makinglies | The Shadowfell

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faerun

The Shadowfell

Shadowfell

During the early, blue dawn of the morning, a hole opens in the Material Plane. The energy hums no differently than it had in the facility in Duplicity that had brought them here in the first place. This time, however, just before breaching the glowing white surface of light, a chill greets those who pass through. One, two, three, four shadows step through the light before it closes with barely a pop of energy beside the austere white marble of the recently recast temple.

Waiting on the other side of the gate is a land of barren monochrome. Plants like ash, rivers with the consistency of blood, and pools of thick, dripping ichor decorate a land of black and grey stone that connects to an equally grey sky. The life, like the color, seems gone from the land, and where there should have been unearthly silence, there were low murmurs and ominous creaks and noises that didn't quite make sense at the periphery of everything.

The landscape, at least, could not be called flat. Great, black mountains broke the dim, grey sky like blotches of ink on canvas. Even the group of armed visitors stood now upon a tall, but sloping hill marked with a single, gnarled tree. At the foot of the hill, ahead of the group, sat the hazy, black scar of what was once a city.

Spires of buildings stood as broken bones in the place Melvaunt had as its mirror, with the shattered docks even dipping into a charcoal ocean beyond it. Maléfell, once a town inhabited and infested in equal measure with ghosts, gasts, dopplegangers, and malice, now festers with a malevolent haze that visibly shrouds the city. At its edges, just outside the haze, is a pulsating mass. It's upon closer inspection that the mass gains definition: bodies. Undead. Skeletons. Ghosts haunting black ooze and rotted corpses that press at the Darkland's edges, daring to neither venture in nor go too far from their home.

Hundreds of the displaced mill about, gorging on more of the black ichor that fills the waterways into the city. Here they wait, trapped, the sounds of them muffled and nearly silent in the blanketing nothing of the Plane around them.

♥

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The smallest shadow clutches not just a knife but a tape recorder. Jon's eyes are wide, darting every which way as he lifts the device to his lips and mutters low, "Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding a quest from the Raven Queen to clear undead in the Shadowfell. Statement recorded by subject 19th of Alturiak, 1496.

"Statement begins.

"What's the price of a soul? The threads that bind a person to the Material Plane are far more precious than any vein of gold or perfect diamond. They are anchors, giving weight to a mind that would fly from this realm on death, back to some godforsaken place or plane. As it happens, the price of three souls is a trip to the Shadowfell to wipe out the ghasts and ghouls of a battle long since ended.

"The darkness and the silence are unsettling here. Grass without color. Skies without light. And a mass of flesh and bone absent the lives they once made here. I will be witnessing and recording the actions of Chris Sonom, Amelia Royer, and Adalwolfe Hawke during our time in the Shadowfell. There is an enormous mass of zombies near the ruins of what used to be Melvaunt in the Material Plane. I count at least 200. The quiet from so many bodies is unsettling."

Stepping back into the bone-deep chill of the Shadowfell was at least disconcerting in the way he expected. The living weren't meant to be here, and something deep in him knew it without words. Which was good, that meant they belonged to the Material Plane.

As soon as the gate closes behind them, his scythe's haft is in hand, and he peers down at the undead some thousand feet ahead of them. That was a lot more than he'd gotten the impression from with Topher's instructions, but then again, that was Topher. He shouldn't have trusted the Shadar-kai's words.

Jon's 'working voice' in its deep, pleasant tone is something of a comfort on its own and a smirk forms on Chris' lips. "Oh, gonna watch me work, love? Exciting. I'll have to give a good show."

Once he's done analyzing the situation they're walking into.

From the moment they arrive, Wolfe is unsettled. The Gate spell is always a little disconcerting but standing here is like standing in a Blighted land. Zombies and lesser darkspawn are similar enough that looking out over the valley below is like looking over the ruins of Lothering.

He tightens his grip on his staff, watching them mill about and considering their strategy when his thoughts are interrupted by the snap of the tape recorder and sonorous narration of Jonathan Sims, Archivist turned Bard.

He tries not to grimace at the use of his horrendous full first name. At least Jon has the only device in Toril that can play the tape back. "Thats quite poetic, actually. I'm rather impressed. Stay close, though. I don't think a tape recorder will do much against a zombie horde, but it'll be nice to have a record."

