RP Story: Yakhmar's Hole (an epic tale of roughly 20 parts)

This was simply too funny a story to be lost forever - from Defective-Monk on the US Forums.

Introduction: This is an unauthorized companion piece to Kylikki's Crypt, authored by RogueLion here on these boards. I intend to make it every bit as epic as the story I am paying tribute to. Please to enjoy, Yakhmar's Hole.

Part One:

Cold. The cold of ice, of the northern winds, of a metal flagpole trapping innocent children's tongues. Cold. She wasn't really familiar with the word or the concept. She was an ice worm, really THE ice worm and to her a cold day in Cimmeria was no more or less discomforting than trying to digest a fully armored knight. Her children called it cold, endlessly whining on to her about how they lacked the protection of her majestic white fur or her layers of hard earned blubbler. But then, what didn't her kids whine about. Most of the time, she just tuned it out, thinking instead about slowly digesting those deeply tanned Stygians. Man, those were good eating.

She rolled over, looking to a piles of scat that resembled her mountain home, but in miniature form. She groaned, or did the closest approximation that an ice worm can. Her children were slovenly crybabies with no sense of pride in their surroundings. She hadn't slowly consumed all those lost adventurers and animals just to have her home turned into some sort of crapsicle storage area.

With a bone rattling screech (she didn't have bones, but she did have some vague understanding of what the crunchy bits were in the people she ate), she summoned her children to her. They burrowed out of the ground around her, daring to come with unkempt fur and bits of snow ape still dangling from their rows of serrated teeth. She rolled her eyes and started barking at them to clean up this wretched filth.

Her children cowed in submission, but one dared to speak up in response. It was Greg, one of her favorites. (No, the worm wasn't really named Greg, but it really was one of her favorite children, which was a feat in itself, given that she literally had thousands of offspring. The other iceworms teased Greg mercilessly, but we really should save that for another story).

A new band of strangers? Greg confirmed what he had said. Many two-legs came up the dangerous paths towards their home, with torch and blade in hand.

The grand matron regurgitated a small treat for Greg, a half digested bear. While he ate it greedily, She screeched out new orders. They would hide and lay in wait until she called for them. Then, in coordinated groups of three to four, they would spring up to surprise the invaders and thwart their attempts.

It was a good plan. Sure, she had used it plenty of times before, but why break with tradition? Certainly no beast was more cunning than her and able to plan a counter strategy to her brilliant tactics.

While the lesser worms quickly hid, she smoothed out a rough spot on the fur lining her outer mouth. No need to look ill-groomed for guests. If they were going to die for her, the least she could do was look presentable. Above her, close to the mouth of the cave, she heard the hushed chatter of those that had come. She could not understand their words. She could not understand if they were fortune hunters, do-gooders or fame seekers. Like cold, she had no concept of what any of these things were.

All she knew is that they had come, and since it was still several hours before lunch, she was hungry.

(To be continued)

Part Two:

"How many men?" the woman asked.

"Um... By men, do you mean specifically males or like Men as in Mankind in general, because we actually have several capable ladies in the mix at the moment," replied a voice that rumbled like the upset stomachs of a herd of hungry mammoths.

"Yes, I meant... Dammit, how many people are you taking with you?"

Monch looked to the female quartermaster and moved a hand up to scratch his freshly shaven chin. This could be a test of some sort, some mental game on her part to root out his strategies. Should he give her an accurate count or not?

"Enough," said Monch finally, after much deliberation. "I will be bringing enough." He shook his head slowly, in the affirmative.

"Bah," the quartermaster retorted shortly, "trying to get a normal answer from you is impossible! How did you ever get to be an officer?"

"Well, there was this ceremony and they gave me this sword and said some things about honor and duty and..."

"Leave!" the quartermaster yelled, pointing towards the front of the building. The Lion of Ahrmian followed the direction, striding with purpose out of the building and into the warm sun of the Cimmerian spring afternoon. His unit had stopped at an allied fort, ready to restock before heading deeper into the mountains.

He noticed that at this angle, light reflected majestically off of his ancient Acheronian armor. He was pleased that the sharp shine of the crafted and spell hardened bronze not been dulled by the years of service and wear it had seen. He was lost in his thoughts for but a moment.

From the side, a voice addressed him.

"The men are ready, and I think we should begin..."

"You do realize that we have several capable women in our ranks. By simply saying 'men,' you really do downplay their contributions," Monch interjected.

