It was sunset when Roland and Sheryl stepped out through the Sanctuary's gates together. While the rest of the Order was preoccupied with the usual after-dinner that Roland was so used to at the Lodge - cleanup, socializing, and settling the day's arguments through sparring - it was the perfect opportunity for the knight and the scholar to slip away unnoticed. Their mission was sanctioned but they were urged to be discreet, something Roland felt confident he could satisfy.

He wore a long coat in spite of the warm evening, justified by the muddy boots and other traveling clothes he paired it with, and it served its purpose well: the sword and dagger on either hip were almost perfectly concealed. With the backpack with books, rations and a bedroll swinging from one shoulder, and another volume clutched in his hand, Roland's appearance and presence at Sheryl's side painted a rather different picture than his true role. He could have been an academic, an exploring scholar from out of town, maybe a visiting friend of Sheryl's who shared similar interests.

While he did his best to corroborate this story with his body language, Sheryl was close enough to see his expression and the path of his eyes: though his head was often turned towards her, he was constantly checking their surroundings. On the road into the city from Seaside it was the gates and hedges in front of other temples and stately homes, and the occasional travelers they encountered; once they reached the busier part of RhyDin the distractions (and potential threats) were far more numerous.

The Bretland wilds were his home now, but the city was where he had first learned to hunt, and soon his mind began to adjust. The noisome din of busy market streets and the sharp scent of fish and refuse on the waterfront made his ears and nose almost useless, but he still had his eyes, searching for abnormal paths through the city's organized chaos.

"The Corner Temple will not be far now," Roland said to her once he felt it was safe to speak of their mission again. "I must truly seem like an imbecile for this, but I can neither spell nor pronounce this place's proper name..." It was Tshvizjragrlektno, which was easier to say when you had two tongues like the insectoid Gnrablminkt monks who built their odd little quarter-circle temple and archive between Orem's Ogres (a "social club" that specialized in large, brutish and tusked male dancers and companions), Sylvia's Sylvans ("Our ladies are less than 1/4 human or your money back!"), and a disused courtyard and algae-clogged fountain accessible through the shrine's tiny back door and the break room at Orem's. "Nor can I do the same for any of the monks who live here....But they do not seem to mind my ignorance of their tongue, nor I theirs of my own - and they have a very impressive collection of rare and ancient books and artifacts."

Roland was silent as a couple strolled by in the other direction, arm in arm; once it was clear their interest was in one another, he continued: "Last I was there, when I went to see about another item in their collection, I believe there was one they wanted to show me....I was able to understand two terms that they apparently had no words of their own for, Scathach and triskelion. This was five years ago, and I thought nothing of it then....But if they said what I believe they said, this may be the item you showed me in your notes."

"The Celtic and Christian trinity are more related than most know," Roland readily conceded with a nod. "Sir Seamus has an identical tattoo on his side..." To her likely relief, the knight did not appear to be offended: while he was a man of deep faith, he was also very nearly a historian from all he had studied in his peculiar line of work. "Mind, body and spirit....are not so very different from Father, Son and Holy Ghost. It may have made Christianity easier for many Celtic peoples to adopt."

Roland looked across the street at Tshvizjragrlektno, or the Corner Temple, his expression suddenly hardening. He did not know that they were being watched, nor that any danger was immediate, but Arctos growled an unintelligible warning into his consciousness, and his muscles coiled reflexively, ready to react. The moment passed, and he shook his head faintly, finding his smile again as he looked down into her openly curious face.

"I think we will be okay. I have brought visitors before, and if it upset them....they failed to make it clear enough to me," he replied, adding an angle to his smile. "You shall see soon enough."

Roland led them past a pair of elves leading a businessman into Sylvia's by either arm, one sharing a loud joke while the other checked her makeup. An ogre bouncer eyed them from the front door of Orem's, heavy iron hoops dangling from her tattered ears, snarling a warning on their way into the temple. The knight ignored both beyond his initial assessment as to whether either presented a real threat.