Taking a fortifying breath of his own, Wolfe looks to Chris and Amelia. "I'll do my best not to use my magic, but if its life or death, I hope you understand if I'd rather risk depleting my well over getting chewed on. You're sure these things don't transfer any plague or anything if they touch you?"

They do look so much like Darkspawn. He doesn't want anyone here contracting the Taint or similar.

This place is dead. It's unnerving, made all the more so by Jon beginning to narrate what's happening. Amelia's never heard him like this when he's lucid and in control, and if she had it her way, she'd snap at him to stop. They all need to do their part, though, and Jon's part is to stay out of the damn way of the actual fighting. If this keeps him busy, she can handle it.

Her eyes sweep over the mass ahead of them, counting and watching the movements of each monster close enough to fully pick out from the group. She's learning, seeking patterns in swaying and shuffling to help her navigate when she needs to get in close. And she will get in close eventually. The rocks by the lake weren't so hard that she was going to be able to rely on them to get through the fight ahead. They'd take out a wave and weaken the next, if that. Her knives are better for this, though she won't be able to throw them into battle the way she might if they were on the Material plane; she can't afford to lose sight of any because there's no coming back for them once they need to leave.

"We have armor to protect us from direct touches. That should help even if there is a risk." The rogue herself is covered head to toe, her eyes and hands the only skin open to the air. The rest is covered in linens and leathers, knives strapped to her hips and thighs, slingshot in hand. "We'll do what we can to keep them away from the two of you," she murmurs after a moment, turning to look over her shoulder at Wolfe briefly. "Keep the dagger from Chris close just in case of emergency."

Jon rolls his eyes at Chris, but there's a small smile for the cleric at the end of it. He knows his boyfriend enjoys being watched. Having his deeds recorded immediately upon action is, no doubt, very kind to his vanity. Wolfe is gracious, but Amelia looks like she wants him to stop. Jon ignores her as he continues to survey the field before them.

"The undead here are the product of necromantic magic, if I understand correctly." He glances to Chris for affirmation before continuing. "Think of it like Dorian's necromancy, rather than some sort of contagion."

And back to his narration. "There's a miasma hanging thick in the air, and death lurks in the deeper shadows according to our native guide. Pockets of necrotic energy so dense, the body might disintegrate in seconds. The lost city lies drenched in darkness, tendrils of it emanating from the worst of the damage, no doubt. The worst of the loss... It seems a cruel fact of the Shadowfell that their fates are tied to the Material Plane. Whatever they do here, if some horrific thing happens on the Material Plane, they'll suffer. How terrifying must it be, knowing you haven't the slightest bit of control or foresight?

Chris nods to confirm Jon's question, but glances at Wolfe and shakes his head for his. "I've said before: they're not like that. You'll only be a zombie if you die and are raised as one, so simply don't die. That said, I intend to leave you protection that should help, but if you still need more, use whatever you need to."

He points to an area about halfway down the hill, yet still plenty far enough back to be away from the main horde. There, a large humanoid figure in glowing light forms with sword and shield. The head of a left-facing raven emblazons the shield. "Stand there, and the Guardian should stop any stragglers."

He looks to Amelia next. "I trust you to fight as you will, as best suits you. I ask you trust me to do the same, even if it doesn't look like it makes sense."

Chris' wings sprout from his back, and he flexes them in preparation. "Ghosts and Gahsts might have run through the city anyway, but most of the people in it were people in their own right, even if twisted ones. The denizens of the Shadowfell's cities are mirrors of people on the Material Plane, like Topher. Those people down there are simply shadowed versions of my people in the light. I ask you show them the mercy of death. It is the only kindness left for them."

"Wasn't planning on it," Wolfe snorts at the command not to die, grinning a little in the electric energy that always comes before a fight. At least there's no moral dilemma; zombies are no longer the person they were in life, reanimated through arcane means, as Chris and Jon both said. The best they can do now is help the bodies rest.

The Guardian of Faith coalesces halfway down the hill but Wolfe's gaze remains on Chris for the moment. His wings unfurl and he stands with scythe in hand like the reaper he's called to be, pulling the role around himself with all the comfort of a familiar cloak. There is certainty in their work today, something they all sorely need, and Wolfe can't help but notice their cleric stands a little taller for it.

"I don't have to tell both of you to be careful, so know that you wade in with my love and confidence. I'll keep Jon safe," he tells them with solid belief in himself as well. Even without his magic, he can fight plenty hard. Even so, he's not stranger to battle and how tides can turn unexpectedly. It spurs him to step forward and kiss each of his partners in turn, one over the cloth covering Amelia's mouth and the other to Chris' lips, or cheek if he pulls back even a tiny bit.

