The smell of death assaulted their senses, magnified to nearly an overwhelming physical sensation. The battered party feverishly ascended the curved ramp of the tower, the champion of Pelor halted a couple of levels below, struggling to contain the evil oozing out of the purple-black ball of energy. Wearily they entered onto an open platform to gaze upon a new threat, a twisted form of dark elven beauty protected by two massive demonic carapaces.
Even as the stunning creature begins to speak, balls of magic and fire from Elyrienne and Adelaide converge on her form, ravaging her haunting beauty. Cracks appear upon her visage, and the screams of “Noooooo!” echo oddly in the distorted darkness. A darkly graceful being pulls apart the skin, stepping forward onto the platform, laughing with delight.
Her gaze locks upon the elf standing lightly on the balls of his feet, sword glowing with the fires of magic, and crackles of energy twinkling across his fingertips, and she purrs, “Hello, lover, it’s been a long, long time.”
All of them glance briefly in his direction, waiting for the denunciation to fly from his lips, but he says nothing, a sheen to his eyes. A brief hesitation, and then Adelaide’s command echoes across the open space in pure direct form, “Get the bitch!”
The Blackhawk charges, followed by the rest; the druid in bear form, his companion the giant lion, the stout dwarf, the dark elven assassin and priestess, even the champion of Heronyius. Adelaide begins to cast, and the demonic spiders move to intercept. Elyrienne steps forward……
He stands in a familiar glade, light flickering off his shield and armor, the smoke and smell of death an arousing aroma, watching her glide through an ancient ritual of dance. Harsh music flows from the warped flute, and the dead dance gracelessly as her puppets. Her sinuous form glistens with the blood and fluid of the dying, and he begins to move towards her. The blood of elven children offer an aphrodisiac for the multiple couplings, offering the necessary balms for inconceivably delightful unnatural acts. Finally, he throws her into the hot, bubbling spring, filled with the dark offerings of the blood of the slaughtered. What may once have been the cheerful burbling of a small creek moans and gurgles as parts of the butchered staunch the flow, and the glade begins to flood with the biliousness of the dead. A small golden shield, barely visible underneath the gore and brimstone, reflects the flaming embers of a dying forest, and as he takes her again within the pool of blood, he throatily mutters, “Beloved, you do know how to please me….” His only answer the gasps and moans of pleasure, and the dead stand silently watching, waiting for the next command from their new masters.
He blinks, and the battle rages on. His friends attack the demons, battling wearily against the giant eight legged creatures, attempting to get to the resplendent leader. He breathes deeply, knowing his target and steps….
Laughter echoes through the forest, drowning out the flames of the burning of ancient, massive trees. The cobalt hair of the normally immaculate elven prince is grimed with dirt and soot, and he pauses briefly, panting, scanning to his rear for sign of his enemies. Blood leaks down his left arm onto the tattered remnants of his ceremonial garb. A brief sigh of pain escapes him, whether for his own physical wounds or as his gaze alights on the fires consuming the once proud nation is difficult to discern. He turns to resume his trek, hopeful to find elements of the Royal Guard to rally the people, searching for his foes.
He jumps over a massive trunk fallen and afire with unnatural greenish flame, landing awkwardly in exhaustion. Scrambling up the small embankment, he suddenly twists and falls, screaming as searing pain flies up his leg as the long sword slices through his hamstring. Murmuring a quick prayer, the pain dulls to an agony instead of debilitating, but the strain shows and his eyes shine in fear as he gazes up towards the form standing above and sighs in relief. “Elyrienne, thank the Valar, be warned, one of the demons is near,” and instead blanches in horror before beginning a chant of banishment at the site of the demonic form…..
“Prince O’ian Elunore,” says the demon Belekai. “You should have fought harder, sooner,” shoving the blade through the prince’s throat, smiling.
Haunting laughter echoes again, as if from outside a rushing void in the dying prince’s ears. “Lover, who have you found?”
“The High Priest of the Valar, beloved,” replies Belekai. “He is gurgling his last, choking on his own faithless prayers, but who would be finer to lead our revenant army…..” and guttural laughter spews from the demon’s throat as the last thing the doomed prince feels are the claws tearing into his chest searching for a faintly beating heart.
Another blink, and he has moved a few steps, the battle raging on, but the magic of his friends bounce harmlessly off the exquisite demonic form. One of the spidery creatures has collapsed, and his friend Calek is gravely wounded, and he resolutely begins to cast while taking another step…….
She is strapped on a rack, screaming in pain. He is confined beyond a door of bars, bound with similar irons to prevent movement and casting. An overly disgustingly thin being with body skin of pale blue, long hands and huge knuckle’s tightens the devices and the straps on her, eliciting more agony. The doctor’s purple and silver demonic head glistens wetly, as he reaches between her legs. He rips the squalling infant from her and takes him towards a foul altar, and she murmurs exhaustedly, “Perazul.”
The doctor looks toward the barred door, smiling, and lifts a long, ornately dark thin-bladed dagger. As he bellows in helpless rage, the doctor drives the dagger into the soft skull of the baby, ripping downward.
Tears of rage stream down his face as he moves around the edge of the battle. He glides slowly forward, approaching the dark haired gorgeous being in plate mail battling three of his companions. In tones of dreadful mourning sadness, his whisper somehow carrying through the throngs of battle, “I am not who you think I am,” plunging the sword through the back of her armor and out her chest. As she begins to collapse, he catches her awkwardly with his wounded right arm, her form shimmering into a slightly thinner and shorter auburn haired elf, and he sighs, “Beloved.”
The half elf drops down next to the body, gazing at Elyrienne’s devastated expression. Like a clarion of hope, he offers, “I can bring her back,” recognizing the body from the vision he had been given by the goddess Ehlonna. Elyrienne just stares, unable to answer, and a harsh command echoes from the other side of the platform as Adelaide yells, “No!”
The bloodied companions gather together, Null and Calec racing down the platform to retrieve Eldan. Somehow, they have come through bloodied and broken, but alive. As the huge cavernous space begins to groan and stalagmites and rocks plummet towards the floor, Adelaide summons the strength for one final spell. Magic surrounds them, and when they re-appear, the familiar stones of Darviel Keep surround them, and all activity comes crashing to a halt. Adelaide collapses to the floor, and Calec lays the unconscious form of Eldan next to her. One of their companions is missing, the priestess screaming in horror and pain, and all he perceives is the weightlessness of his arms, as the body has been lost to the aether. He turns, coated in blood, grime, sweat, not noticing those who surround him to offer help, or the cries of “Lord Elyrienne” as he stalks through the hall and up the stairs
Last Dreams 