The shaggy mass of knife shorn hair atop Llugh's head kept the sharp arch of his eyebrow out of sight. He felt his fists tightening and he realized he wanted to punch Monch in the nose. Llugh suppressed urges like this often. On occassion, when the Cimmerian could get the Templar to drink, Llugh was lucky enough to be able to make up for lost moments like these. Llugh took a brief pause before continuing.

"There are still raiders in these hills, those that think a fat caravan like ours would make easy prey. It won't be long before we begin attracting unwanted attention - if we haven't already. Anyone that straggles behind will have to play catch up."

Monch, the self-proclaimed Scion of Acheron, offered a confident smile in return.

"I have no doubts that everyone will travel fast and well. Let's finish this last leg of the trip and establish a basecamp near the worm's hole. Maybe we'll take a quick break for tea and biscuits before we go in." Monch set his fingers to his lips and whistled. From around the side of the tent, Mister Buckles, his bone white charger answered the call. Setting one foot in the stirrup, Monch pulled himself up and onto the horse with no difficulty. "I'm thinking maybe a soup or sandwich, perhaps some cruditas and dip."

Monch signaled the others to mount up and to prepare to move. As they fell into rank behind him, the Lion of Ahriman looked up to the top of the frozen peaks, to the home of the lair of the legendary Yakmhar and focused his gaze. It may have been a bit of the undercooked egg he had earlier for breakfast, but Monch felt a certain rumbling in his gut, as if something in his soul stirred at the though of the upcoming adventure and had to make room in his bowels to express it properly. His gaze tightened and he SAW. Everything. All the accolades, honor, prestige and glory he would bring to his guild. This was his first expedition as First Blade, but the scene played out in his mind like actors on a stage. How humble he would act when the guild leaders and noble friends would call out his bravery at banquets thrown in his honor. He saw all that and more, and the terrible wonderfulness of it all gave him chills.

"Alright then!" Monch yelled sharply, getting Mister Buckles to rear up dramatically, "Let's take our time and be careful going up the slope. It's bound to be dangerous!"

Monch's less than inspiring call to action was met with a low grumble of acknowledgment from those assembled.

(To be continued...)

Part 3:

Some time later, the snowy white plain in front of the lair of the great ice worm was disturbed by the soft rattle of soldiers doing their level best to move quietly while encased in fifty stoneweight of steel. Interspersed in their number were members of the guild's arcane, divine and light armored troops. At the head of their column, nibbling on a carrot stick was Monch, ORDER's First Seeker (not First Blade as has been reported in previous parts of this tale).

"Quickly and quietly now," Monch told those closest to him. "Set up a windbreak against that cliff and secure our mounts and supplies." He himself led Mister Buckles towards the discovered entrance of the worm's lair, dismounting as he came close. A thin sheet of ice covered the exposed hole in the cliff, making it look almost like a window.

"We could break it, Commander, but I'm afraid it would alert those inside," said one of the guild's newest trackers. "If they haven't already detected us, I should say."

"Fear not, Melkel, I have planned for such a contingency," Monch said with a satisfied grin. He turned and waved over another of the raid team's members. Detaching himself from a conversation, the steely faced Tenochta moved to join the group by the main hole. Monch drew him close and leaned in, speaking in a hushed tone to the mage. After a few subtle nods of his head, Tenochta motioned for those next to the hole to step aside.

After they moved clear, the Stygian drew free the broad bladed sword that looked out of place strapped to his back. But he wielded the weapon with ease, holding it by the long pommel in one hand while the other hand moved slowly over the surface of the blade. The change was almost imperceptible at first, but soon the air around the blade began to shimmer and buckle as waves of intense heat rolled off of it. The air sparked, letting small trails of flame fall to the frozen snow below, where they landed with a hiss.

When he was satisfied, the mage struck in two precision strikes, carving two intersecting curves in the ice sheet. When the center fell out, landing softly on the snowy ground, the opening looked like some monstrously large eye turned sideways. It would allow them entrance, sure enough, but not easily. It would take time to get through the opening in single file. Melkel considered the hole for a moment longer.

"We will not be able to retreat," he thought to himself. "Not easily." The ranger looked to Monch, who had handed a clay mug over to Tenochta. Growling, the mage held the mug until steam rose from the top. Monch dropped in a packet of tea, and took the mug back.

"He doesn't mean for us to fail," Melkel realized. "He has not planned for it at all." His heart seized up slightly, not quite as confident as he had been mere minutes ago.

"Commander," Melkel began.

"Not at the moment, please," the Lion of Ahriman replied quickly. He was already working on something else, a hastily scribbled message to be bourne by carrier bird.