"We'll all come back from this safe and sound, and with a horrific story to tell, I'm sure," he says with that same grin, clapping Chris on the shoulder and touching Amelia's arm as he steps back towards Jon again so they can all take up their positions.

She nods to Chris as he lets loose his wings. She's seen him fight and she knows it's unusual, but then again, wasn't she told in her memories that she was an anomaly as well? A woman made of blades and stern stuff who waded too far into the battle even when it was uncalled for. She'll have to hold back somewhat today, but not that much. The lives, perhaps even the souls, of those she has left to her require her to be as fierce as she can be.

Wolfe kisses her, then, and she doesn't let him step far before she takes his hand and brings it to her lips. A firm kiss of affection is placed on his knuckles, followed by a deferent touch of them to her forehead. He's trusting her and she'll in turn trust him. They will make it through this because they have to.

"Then let's see that kindness given," she says as she releases Wolfe's hand and turns to the battlefield ahead of them. "And keep each other safe from what's to come." Today and every day after.

Intentions spoken, she palms a few rocks from her pouch and turns her attention to the mass below. A few yards further down the path and they're well within her range. She fires her slingshot once, twice, three times, missing once and landing solid hits with the others. Most of the bodies below will require at least two hits to take down, but she can manage that. Firing her slingshot is as easy as breathing and her shots are barely seconds apart once she gets going. There will be several less for her to deal with by the time she's close enough to draw her daggers and tear them apart more forcefully.

"We've been given our vantage, an outcropping guarded by a puppet knight given form and purpose by divine magics." Jon's voice is soft as he continues his commentary in a low thrum beneath the others and their conversation. The recorder will pick up all of that along with his narration. "Lord Sonom, a cleric dedicated to the Raven Queen and sworn to fell the undead, and Lady Royer, a rogue well-practiced in dealing with groups of enemies, are the intended fighters for this particular battle. Lord Hawke, a champion mage will be acting as my protector while I make my observations.

"Lord Sonom's wings burst from his back, a feathered cape like no other, and a gift from his dark goddess." Jon is aware he's maybe focusing a little more on Chris than he should be, but he can butter up his boyfriend for this. He deserves to feel noble and powerful as he takes on a bloody horde or zombies with only one other person truly backing him up. "What light there is lends an almost angelic sheen to his visage. Blonde curls, strong arms, feathers kept in impeccable order. A man meant for his purpose here and well-equipped to see it done."

He'll smirk at Chris if the other man looks over at him, but focuses on making his way down to the guardian with Wolfe. His attention turns to Amelia as she lands the first blows against their enemies, against the souls who had nothing to do with anything 'above' that's been brought on them here 'below.'

"And so our battle begins..."

He meets Wolfe's kiss with a small smile, and his fingers run briefly over the mage's arm as Amelia heads down the hill. He's just about to leave himself when Jon starts in on some very flattering recording and...well, in that voice...how can he do anything but find a pause in Jon's words to place a kiss on his Archivist's lips. For morale.

His focus narrows again as Chris takes to the skies nd flies down over the hill and towards the shore. As he descends, an unkindness of glowing, spectral ravens encircles him, and the first few undead that pass through the barrier of birds explode into white flames. Chris places himself in the middle of the swarm, divine energy radiating from him as the mindless things lunge and converge on the new prey. Many die under his birds. Three times as many suddenly fall to ash as a large circle of zombies is swept under a wave of energy. What few stragglers somehow escape both effects, Chris twirls his scythe, the blade blooming into necrotic life, as it crashes through too-soft bodies and bone.

It's difficult not to watch as his partners begin to cry their havoc in the masses of shambling undead and Wolfe indulges himself for just a moment as Amelia makes herself a path with something as rudimentary as a slingshot and Chris shreds rings of their enemies in the role he's destined to play. That destiny that he's chosen. That they all have, or they wouldn't be here at all.

"Come on, let's get to the safety of Chris' spell and have at, lest the Matron believe we're not helping," Wolfe says low to Jon, half hoping the recorder doesn't pick him up and half hoping the opposite.

