one that swam away?" She asked, curious. She rested her chin on her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs. "Or do you mean a pet fish that died?" She asked. "Either way, the answer is yes."

The elf's ears drooped underneath the heat of the sun. She never really liked hot places, but she would endure. For now at least. Staring out to the ocean, she remained silent until he asked her another question or decided to drum up a conversation.

Patience was the key to winning this one, she thought. She would have to wait until he came to her. He would be the fish in this story.

"Nachytsm," Anaree said as he came near as a way of greeting the man. The girl tried to dampen her smile biting down on her lip. It wasn't helping really. It was nice to be near Nachytsm without her father leering at her. Hearing her mother's laugh made the atmosphere around them all the more delightful. For that small moment, they were a happy family again. Anaree could have cried it was such a beautiful moment for her.

However, that was broken by the sound of wings in the trees. Hundreds of wings.

"Oh no," Anaree said as she stopped in her tracks. She froze and looked around with wild eyes. The girl knew they would come for her eventually. She had almost made it out of the forest without a single peep! Literally!

"Nachytsm, don't eat them!" Anaree managed to say aloud before a swarm of birds from the forest came flying out of the trees. Many of them landed on Anaree, who had her arms outstretched like long branches of a tree. They covered her head, shoulders, shirt if they could cling well enough. There wasn't room enough for all of them. Several more birds started to settle onto Nachytsm, too.

Their songs filled the air.

Maree tilted her head curiously. It seemed that her husband's tale was broken by the sounds of birds. It was chaos for Maree's ears. "What is happening, my love. Why are there so many birds?" she asked Al'Kaera. The horse stopped walking forward and was soon burdened with birds perching on its body too.

None of them touched Maree.

The hulking man didn't look up at Ana when she said his name. He grunts in reply, instead. When he does look over, he regrets it; she was still looking at him, looking so damned happy. It didn't make sense to Nachytsm. People just weren't happy around him.

He might've been compelled to react in some way, before the young woman cries out that he shouldn't eat 'them.' He wasn't sure what she was talking about. He wasn't even hungry. His thoughts are broken by a veritable swarm of birds enveloping them all.

Nachytsm goes still as a statue. They were on him. That was abnormal; most beasts could not stand his tainted presence. Nel was a rare exception. And speaking of, Nel was outraged. Jumping out of his armor, she clucks and hollers and chases the birds off of him.

The racket was almost deafening, even to Nachytsm.

Al'Kaera had been nearing one of the more interesting parts of his story when the birds came. "... I had said to the man, 'Of course I'm not an Elf, I'm a Fey.' He didn't believe me at first, but I-" the shrill bird calls cut him off. Looking into the sky, he sees the mass of fowl descending upon them. For a moment he thought it was some dark purpose, but there was no malice in these birds. No, if anything, he detected a sense of joy.

"I'm... not sure," he says to Maree. The birds were perching on him, the horse, trees... even Nachytsm. Not Maree, though, he realizes with a pang of sorrow. Speaking in low tones to the birds, he makes them leave him and Maree's steed alone; he seldom used the gift, but as an Elf Lord it was a language he had to learn. He noticed the large concentration of birds on Ana, and so leads Maree's mount that way.

"Lady Ana," he calls out to her. "What is going on?" Nachytsm seemed to be paralyzed with fear, with his pet chicken valiantly defending him from the other avians.

Dhaelhel had been in deep thought too, adding to the silence that hung between the trio. He was pondering on the sacrifices that Lumariale was going to have to make in order to preserve life on the world. Even a God could understand the loss. Dhaelhel folded his wings against his back, tightening them against him. When Curtana broke the silence, he stopped and looked at her.

"I can sense another feather nearby," Dhaelhel said. "We need to keep going. There is not time to stop for rest if we can help it. I can carry you if you are tired of walking." He did not allow Curtana to answer before he swooped her up into his muscular arms. Dhaelhel began to walk again in order to close the distance between him and his feather.

His hands were very well behaved. They did not wander on Curtana. He simply cradled her in a bridal-carry.

"Stop wiggling. You are tired. Sleep if you must. You will need your strength," Dhaelhel said. For once it seemed that Dhaelhel had set aside his lust for Curtana and was focused on the task at hand. He was very determined to end this struggle. The fallen god would have flown but he would have left Jarlas and Curtana to walk alone. Even if he disliked the zombie, Dhaelhel was not going to leave them to run into trouble.

The beach was not to Molko's liking, not in the least. As a Dwarf, he had three major preferences; Darkness, Cold, and Solid ground. Hot, bright, sandy and wet was practically the exact opposite to what he would have liked. "Ach," he says, wearily. "Ladies," he calls ahead to his two charges.

When they had pressed through the woodlands and found the beach, the two women had pulled ahead of him. They barely used him as a translator, though now that they were 'alone' it felt like he was having to shout up to them in either language, depending. Laden down with all of his gear, he was quite frustrated.

"Wha' say we take a quick break, aye?"

Neria's eyes looked back at the Ork. It seemed he was offended by her calling him what he was. It was not a word of prejudice to Neria, but a statement of fact.

"Life is precious, all of it is to be preserved," Neria stated. "I called you a green-skin because you skin is green. Do not mark my words for hatred of your kind. I find honor is your race. You Orks are very good fighters and I would rather have a green-skin at my back in battle than a human."

"And I do not have a lust for you. I do not appreciate the grin on your face," Neria snapped at him in a quiet tone. "Remove it," she ordered. Neria walked away from the crumbling wall. She sat down on the ground and began to look at her hand. It was dissolving away into sand.