"Is that with two N's? I'm not sure how to spell it and if I can't spell it, I can't send this invitation for them to join us." The scout that had delivered the message shrugged his shoulders and Monch handed the inked quill back to him with a growl in his voice.

"Write it down yourself. You write down your comrade's name and hand it to me and I'll inscribe the invitation. How hard is that?"

A scream cut was heard over the murmur of the campsite and hands drew weapons to the ready. By the time the scream could be properly pinpointed, however, it was too late. One of the handlers of the mounts and supplies had been carried off, taken by an ice worm to a frozen grave. Those that remained tried to recover the frightened horses and scattered supplies.

"Well, that's just fantastic," Monch said, his anger obviously rising slightly. "We already had to pick up one mercenary, now we've got to find another. Does anyone have any mercenary friends around here? Someone we could get for cheap? We're already running a bit behind on the schedule here people! I wanted to be in there carving up worm steaks by now."

Melkel turned away from the scene, staring at the unblinking eye in the ice nearby. He heard the wind whistle through it, a hollow, ghostly sound that raised the hackles on the back of his neck. It sounded like the laboured breathing of the ice worm herself, from the darkness, the great, dark beast below.

"We are all going to die," he whispered to himself.

(To be continued...)

Part 4:

Monch watched as the first two squads of his raid group vanished into the hungry dark of the entrance to the worm's lair. The Templar of the Last Church wondered, with lack of amusement, why none of other members ever saluted him. He was the First Seeker after all. I mean, what was the point of holding a title and having such notable heraldry if no one was going to at least even give you a salute or two? Was it because he also mucked the stalls? Maybe because he still smelled vaguely of manure? He sniffed at his armpit, but only smelled the comforting odors of well-oiled leather and armor polish. He tried smelling his own breath and his hair but the crunch of footsteps in the snow drew his attention.

He turned swiftly, his eyes sweeping the encampment until they locked onto the polite gaze of one of Order’s newest members. Mistriss was speaking to her fellows, a group that had recently come to throw in their fates with those who called Serenus home. Standing nearby, Cirias, Cercee and others listened to her pass down instructions that had come from Monch, himself.

The Lion of Ahriman approached her, closing the distance as swiftly as he could in the thick snow. With each step he could feel his bones shake and rattle from the cold. It was going to be night soon, and it would only get colder. The tea had done little to warm him up from the inside, and had only succeeded in filling his bladder. Even now it called for release. He would answer soon.

"Are your raiders ready, Mistriss?"

"Aye," she replied calmly. Her eyes spoke more than she did. Her group was no flock of fledglings. They had been cutting down monstrosities together as a team for some time now. They were no raw recruits, even if they were new to Order.

"Excellent. Where is ...?" Monch began.

"Here." A shadow detached itself from those hiding in the cracks and crevices around the icy wall and dropped lightly to the ground next to the two men. The newcomer glanced at Mistriss, nodding. His black topknot bobbed slightly at the motion. "I'm far too underdressed for this climate. It's so cold, I can barely grip my knives."

Mistriss laughed. "That may actually give the worms a fighting chance, Se'Te'Kaa, but I doubt it. Any sign of Jezebela?"

The Stygian shook his head. "No, nothing. She's late, to be sure, but she's dependable. If I know her, she'll be along just when we need her." He gave a low, rapid, three-tone whistle and the remaining four members of their team jogged over to join them. They readied their weapons and checked each others armor quickly, professionally.

"You know it's a parody," Monch said, leaning in closer to Se'Te'Kaa. "You don't have to stick so close to the source material. You can change it up a bit."

The assassin stared hard at Monch, letting one hand stray up to twist the point of his long mustache.

"Set take your tongue," he said sharply. "We don't understand half of the nonsense you spout." Monch smiled weakly and turned away from the raiders. Thankfully they never questioned his orders, even if they often questioned his sanity. It's as if the one thing he knew he could count on was the connection he shared with his Seeker Corps on these expeditions.

Well... there was one other thing he could count on. His hand strayed to the pouch at his belt, and the lumpy contents within.

"Muurkha, we are ready," Se'Te'Kaa hissed, once again referring to Monch in his native tongue. Monch nodded and donned the Acheronian forged helmet that he had secured for a good price in the trading post in Old Tarantia. It was part of a set and it really brought out the blue in his eyes.