He leads them to the Guardian, feeling better in the circle of divine light that it casts around it, a gentle reminder that not all is crawling darkness. Of course, the light also serves as a beacon of what does not belong in the Shadowfell, and Wolfe can already see a few of the horde breaking off to shuffle slowly uphill towards them. They shouldn't be too much trouble, and Wolfe and Jon have a moment before they're beset.

"Thank you," he rumbles low, not even sure if Jon can hear him as he spins his staff to a ready position and reminds himself once again he's only to attack physically, not with his magic. "For keeping his spirits up."

Ravens of light join the fight as Chris leaps into the center of things, and Amelia can't help but smirk to herself. Another way they're similar: they both have that need to be in the middle of places that aren't meant for them. She fires off more rocks, taking down a half dozen before she reaches the edge of the mass, eyes finally leaving the cleric as she stows her slingshot and draws the first of her daggers, one she had made in the style favored by the House in Ragneux and the other her copy of the feather blade she gave to all her men in Duplicity. Blades to cut away the dead as she must shed the life she thought she had.

She can do this. A breath in, a step forward, and she leaps into the fray, silent as the shadows she often feels shape her.

Her cuts are swift and decisive, starting in one body and finishing in another, taking down one after another and another. They fall before and around her, each slice precise as she weaves her way through the mass with a dancer's grace. A small part of her longs for the short sword and rapier she remembers being fond of in Ragneux to make shorter work of all these bodies, but it's easily put down as she avoids every grab or touch, cutting off hands that dare to get close to her before she finishes off the undead they're attached to with a decisive second movement.

Few of the horde's number pass her by, but she knows she can't get all of them. She still tries, occasionally throwing the knife Wolfe gifted to her to catch those closest to the path up to the others. The fighting leaves her covered in ash and debris, and she distantly realizes that this is a truth of who she will always be, that fighting and being dirty from it are things she needs to feel complete.

The kiss is a pleasant reward for his flattery, and even if Chris can't hear it, the Archivist intends to continue. He can listen to it later and appreciate the description of his prowess as told through another man's eyes. Wolfe's encouragement to keep going does distract him from watching Chris fly downward onto the horde. He positions himself just behind and to the side of the Guardian of Faith, unsure if it would strike through him to get at any enemies. The word of thanks is something Jon nearly misses, but he just cocks a brow and nods to the mage. Rallying people isn't exactly his forte; Chris Sonom is just very easy.

"Lady Royer's sling looks like its taken down nearly a dozen already, and she's just now approaching the main mass of enemies, knives coming to bear. Lord Sonom's joined her, as well, spectral ravens at his call. He's cutting through the undead quickly and easily without even lifting his scythe to start. Some sort of spell that's rendered dozens of them to ash in an instant. I've been aware for quite some time that he's an extremely skilled cleric, but seeing what one can do in action against a favored foe is something extraordinary. Similarly, Lady Royer's skills seem tailor-made for this sort of large-scale fight against masses of enemies. I cannot hear her blades sing, but they catch in what light we have, looking for all the world like divine claws as she cuts a bloody and ashen path through toward Lord Sonom.

"A few of the undead have survived the first wave of attacks and are making their way up toward Lord Hawke and myself. I count thr- there are two after Lady Royer's knife appears to have taken one out." His eyes shift to Hawke to ensure the mage is ready. They have Chris' guardian, but just in case. And... perhaps something for him to boost his morale. "Lord Hawke stands at the ready, his staff held to strike down anything foolish enough to try to get past the guardian's blade. The light cast by the spell paints a stark contrast on his ivory skin and hair, bringing sharp definition to the lines of his muscles and the crease of experience upon his brow.

And back to the zombies. "The first one is making its way closer. A... woman? What was once a woman. Imana." His eyes focus more closely on the woman. "She didn't die first. No... that was her brother, Launis. One moment he'd been telling her about the neighbors rowing next door, the next... she'd never thought to wonder what it might be like to step into the darker parts of the Shadowfell. She had too much sense for that. But she watched as his skin began to flake, to peel back, to expose more and more of him to the darkness, until she saw his bones and turned to run.

"No escaping, Imana. You never really had a chance to escape."

All Chris can hear is the battle-high in his ears. That rush of second-to-second awareness, the shift and pivot of battle that was better than any drug anyone had ever offered him in the city. Almost better than sex. The groans of the creatures, the satisfying feeling of his blade carving through them, the feeling of unfettered divinity coursing through him to do as it was meant to, and the taste of ash and death on his tongue...it was right. It was where he belonged, doing what he should do. He was no king. He was no merchant prince. He was a reaper come to sew the torn line between life and death back together.

