Trapped

Xynrael stared up at the sky, which to him had taken on the qualities of a fishbowl contained inside a plume of smoke.  The entire view of it reminded him of a time when, as a much younger man, he had had far too much bloodthistle.  Things had been more colorful then, of course.

His mind registered a shock of pain as he attempted to roll over to his left, and he began the slow crawl through this strange haze to the place where his memories rested.  They were slow in ambling towards him, but eventually, mind and memory regained eachother.

He was in the realm of Shadow.  The Lich who had once commanded the Tundra Stalkers from afar had attempted to banish him there, and with the last of his strength (so he believed) he had taken both Lich and Stalkers with him, and collapsed the crypt holding the small army he had risen as their leader.  The effort had boiled the flesh of the arm he had used for the channeling, causing the saronite plate to fuse with his skin.

For a few moments, the death knight allowed himself to pursue the curiosity of turning his left arm over and over, flexing the muscles to see how it worked.  After some time at this, he decided the damage could be undone, but he was scarcely in proper form to carry out the endeavor.

There was a sound of a persuasion that mimicked the warped sight of this place behnd him, and Xynrael whirled.  The Lich was floating in to view, and behind the Lich, the Tundra Stalkers were slowly assembling and shaking off their various, dishevelled states.  Out of the haze, small, dark figures began to appear.

Without moving its ghostly face, the Lich spoke.

Always you are frustrating the plans the Master laid out for you.  If that is not enough, you have frustrated His plans for others.

Despite multiple uses of the word "frustrate," the Lich himself did not reveal that particular emotion in his speech.

"I have had enough of the Master, the Scourge, and the plans.  Better I should die, and you with me, than to continue playing these games."  Xynrael shot back, not even bothering to reach for the runeblades that remained strapped to his back.

Games?  No games.  It is the fate of a world you tried to stifle.  All things end in death, no matter how hard you may fight against it.  All things, except for this.  Does it sit well with you, knowing that even if they could save you, your friends, even your enemies, believe you a traitor?  You pushed them away in an attempt to protect them, and now not even those who once wished to see the Dawnbreaker return will attempt to bring you back.  You are trapped in here, with us.

The death knight nodded in response to the Lich every few words, until it was done speaking.

"Aye," he said, lifting his hands to the hilts of his runeblades.  "It was a brilliant plan.  Push them all away so you would believe I was preparing.  Keep you blind until the last possible moment.  Then, you did more than I could have hoped for: You opened the gates of this hell so wide I could drag you in with me.  You are making one critical mistake in reasoning, however."  Xynrael drew his blades, lowering them to his sides and watching as the Tundra Stalkers gathered around him, a small legion of shadows forming at their backs.

Arrogant.  Arrogant.

That single word, repeated, was all the reply the Lich could muster.

Undaunted, Xynrael continued.

"You seem to believe I am trapped in here with you.  That is not quite accurate."  The death knight set his jaw, dragging up his hood over his face.

The Tundra Stalkers shifted uncertainly; they had been severed from him, and the Lich had drained too much of his own power opening the portal to channel them all properly.

You are trapped.  Forever.  No one is coming-

"I do not expect them to.  This all I could have hoped for, but better.  I am not trapped in here with you, you soul-raping -FREAK.-"  Xynrael's voice rose in tone as his hands clenched around the hilts of his blades.  "-You- are trapped in here with -me.-"

With a lunge and a heavy upward slash, he decapitated one of the Tundra Stalkers.

Last Full Measure

The snow cleared.  As the blizzard halted, the remaining Blood Knights could see their fallen brothers, each writhing in an unholy grip.

Before them stood eleven death knights, and, on an altar above the entrance to a large crypt, a Lich.  Directly in front of the altar, but several yards away and apparently unconcious from the strain of striking down the Blood Knights and rendering some of their number inert, was Xynrael the Dawnbreaker.

As they watched, the Dawnbreaker begand forcing himself to his feet, raising initially on his hands and knees.

The death knights dragged the unconcious among their Light-wielding counterparts toward the altar, the Lich hovering forward slightly.  Its chains and robes fluttered as it spoke, giving it an almost grotesquely gleeful appearance.

"Now, my use for you, for all of you, is nearly at an end.  We will allow none of you to escape, but take heart.  A new breed of Scourge will arise from your bones.  However, this necessitates a certain... cleansing.  Spoiled fruit must be taken from the tree."

The Lich extended one bony claw towards the Dawnbreaker, who flew as if struck by a battering ram, landing in the snow.

"You are as impure as the Light-wielders.  You betrayed us once.  But, you have rectified what of your mistakes you could.  Your betrayal will be forgiven.  Your weakness, however..."  The Lich lifted both his hands, once again laying the Blood Kngihts low, and the Dawnbreaker with them.   The Knights struggled to their feet, but the Dawnbreaker only forced himself to his hands and knees.