Neria cursed beneath her breath. She had been away from her Tribe Lands for too long. She drew out a strange and long piece of wood. It almost looked like a wand but the tip was made of a fine blade. Neria started to carve a circle into her arm.

Jarlas would have responded to Curtana's inquiry, but Dhaelhel got to it first. Godly bastard. Probably knew she was about to say it, too. Jarlas was glad he couldn't turn red with frustration. He was confused why he was even frustrated about it.

It may have been because he was competing for a woman, and the God was... well, a God. And obviously not afraid to touch her. Jarlas had some reservations about touching, what with being dead and all. If he had his magic, he'd just get Curtana a floating chair. That'd show him.

He grumbles to himself for a moment before he speaks up for the two of them. "I think she's got a poin'," he interjects. "If we're gonna be comin' up on somethin' soon, I'd ra'er us all be well rested 'fore hand." Then, the tactician in him barging in to make him cooperative, he asks, specifically to Dhaelhel, "This feather, 'sit movin'? Can you tell?"

The woman's demands that he remove his grin only made it bigger, in truth. With a dull rumble of a laugh, he too steps away from the wall to watch her walk away.

He noticed her dissolving arm, but didn't question it. Wasn't much of his business, when it boiled down to it. Still, he did feel a kinship with her, as a warrior. Ritualistic carving, simple views of battle. That was all he could ask for.

"Fine," he says eventually, allowing his face to relax. "Then if you demand nothing of me, I have another favor to ask you."

He walks in front of her and crouches, watching her work on her arm. It was a curiosity for him to pay attention to while he spoke. "The Dragon was holding an ally of mine hostage. I need to find her. Do you happen to have any idea where he or she went?"

Eve only smiled at the two daemons. They were playing a dangerous game. Drumas and Vashal were about to learn that they had lost, too. There were none that could win against Eve, not even that filthy excuse of an elf woman. Even thinking of Maree sent Eve into a furious rage. It was a quiet rage but it shone in her eyes.

A cold wind swept through the room.

Eve's eyes turned onto Vashal. A pressure built around him, squeezing. It would have been a similar sensation to enormous and all powerful hands clamping down around his arms, feet, and head; his entire body. Eve was trying to gain control over the daemon. The shadow behind the woman grew and distorted. It no longer reflected the woman's form but something that was darker than black, and writhed.

If Eve was successful, Drumas was going to come under attack by Vashal with claws and teeth lashing out at the other daemon. But that was the warm up. Even Drumas would begin to feel the same lack of control attempting to seize him, compelling him to remain still and to not move as Vashal tore his body apart.

Vashal, standing triumphant with his wings outstretched, did not realize what was happening at first. He found himself turning away from Eve and towards Drumas, the twisted expression of victory still on his face; even as he propels himself at Drumas with his powerful wings.

He continued to remain slightly unaware of his actions until he took the first swing at his Daemon brother. Claws extended and a snarl choking out of his throat, he had some dark premonition that he was supposed to attack Drumas.

For his part, Drumas was more aware of what was going on. Slowly, he reacts, adopting a fighting stance and preparing himself for Vashal's onslaught. Dangerous though he was, Drumas was more so.

And yet he felt compelled to apathy. He wondered at that, until he saw the dark shade behind Eve. She was nothing, he realized, merely a font for a stronger being. With that awareness, he could focus his will against it, if only for a moment.

Utilizing his longer reach, he snaps his arm out and grabs Vashal by the throat before throwing him into the ground. Placing a powerful hoof on his chest, Drumas turns his head to look at Eve. "Release him," he says slowly, fighting the steadily strengthening influence. "You have made your point."

Glixenheimer was rushing ahead of his two travelling companions. A metallic detectoratron was in his hands, and he was excitably calling behind him. "I am detectorificiating a massive quantifiticiousness of metallic matter somewhere below this wasteland," he calls out.

They had found themselves in a barren desert, which suited Glixenheimer just fine. He had been all prepared to hunt out the feather that Maree thought might be in the area, when suddenly one of his gadgets had begun to go haywire. After bracing for an explosion that never came, he decided to investigate.

He was fast, surprisingly so for such a little man. That said, it would be easy enough to track him. "I can practicalously smell it! There's something of incredible valufication out here! Ooh! I might even be able to create a Zeppelegible out of it! Imagine!"

Ahead of the Dwarf, Selwen was walking at a somewhat leisurely pace alongside Dejah. She had removed her helmet- after all, it was quite hot on the beach- but the rest of her armor remained on. She would not be caught so unaware. An influence told her that she should, all the same. Be cool, comfortable, revealing. It brought a dark hue to her already heat-flushed face.

She had taken to Dejah well, despite their barrier in communication. She was trying, occasionally and with Molko's assistance, to bridge the gap of language between her and Dejah. She was curious about the woman, almost fascinated. She had brought her to assistance, and she still sought to give her thanks somehow. In the Drow tongue would be best, she felt, but if she could be taught Common then it might be more worthwhile to her.

At Molko's pleading, a fair distance behind them, she pauses and turns around. "Forgive us, Lord Molko," she calls back to him, bowing her head in apology. She takes Dejah by the hand- almost unthinkingly- and begins to lead them back towards the Dwarf. There was a line of palm trees nearby that they could shelter under for a brief time, but Selwen - and Molko too, surely- understood the need of their mission.