He pauses, a casting of light like a beacon on his scythe to draw the crowd back towards him again, where he'd carved space before. It gives him a moment of breath and a moment to check on the others while he lets his defenses down with intention.

Amelia dances with her daggers, and Chris lets his spirit guardians fall so he can recast the spell on the rogue. She'll make a pretty sight with the ravens dancing with her. Up the hill, he can see a small number of undead shambling up towards the guardian of faith and his boys, but Wolfe and the guardian are at the ready. Even the stronger, faster, zombie that breaks from the horde up that direction seems simple work for the mage's staff if the guardian's magic doesn't end it. Chris has faith in him. In all of them.

And in the Raven Queen.

As the undead press in close now that his ring of ravens was gone, he returns his attention to them. Most glance off his armor or the invisible barrier that the clasp he wears grants him, but one tears into a wing, and another gets a bite in on his forearm that draws a wince from him, and he smiles. The pain and the adrenaline of battle. There was no fire more cleansing.

In another pulse of divinity, every undead within a 30-foot radius of him vaporizes into the ashen air.

It's difficult not to let our an amused snort at Jon's description, flattering though it is. It reminds him of Varric and The Tale of the Champion, florid prose painting him in larger than life relief. He'd even had a couple people say they expected his six-foot-two self to be taller when they met him after reading it, which is a ridiculous notion. Or just an effect of standing next to Anders, with his extra two inches.

Even so, Wolfe spins his staff around with extra flourish and takes a stance with very precise posture, as if Jon's telling is painting the picture and not simply describing what the man sees. Maybe it is, maybe that's part of his power, who knows.

That voice fades into a drone behind him as he steps into familiar movements, making his way across the front perimeter of the Guardian's light like a dancer in a spotlight. All his concentration is drawn to remembering not to end his forms with spell work as all his instincts tell him. He lets the blade at the end bite into dead flesh instead of Winter's Grasp, shoves with the carved and polished raven figure on the haft instead of with the concept of Force itself. It's grueling work, fighting physically on the field and mentally against what he's practiced his entire life both at the same time, and he hasn't the spare thought to give to just how creepy Jon's narrative has become, or what he says when Wolfe cuts down the husk of the woman he'd been describing.

Grueling, but freeing too. This sort of combat he hasn't been in the middle of in such a long time outside his Fade-dreaming. The danger of it, the solid hits and the near misses, the glancing blows he spins away from with smears of red marking his arm or side, blooming in superficial pain that he knows he'll feel more later when the adrenaline wears off. For now, he spins his staff and keeps whatever approaches at bay, just outside the Guardian's light. If he keeps the spell from needing to trigger, then maybe it will last longer once he gets tired and slows down.

If he slows down.

It's a rare thing to have so many enemies around her in a battle. She's used to being surrounded in her work, bodies pressed to her as she weaves among crowds on streets, in ballrooms, in any of the places she finds herself when she works. But this... this is so much more. Her blades cut through undead after undead, clearing them with ease and taking little damage in return for how swiftly she moves.

Ravens swirl around her as she goes and suddenly she feels like the real Shadow Mistress. A woman made of darkness, surrounded by light. How much like a shadow she must look, dressed all in black. A woman of blades and strength, a commanding presence, a--

--a raven-haired beauty with violet eyes, commanding chaos with ease.

Amelia stumbles briefly, wincing as claw-like nails dig into her arm through her shirt. Distractions. She let herself be distracted in the middle of a fight? Curses fall from her lips as she redoubles her efforts, reaching out into the mass that surrounds her with her blades with a renewed ferocity. Bodies fall harder and faster as she cuts through them indiscriminately, throwing herself deeper into the horde to clear as many as she can. Their hands reach out for her, clawing and pulling and tearing her hair free from its braid, and she doesn't stop.

She's here. This is the only place she is. This is where she needs to be, far from thoughts of loves lost, of people gone, of things she isn't and never will be. All she is now is all she ever needs to be: blades, violence, and protection. Protection for those few that are still hers, her loves, her family. The only family she's ever really had...