His Tundra Stalkers moved forwards, forming a semi-circle in front of the altar, each one kneeling.  From the Stalkers and the intert Blood Knights now stacked in front of the altar, the Lich drew power in streams, visible, possibly tangible, and certainly strong.  The air was thick with the stench of the magical charge, a scent like burning flesh.

"You will be banished, all of you, to the realm of Shadows.  There, torment, rather than final death, awaits you.  You will suffer, and wish death, and He will not hear your call."

The Dawnbreaker, suddenly and violently removed from the Lich's power, shuddered.  He fell to the ground, gripping his head in agony as a familiar sensation enveloped him.

The voices of the Stalkers dissipated.  Their thoughts went from him in a snap like taut string being cut, one by one, until he was alone.  And there, in the loneliness of his mind, he once again found unyielding despair.  For one kind moment, amid all this, the voice of the Lich tore into his mind.
Your Tundra Stalkers gave themselves fully unto Undeath, by first giving themselves to His embrace.  You did not.  You are weak.  Impure.  Surrender yourself, and perhaps in eternal torment, you might be redeemed.

He felt darkness as the Lich's voice departed.  The darkness manifested itself in the form of an enormous portal, dark and murky as a death gate, above the altar. 

In that darkness, as he and the Blood Knights were dragged helplessly towards the gaping maw, Xynrael found something.  If the threads had been clear and distinct, this was jagged and hard as stone.

He clung to it, at first desperately, then angrily.  The grief succumbed, overtaken by rage.

No.

Fuck you.

Despite being dragged through the snow, he rose, digging in his boots against it.

They are all dead and there is nothing I can do about it.

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the Blood Knights, desperately trying to close the portal.  Those among them who still had enough energy, enough faith, called down the Light, but their commands and prayers were spent ineffectually against the Lich's power.  It was like witnessing an anthill attempting to stand against an avalanche.

Remorse won't bring back the dead.

The Lich raised his hands again, icy shrapnel forming in the air.  It soared in vollies forwards, accompanied immediately by bolt after bolt of unholy shadow.  The Dawnbreaker struggled to his feet with all the force of a ragdoll on strings.

But faith can protect the living.

This ends -now.-

The ice and shadow met with a barrier, so thin as to be invisible and intangible, and broke against it.  Xynrael's left hand was outstretched, and could be seen glowing furiously beneath his armor.  He fell to one knee, dragging against the portal's draw as the barrage continued.

The death knight's arm, then his entire body, began to smoke.  He was breaking under the strain.

It is all too familiar.  I have been here before.

He broke, but the shield held.  His flesh began to melt away frome raw runic energy being channeled through his arm, the skin first turning red, then boiling.  The scream of agony reached a pitch reserved for the hearing of dogs, but still he persisted.

"SHINDU FALLAH'NA."  Roared one of the Blood Knights, raising his arms.  The invisible shield glimmered brightly, shattered, and reformed.  A bolt of ice soared past, but nothing else came through.  The other Blood Knights picked up the cry, and the idea, and the shield, previously paper-thin, now held visibly.

But, they were still being pulled forward.

Xynrael fell to his knees in the snow, staring at his arm.  All that remained was the tattoos and burning scars- the heat from the energy he had channeled had melted the saronite of his platemail into his arm.  The pain was so great as to be incomprehensible, he simply sat there, staring at it dumbly.

This has to stop.  Why won't it st-

He glanced upwards.  A moment of clarity seized upon him, and he saw why.

Skyshatter, the enormous runemace that served as the source of his power, was to his right- he was being dragged past it.

He had a moment.  And only a moment.

Xynrael lurched forwards, seizing the mace by its pommel.  He shoved himself to his feet, hurling himself at the portal.  His arm may have been useless, but the mace, with all of its souls, served as all the fuel his legs required.  He moved like a blur, despite the plate armor, runic energy surging around him.

The Tundra Stalkers' blows were swatted aside, their magic running only into a solid wall of runic power.

Xynrael stumbled, dropped the mace.

If I'm going to hell, you're all going with me.

He lept upwards, unholy magic flowing from both hands.  The Death Knight could feel the portal tugging at him through the screen.  It shattered.

The tendrils found their mark.  As they seized, the Blood Knights channeled the last of their collective power, a wave of Light descending on the Lich and Tundra Stalkers.

Blocks from the crypt soared into the portal as the Lich's wavering focus destabilized the magic.

The portal turned in on itself, erupting outwards.

When the dust and chunks of rock settled into the snow, it became obvious that the force of the explosion had caused the crypt to cave in.  As the Blood Knights looked up, they realized they had been thrown clear.  Their inert companions were scattered around the remains of Xynrael's vampiric mace, which lay, cracked, fifty yards away.

The Lich, the Death Knights, the portal, and Xynrael, were gone.