Monch braced his legs in a wide stance and lifted his arms to the sky. He felt the Black Flame stir inside him. The source of his power and immortality, the spark of allmighty Ahriman grew in fever and intensity until the power began to leap from his outstretched fingertips in glowing red arcs. His gloved hands moved with precision, tracing the runes of unmaking in the air. He threw his head back, and an inhuman, demonic roar tore from his straining throat. As if answering his summons, there was a fierce buzzing noise around him, the area around him suddenly teaming with small insects. But just as suddenly, as his hands pushed forcefully down, the insects all died, falling to the snow. They landed in a graceful pattern, a circle that was decorated with swirls and arcs and arcane symbols. Even their death lent power to his unholy ballet. He finished his prayers of dedication to his patron diety and his mind still glowed with the thoughts of glorious violence and bloodshed, and the anticipation of the iceworm BLT sandwich to come (where the blubber was crisped over a fire and the tomato and lettuce were nice and fresh).

His team of raiders fell in behind him, moving to the gap in the ice and the destiny that awaited them within. They were as silent as the grave, moving with purpose behind Monch, who was something altogether different at that moment. The power of Acheron was fresh upon him, and the space around him seemed to shimmer and fold, as if it had no other choice than to give way to his strength and clarity of purpose. It was as if every other footstep in his life was mere preparation for the one just to come.

Which is why you might imagine it was a bit embarrassing for him to trip over the threshold and land on his face, just inside the entrance. He slid for a few feet before coming to a stop.

"Gah! There is snow crammed uncomfortably up my helmet and in my nose!" The Paladin of the Great Destroyer yelled. He thrashed about a bit, trying to remove his helmet while turning over to a sitting position.

Wordlessly, Mistriss and Se'Te'Kaa clasped Monch by the forearms and helped haul him to his feet. The templar was able to wrest the helmet from his face and shook clear the snow and debris from his fall. But before he could speak to his own misfortune or another could mock it, a sudden clamor of metal on stone broke the forbidding silence, followed by a stifled but vicious oath. The team froze in mid-stride, just as those below must be doing.

"RESPEC!" came the unmistakable roar of Sidak’s battle cry, which broke their stillness and sent them leaping into action.

( To Be Continued ...)

Part 5:

Moments earlier, Sidack was making his way down the treacherous slipperly slope that lead deaep into the iceworm's lair, his pulse pounding in his temples, his mind leaping chaotically from one thought to another. Memories of battles past flitted through his mind, often in slow motion when they got to the really great parts where he would kill like two or three people in a row. I mean, yes, he was a total killing machine when it came to pretty much anything on two legs, but iceworms didn't have legs. They were worms. He wrestled with new techniques on how to brutally slaughter worms, but nothing was coming to mind. No limbs to sever, no eyes to gouge, no teeth to bash... wait? Did iceworms have teeth?

"Do ice worms have teeth?" Sidack asked the person directly behind him.

"They have ridged flat plates that they grind together in a motion that slowly pulls the" began Tenochta.

"I'm not interested in some obscure Stygian science. Just say 'no' next time," Sidack said, disheartened to think there were no teeth for him to bash in.

His thighs were beginning to burn with the resistance of trying to keep from sliding down the icy embankment. Thankfully there were plenty of cracks and places to plant your feet for decent footing as long as you were paying attention. There was certainly plenty to pay attention to. The remains of those that had attempted this task before them were littered around the cave in some macabre random pattern, bones and ruined equipment poking up from the snow.

There was no need for torches, though the heat would have been welcome. Small natural chimneys had formed in the roof of the ice cave, channelling the rich outside light here into the chamber. It pooled in specific places, but it also was bright enough to suffuse the rest of the cavern with an almost unearthly glow. A few giant colums stretched from celing to floor, looking as if they held up the entirity of the whole mountian.

"It's really quiet in here," someone said from the second group. It was easy for the sound to carry in the cold open cavern. That whisper set the whole group nodding. For the heart of the monster's lair, it was indeed, quiet.

It gave them all the chance to quietly speculate on personal things while waiting for the others. After a minute or two, their mood began to lighten. Sidack was discussing his skills and talents with one of the other raiders, a spry young buck of a lad who fancied himself a soldier. Sidack was giving him a few fine pointers on decapitations when he realized that he had forgotten to visit the special trainer in Old Tarantia that helped him focus his skills, before coming out here. He was still readied for combat against other men, not iceworms and such monsters.

"Crom's Bloody Nose! I forgot to RESPEC!!!"

(To be continued)

Part 6:

Violence exploded nearby. Blacklizard leapt at Tarcon, blades bared for bloody combat. Tarcon gave a deft spin of his polearm and stepped nimbly away, but Blacklizard pressed the assalt, sending the two of them in a circular formation around the group.