An angry, soul-shaking scream rips from her as she uses a few of the horde to climb upward and then jump down into a thicker part of the swarming mass. Knives fly in all directions, followed by the rogue who retrieves and uses each and every one to take down at least two more undead before sheathing the blade and moving to the next. Chris' ravens fly with her, taking down even more bodies and lighting Amelia's red eyes and dirty, tear-stained cheeks above her mask.

There is nothing but the task now. Bodies come, bodies fall. The horde thins as the undead are sent away. And Amelia cuts her way through all of it, never hesitating or caring for the surface-level wounds that cover her. Not until she's done. Not until they're all safe. Not until she's certain they've done what they must to appease the god who sent them here.

Watching the fight from a distance is wildly different from seeing it up close and personal. Jon has seen all of them fight, but it had always been restrained. Even with the Pit, their abilities were muted, held back by the eldritch thing that hovers over all of Duplicity, sucking the life out of it. His closest experience to this is some of the side work he and Chris had done, looking into cursed artifacts and places in the city.

Daisy and Melanie also come to mind, but he sets those thoughts aside easily when others press in against him.

"There is no escape in this pit of death and shadows, not for the people who once called this place home. The kindness we can offer them is an end to what they've become, what their bodies are being used for. Dale knew what it was to have his body used even before this. Dale the Dog, down on his luck. Give him some coin, and he'll give you a...

"It's remarkable, all these lives cut short so suddenly. Dark mirrors to the people of the Material Plane. Is there a sliver of them lost along with these shades? A piece that's suddenly missing without explanation. Dust on the Covers knew what it was like to have pieces missing. From the moment she knew this world, her heart was empty, a bone-deep, gnawing void she tried so hard to fill with anything she could sink her claws into for a desperate grip. She saw her own hand go first, reaching for her dinner. She didn't have anyone to share it with, what a relief it was to finally be free of all that want.

"The dead want for little."

As he's speaking, the Archivist is creeping closer to the edge of the Guardian of Faith, unconscious to the danger he's putting himself in as he shifts for a better view. The larger, sturdier undead clawing its way up toward them catches his attention, and he has enough sense in him still to motion for Wolfe to look when he finishes off a different enemy.

Edited 2025-12-02 05:25 (UTC)

For all their simplicity, some of the undead still carry bits of themselves with them in how they act...and it's no clearer than when a pack of them decides to turn towards the hill.

"Not while I'm here," Chris mutters to himself and takes advantage of the momentary clearing around him to turn his attention. From a point roughly twenty feet down the hill from his boys, halfway between them and the advancing pack of slightly smarter bones and flesh, a ray of pure sunlight drenches the pack and the whole front row of bodies behind them; what of it hasn't already been decimated.

For a moment, the sun seems to rise in a land unused to its heat and light, warming those living and sundering those dead things of darkness.

There's significantly less between all of their efforts...and some of them are even pressing back around the edges of the fetid city to try and get away from the light and violence their group brings. Still, stragglers and the stubborn remain and as a small group advances still towards Amelia, one of them splits off and turns towards him. There's a light of malice that's replaced what intelligence there might have been in her eyes. Red hair and sharp teeth that split her lips with her smile, while ichor drips from every orifice. The Darkland has already taken one of her arms, but Chris recognizes her enough to know she's deadly with only one.

He hadn't seen the dark mirrors in the city the Guardians had. He'd been told to wait outside Maléfell by Topher, and he'd deferred to the group's thoughts on that and waited, if impatiently, for their return. Only through Rhyt and Topher and what little the others had told him had he pieced together the sadistic, crazed version of his sister this Plane held. A being of chaos and hedonistic, painful intent, where his twin sought kindness and laughter and a quick, merciful death to those she targeted. The difference between a murderer and an assassin. He could see it now as the duplicate approaches him, knives in her hand and a sickly sweet smile on her face. He almost wishes he'd never seen her as he readies his scythe against her.

Amelia screams, and it shakes Wolfe's concentration as he whirls around to look in her direction, heart in his throat. There doesn't seem to be any more danger than before, though. Less maybe as he sees bodies fall around her, clearing his sight line towards the rest of the field down the hill. Catharsis, then, he decides and let's out a breath. He squares his shoulders and spins his staff to ready once more, scanning around him for the nearest threat.

He needn't have bothered. As soon as he catches sight of the knot of zombies storming the hill, they're gone in a blaze of sunrise, radiant light burning them to ashes where they stand with an eerie silence. He'd expect there to be screams, was bracing for it, but none of their foes had made much of a sound besides a rattle or a groan, sighs of expiration and not wails of death. Perhaps that's how it should be; death as a release and relief. A bright end in soothing light instead of wandering in darkness, ever hungry.

