Deniva grumbled and pressed on, passing a mount of snow as she did so. A second passed before she heard the hill speak “It’s been awhile, paladin. I was beginning to miss you.” Deniva drew her sword and pointed it at the hill, “Who goes there?”  she barked at it. A pack of ghouls emerged from the snow; one had a jaw that hung down in a broken state. “It’s me, dear paladin. I want to finish our little game.” The ghouls began to encircle Deniva, who began to realize, in her state, she’d never be able to fight off thirty ghouls. Deniva gripped her sword tighter until her knuckle was white. “Then come and get me!” She shouted at Slack-Jaw. As the ghouls got down low to jump, two arrows impacted into two different ghouls. At the top of a long dead tree stood Denghal, bow raised, grabbing more arrows. “You shall not touch the paladin!” He shouted down at the ghouls, killing yet another one.

Claire and Kerthir continued to climb towards the mountains’ peak, bored out of their minds. Caelorian fancied himself to be the greatest story-teller alive, and wanted to share this “gift”. Kerthir and Claire had just about tuned out everything that the bard was saying, but bits and pieces still fluttered in “…and there was a dragon with eyes the color of blood…” Finally, his rambling had begun to annoy Kerthir. The half-elf whipped around and glared at the bard “Look, all that talking is getting-“ Caelorian stuck a finger out at the druid “I’ll have you know that I am the greatest minstrel in this land, and my personal story is one of the greatest sorrow, greatest miseries, sweets loves, and most hopeful futures.” Kerthir crossed his arms and smirked “Then why have you not told us this story?” Caelorian answered, “Because you are strangers I just met, I’m not telling you my life story.” Claire turned to look at the debate that would surely unroll before her eyes, and crunched through the snow back to them. She tugged on Kerthir’s arm and said “As much as I’d like to listen to this lovely chat, I believe there is a more important matter to attend to.” Claire pointed ahead to the lantern the group had followed. It was low, at ground level, as if put down. “I bet Deniva has stopped for a rest.” Claire said. 

It turned out, however, Claire was very wrong. The whizzing of arrows and clanging of metal echoed through the air. The two elf-bloods ran ahead with Ioraial and Caelorian lagging behind them. In a clearing stood Deniva, surrounded by the undead. Up in a tree, some strange archer rained pestilence down on the undead.  Without a moment to lose, the two young adults rushed into battle. Claire’s blade glowed with an eerie red glow, while Kerthir charged ahead without any weapons at all. Kerthir let out a terrifying roar and wildshaped into a menacing polar bear. Claire reached the action first and slashed at a ghoul. A bolt of fire was sent from the blade on contact with the ghoul’s flesh, burning off its arm. Then, with lightening fast speed she drove her blade into its chest, and pulled upwards. Her target fell apart into two uneven halves. Kerthir ripped through ghouls, like a child knocking over a sandcastle. His massive paws diced the undead into pieces.  Ioraial and Caelorian arrived, adding more chaos into the fray. The cleric not only swung her mace with skill and strength, but also held high her holy symbol, which could turn the undead into dust or make them run away. No ghoul laughed at her power. Caelorian stuck a cord and broke out in song, praising his allies and taunting the undead, enhancing his allies with his bardic magic.

A ghoul jumped onto the bard’s back and attempted to maul him. It clawed his neck, but was knocked off by its would-be prey. Caelorian drew his longsword and cut the ghoul’s arm away from its body. The bard inhaled sharply and chanted a short tune, than raised his fist at the abomination, caking it in a lake of grease. The creature slipped and thrashed as the bard allowed the hulking polar bear to pounce on the helpless demon and sunder it limb from limb. And that was the fight, over before one could even begin.

Deniva stabbed her blade into the snow and leaned on it. She couldn’t believe what she had seen; this small group had cut through the undead faster than a small army of clerics and paladins. Denghal jumped down from the low tree and landed in a roll. He came up on his knee, bow still at the ready. The others gathered around Deniva, Ioraial stepped forward. The cleric began her lecture bluntly, “Deniva, don’t you think it is time to abandon this foolish climb to the summit? We stopped this attack, but with you refusing healing and our numbers small, we shall not stop whatever is inside. Why go on a suicide mission? Let us get an army to help-” Deniva stood up and, with a small hesitation, torn off her sling. In the same instance, she slapped her left hand against her right arm and cast a healing spell. Her hand lit up with pale blue light that glowed harsher than the falling snow. Instantly, Deniva’s arm was healed, moving, and grabbing her sword. Deniva turned to the group and said, “I am going to the top of that mountain. Miria demands it of me. None of you have to come, this is not your fight.” With that, she began to walk off towards the summit. Denghal followed quickly, followed by Kerthir and Claire. Caeliron shot Ioraial a shrug and a grin, and swaggered behind the druid and duskblade. Ioraial stood alone for several seconds, before calling for the others to wait up for her.

Next Chapter: Sacrifice