"By the dusty armpits of Set!" Zenard yelled, "They'll kill each other!

"Nah," Sidack said. "They can't hurt each other while they're in the same raid."

"What?" Zenard looked to Sidack and then back at Blacklizard and Tarcon. Sure enough, even though the two execute brilliantly timed strikes against each other between random fits of hopping to and fro, it didn't look like they were actually hurting each other. Zenard relaxed a bit.

"Wow. Ok. Thanks, buddy," he told Sidack, now totally reassured and patting the conqueror on the back before moving over to watch the impromptu show of skill.


(To be continued)

Part 7:

"Miaa! Behind you!" came the swift warning of Amarice. The novice shaman turned to look behind her, seeing that she had almost stepped into some sort of half-frozen worm dropping.

"Crom damn them!" Miaa roared. "I could have ruined my new shoes! I just got these!"

"I know," Amarice said, moving closer to comfort her. "I know."

The two of them moved off to the side, away from the carnage.

"I don't understand!" Melkel said, drawing closer to Sidack. "I thought we had a plan? Now all I see is people almost ruining their shoes and guildmate fighting guildmate. What next?"

Sidack looked at him, with deep understanding in his eyes.

"You don't understand. It only gets worse from here. Now we start losing people."

"Losing?" Melkel asked. "What do you mean?"

"There!" Sidack said, pointing at Valazar. The normally alert herald had suddenly sat down in the snow.

"Berb," Val said, before his eyes grew distant. Melkel jogged over, dropping to a knee beside him.

"He's not responding!" Melkel said. "He won't respond!"

Sidack's jaw set, and between clenched teeth he spoke a dire portent.

"We'll lose others before long. And there's nothing we can do about it."

The cacophony of the mock battle between Blacklizard and Tarcon grew silent, to Melkel. Things just didn't add up anymore. Why would Monch do this to them? Didn't he know what would happen? These questions and others (long questions, most too long to list here) spun around in his head. The world went grey and then black, and Melkel felt himself slip away.

(To be continued)

Part 8:

"What is the first casualty of every battle?" Miaa was kneeling, head bowed in concentration, hands gripping her shamanic totem. She could hear her uncle's voice ask her that, the veteran warrior had been tutoring her for her adventures outside their homeland.

She furrowed her brow in concentration. She hadn't known the answer then, but staring at her friends, many of them sitting calmly, mutely on the snow, and others strafing around each other while jumping up and down, she knew the answer all too well.

"The attention of those assembled," she said with conviction. Though the answer was secure, she wasn't sure what to do about it. She was afraid to move them, for fear of having their spirits disconnected from their bodies. If this was some sort of impromptu vision quest, she knew moving them would be the worst thing to do. She looked up and over to Sidack.

Sidack shook his head and frowned. He knew there would be more lost before it got any better.

"Berb,bye-o," Zenard said, sitting down upon the ground.

"We lost another one!" Miaa yelled. No matter what spell she cast, she was not quick enough to save them. Things were quickly spiraling into chaos and there was nothing that could be done. If they didn't get a full force soon, she feared "Where in the Nine Hells is the second tea..."

A familiar cry rent the air, and the Nine Hells she’d just beseeched suddenly crashed down the hill, quite literally for Monch, who had managed to lose his footing once again and slid down a particularly bumpy part, cursing as he did so. The rest of them came more sure-footedly behind.

The second team had arrived...

(To be continued)

Part 9:

The losses were devistating. Monch wasn't quite prepared for what he was seeing. People... comrades... friends... hunched over in the snow, eyes wide and totally listless. He moved over to one of them, prodding at them with the toe of his boot. The raider fell over on their side, crunching into the snow.

"Someone pick up that one! Make sure I didn't break it!" Monch yelled before moving close to Miaa.

"What has happened here?" he asked her in a hushed tone.

"What? I don't understand?" she replied.

"Here? These people? What has happened?"

"You do know that helmet covers your mouth, right? All I hear is 'mmmph mummble muurphle'," she said, then trying to demonstrate by cupping her hand over her mouth and trying to talk through it. Monch growled in exaspiration and removed his Acheronian helm. His muttonchops flared dramatically. Now that it was off, there was no going back. He signaled his squire for a new helmet, and was handed one with a fantastic crest of dyed blue hair.

Securing it atop his head, Monch asked for an update.

"I'm not sure," Miaa replied. "They won't respond to anything!"