Area momentarily clear, Wolfe turns to set eyes on their people in the field again. Amelia still cuts a swath before her like an avenging angel, beautiful in her precision. Chris floats a bit off the ground with wings extended, the daylight He'd conjured fading from velvet wings and golden curls, giving him a deific affect. It too fades when Wolfe's eyes catch on what he's seeing through the thinned throng. A shock of red hair, tattered leathers, and a build not unlike that which Chris had when they'd first met.

Rhyt, his mind provides, realization dropping like a stone in the pit of his stomach. If Chris' shadow mirror is Topher, then of course his twin has one as well.

"Fuck," Wolfe swears, taking two steps towards his partner and such an impossible foe, only the edge of the Guardian's circle of divine light stopping him from recklessly charging to Chris' side. He can't leave Jon unprotected... but the Guardian is here. He can't use his magic to aid without potentially dire consequence to himself.

Not that that's ever stopped him before.

Wolfe grips his staff white knuckled and clenches his jaw, glancing back at Jon to look for either caution or permission. He isn't certain which.

Warmth and light fill the air and Amelia's steps unconsciously take her toward its source. Chris can fight in his own way, protect himself without her help, but she can't help but drift to his side. The mass is thinning and pulling away, save for a group that seems to position itself between her and her cleric. A disruption, something to slow her down. Are they conscious enough to do that? Or is something, someone directing them?

The answer comes in the form of red hair rushing past her and the group cutting her off from where her feet were headed. She recognizes the face and Topher's words suddenly come back to her mind: 'If her corpse makes it out of there, don't hesitate.'

So, that was it, then. That's who this was. And intentional or not, the others are following her. Amelia's grip on her blades tightens and the decision is made before she even begins to cut down those that stand between her and Chris. They fall easily, mere paper compared to what they'd been in life, and soon enough the rogue is standing opposite the cleric with their opponent between them.

"I'm with you," she calls, stance defensive and blades held at the ready. Her eyes move from the creature to Chris and back again. "I'll follow your lead."

This isn't his burden to bear alone. She's here for them. They are here for him, because if she knows her mage at all, she's certain Wolfe is already halfway to this spot on the field as well.

Unfortunately for Wolfe, Jon is growing increasingly lost in information and stories shoving their way into his mind. "Sunlight pierces the depths... radiant and beautiful. Oh, how Vivienne had always dreamed of seeing the sun. Cleansing fire, a light that would burn until her eyes were as pure blue as the sky her mirror looked up to each day. Piety had always been her sin, a slavish devotion to her god, to whatever god would take her, would listen to her. She had visions of a realm drenched in color, of what could await her beyond the Shadowfell if only she bent herself and those around her to the will of her god. The darkness was kind enough to take her eyes first, to strip away the hope she might have had. And now at the last, she's struck from the cliffside by the one divine she never reached for."

The Archivist's eyes are wide, unblinking, as he continues to watch the carnage. There's something a little less personally horrifying in it, knowing they're husks, monsters with little of what they were left. Like Jane Prentiss, body given over wholly to something terrible, a thing that destroyed her and those around her.

"Lady Royer's joined Lord Sonom in the fray..." His eyes flick to Wolfe. "Lord Hawke is moving to back them up, as well." It's as much encouragement as he's capable of offering at the moment. "The horde is well-thinned with most of the rest having retreated, but the ones that remain are persistent, more powerful than the others, perhaps. They may have a leader, as well, in so much as any of these things has sense enough to take orders.

"She was a woman once, a cruel and vicious thing who delighted in death and pain. A cracked and jagged mirror of the woman she sprung from. She knew love in her life, and all that she loved were hers to break."

Her eyes are still blue, if now clouded in the pall of death she hasn't yet succumbed to. Was it strength of will or her mirror's connection to the Raven Queen that kept her partially still here? Partially still her. Or maybe it was simply bad luck. Looking into her eyes...he can't help but wonder if looking into his stirs memories of taking out Topher's; they must have surely been the same shade of green.

He looks too long, doesn't respond to Amelia's call quickly enough, and the dagger comes fast and accurately. The bite of it pierces just below the edge of his breastplate. The next one he deflects with a burst of shield-shaped magic as Amelia's ravens fade.