The Lion of Ahriman scratched his chin, starting on one side before working his way across and down to the flesh of the neck underneath. It was a clean, precise scratching that covered all of the territory he required it to with the tiniest effort possible. He would need that energy and effort later, when he lead his brilliant charge against the ice worm herself. He imagined his dark blade easily cutting down through iceworm blubber, cleaving great rents in front and side alike. A veritable one man ice-worm killing engine of destruction that...

"Well?"

"Hrm?" Monch realized he was still in a converstation with the Shamaness Miaa and refocused his attention. Now that his helmet didn't cover his facial features, he was going to have to work harder than ever to conceal when he mind went wandering.

"We've tried shoving them, and that didn't work," Monch said. "Have you tried herbal smelling salts?"

"They don't work," Miaa replied.

"Warm drinks?"

"Can't make them swallow."

"Hugs?"

"Seriously? Hugs?"

"I'm just sort of brainstorming out loud," Monch said quickly before moving on. "Yelling at them?"

"Yes, also no good."

"I think I read somewhere that kissing..."

"Absolutely not."

"Well, fine," Monch said sharply. He turned away from Miaa and stared off towards the entrance. His thoughts were muddled with questions and shocking conclusions. But one thing was for sure... if they didn't get those raiders back, his chance of getting a new pair of pants was looking dangerously slim.

(To be continued)

Part 10:

Time slowed, stretching cruelly. Each minute seemed to take two, each two minutes took four and after four minutes, Monch totally forgot why he was standing there in the first place.

He dared to take another moment (which felt like five moments) to survey the surroundings. At least half the raid was sitting or kneeling in the snow, unmoving and unresponsive. Miaa moved from body to body, attempting ministrations where possible, but finding no results. She looked up at Monch, and when their eyes met, she shook her head sagely.

"No. I will NOT allow this to happen." The words tore from his throat in a defiant half-whisper and he kneeled next to Zenard, taking his face in both hands. Head bowed, eyes closed, he began to murmur to himself, reaching for the peace and stillness of mind it would require for him to take the next step.

"If Miaa will not do it..."

The Templar pressed his lips against the Tempest's.

A faint, nearly imperceptible keening rose in the air around them, slowly rising to a fevered screech. It was joined by others.

"CROM'S HOLY NUTS! MONCH IS KISSING Z!"

Almost immediately after the cry went out, the sitting and kneeling masses sprang back to life, hustling to get a look at the spectacle. Monch cast an eye about to see if his plan was working, but quickly the entire world flashed away with white-hot, searing pain.

The flash of lightning pushed Monch up and away, flinging him down the slope like a petulant child tosses aside a broken toy. When he landed, the snow hissed and sizzled at the touch of the white-hot armor. Monch's body lay there for a bit before he was able to move any part without intense pain.

"So... you're all back then?" Monch asked weakly, from flat on his back. The rest of the raid had fallen quiet.

"That was not cool, buddy," Zenard said sharply.

"You're the closest thing I could find to a lady what with that skirt you wear..." Monch began. The next few minutes (which seemed like hours) were drowned out by the sound of lightning hammering down on Acheronian bronze and unprotected flesh. At the end of it, Monch appeared more like a used campfire coal than a Man. He was even still smoking slightly.

Javed, one of Monch's lieutenants (now questioning both his position and clear judgement) put a gentle hand on Zenard's shoulder.

"Come," the Stygian Herald said to his countryman, "let us tend to the matter at hand and get ready to move. Billington, take lead of the heavies until Monch is fully recovered. Se'Tee'Kaa, head to the entrance and see if Jezebel and Charade have arrived yet." The darkly clad assassin nodded sharply and sprinted for the entrance.

Billington rallied the foot troops into formation, forming them up in a precise line just shy of Monch's still smoldering body.

"Commander," he said, staring down at the Templar. Thankfully, the Black Flame of Acheron had already restored the Paladin of the Great Destroyer back to life, if not back to full health. He still felt like most of his skin was cracked and blackened and his innards felt overly cooked.

"Just drag me along," Monch coughed.

"Drag?"

"You're not leaving without me," he said. Billington looked to the other soldiers, his eyes flitting from person to person. They nodded in accord. A strong, woven leather cord was tied around Monch's ankles and he was pulled along in the snow behind the soldiers, the shield strapped on his back was like a helpful sled.

Monch did not allow them time for doubt (which given the circumstances could have easily turned into three to five times the time for doubt).

"MOVE!!! We are all together! We are united! Engage the worm!"

(To be continued)