"Take her other hand." It's a cold directive he calls to his rogue, but one he trusts Amelia with implicitly. "She deserves the mercy of death...but it can hurt. She burned out her twin's eyes...she deserves similar." His free hand closes around the handle of the dagger and yanks it free, despite common wisdom to leave it. He was made of sturdier stuff than to bleed out here in the Shadowfell, that wasn't going to happen.

Jon recites Wolfe's actions into being and he gives a curt nod even as he's turning to bolt down the hill. Too slow, despite his dead run. He could cast an ice spell and slide down the hill much faster, or propell himself with Force, but he trusts in Chris and Amelia's skills; he will be there to back them up, but unless it becomes a matter of life and death, he's still not going to cast anything.

What he can do is pole vault the last fifteen feet by bracing himself with his staff, sending a couple of shambling corpses sprawling when they catch the edge of his boot on the vault. He lands at Chris' side heavily, but keeps his feet, and holds out his staff crossways so the shaft is between their cleric and the reflection of his sister.

"See to the wound, make sure it's not poisoned. No need to dirty your hands with this," Wolfe rumbles, knowing the cold tone he'd heard Chris using may be hiding a deeper despair at the face of the women before them. Wolfe knows how it feels to have to face the spectres of his own family. If they can spare Chris that, it would be for the best.

Whether he'll allow it is another matter.

The dark mirror moves before Chris does and Amelia sees red far beyond what's running over the cleric's fingers when he withdraws the blade. She moves without thinking, instinct taking over as she rushes forward. A blade sinks into the undead's side, drawing attention and causing the creature to spin around sharply. Amelia deflects a hit aimed at her, letting it bounce off her stomach as she raises her knives high. The first cuts through the arm that dared to hurt her cleric and sends it to the ground in a heap of ash. The second cuts through the creature's head at the eyes, removing the top of her head to end the threat, permanently. The body falls over, helped by Amelia elbowing it out of the way to assure herself that what should have been dead before is well and truly dead.

She spares Chris and Wolfe a glance, nodding to them both before turning her attention back to what's left of the horde around them. They've thinned significantly, though a few are still more than close enough for Amelia to remove the threat of them with her enchanted dagger. It's after she's taken another half dozen that she finally takes a breath and sets her feet more firmly in the dirt.

"Are you all right?" she calls over her shoulder. "And are there any more like that we should be following that mass into the city for?" They shouldn't go there at all, but if there's something else that needs to be done, she'll do it. If it means their family, her family, are safer and their debt to the Raven Queen paid, she'll go to whatever level of hell is required to see the work done.

"But even Sumner couldn't hold what the darkness took," the Archivist intones as Wolfe races away and Chris is stabbed. "She'd grabbed for Hemlock, tried to pull her as the tiefling's flesh turned to charcoal. Her arm went with her... mistress? Friend? Comrade? They'd never put a label to it, not one they'd agreed on, anyway. But their fates had been intertwined for years, monstrous people feeding on one another, victimizers and victims.

"Sumner's here for Lord Sonom, a shell of what she once was, but that smile... Oh, that vicious smile, all teeth and aggression. She's struck Lord Sonom, a blade beneath his armor. The ravens he'd cast on Lady Royer have faded, but she's next to him now, and Lord Hawke's just joined them."

As he's speaking, a pair of undead lurch up into the Guardian's light. It lashes out, obliterating first one, then the other. Jon spares them a brief glance before returning to the trio. They look... right together, and for just a moment, he falters. This is their world, their reality. Maybe not in a literal sense like it is for Chris, but in essence. All three have been fighting their entire lives. They're warriors. And he's... Jonathan Sims, a man who's spent his life looking at books and records, scrolling YouTube. He'd encountered Mr. Spider as a boy, but he'd never known true danger beyond that until the Institute. Not anything apart from the usual struggles of daily life in London. Even Duplicity's madness wasn't this. It was a city most of the time with normal city things.

In spite of the sense of wholeness drinking the Raven Queen's vial had brought, he doesn't belong here. Not yet, certainly.

"Ah... Lady, uh... Lady Royer's just killed Sumner. Or ended her, as the case may be. The horde continues to thin and with one of the stronger-willed undead gone, it looks like it may be a matter of minutes before the rest retreat... apart from another pair coming up the slope. The Guardian of Faith from the Raven Queen is proving to be an adequate guard for the time being."

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