The temple was not unlike the Great Mosque of Djenn", covered with a brown mud plaster with timbers sticking out of the miniature towers that marked the top of each story in a criss-cross pattern, and small circular windows covered with ornately patterned blankets on all three floors. It did not look like the plaster was ideal for RhyDin's weather, as it had been recently patched and replaced in numerous places, but the Temple had been in RhyDin for decades, and might remain for decades to come.

The door was only five feet tall, wooden with a strange spiral pattern of brass studs. Roland stooped down and knocked heavily: something clicked and chirped excitedly on the other side, and the door opened, admitting them into the dimly lit confines.

Inside the ceiling was not much higher than the doorway, perhaps six feet, low enough for Roland to duck his head. It was difficult to see, due to the poor lighting and also the density of heavily-packed bookshelves not five feet in front of them, but between them and the first display of rare and ancient texts was a Gnrablminkt monk. He most closely resembled a grasshopper, though he was covered in patches of bright pink flesh where the narrow joints in his six limbs or his neck would otherwise have appeared. Pearly eyes, lidded by a strange thin film but not compound like many insect's, blinked as the monk bowed, mouth slitting open and twin tongues clicking out a complex series of syllables, welcoming them to the library. He then pointed at Roland, apparently (possibly) recognizing him and saying something else, tugging at his sleeves.

"Yes, I have put on a little weight," Roland hazarded with a small shrug at Sheryl, and then bowed in reply to the monk. "I am pleased to be so welcomed again. Please....I am here for the relic marked with the triskelion." The monk simply tilted his insectoid head. "The one to do with....Scathach?"

At that the monk chittered excitedly and zipped forward into the narrow labyrinth of shelves, waving with two of his four arms for them to follow. Roland did so at once, looking back at Sheryl to make sure she was keeping up. This place could be disorienting.

There was something very strange about these bookshelves, namely the way the books were placed on them: there appeared to be no discernible order, neither alphabetic by title nor by author; collections were placed together, and occasionally a pattern could be determined from the subject matter, but this too was confused. In general poetry seemed to go with mythology, while fiction and history went together; works of philosophy and theology seemed to go with cookbooks, manuals, and other books that taught a trade or craft. But even these divisions did not neatly begin and end at a single point, jumping from the first group to the second, then back to the first, then to the third, marked only by strange alien labels on the creaking old bookshelves.

Roland was, unfortunately, far ahead of Sheryl when the monk doubled back to her, pointing at her and waving his arms about all at once. This continued for almost a minute before he flung himself onto his stomach — not the normal manner of prostration, instead better resembling a backwards bellyflop — splayed his lower arms out flat against the floor, and with his upper, covered his head....and let out a low, gurgling moan.

It was hard to tell at first, but eventually it became clear that the poor monk was apologizing. Or groveling.

Eventually Roland returned with another of the monks following closely behind him, bearing a polished wooden box covered with a red silk cloth imprinted with alien characters. Upon seeing Sheryl this monk approached with shaky arms, set the box down before her with his head bowed....then let out a wail and performed the same bellyflop, joining his brother in moaning out an apology.

Roland blinked rather owlishly between the monks and the Scathachian. "Sheryl....what in God's name is happening?"

Roland, for his part, while confused, did not seem concerned. His hands were well away from his weapons while he kept a close eye on them: he was convinced that the monks would bring no harm to Sheryl. "I think it does," he murmured in reply, looking at her tattoos as she displayed them. "I think, whatever is in there..." He nodded to the crate they set down. "They believe it belongs to you."

And her Scathachian words seemed to calm the monks down, at any rate. They rose from the floor, bowing again, and made a reply that was only marginally less indecipherable, though Sheryl may have discerned that they were attempting to reply in her tongue. They called her 'judge,' and spoke of Scathach and a chakram. Both of them stepped to either side of the covered crate, each gesturing with all of their arms to the cloth, welcoming her to remove it.

Roland murmured what sounded like appreciative words in his native dialect of French as he passed by the monks, and knelt on the floor beside the Scathachian scholar. He could feel the tension in the air, and read her anxious energy clearly from her body and her face. After a moment of shared wonder at their prize, he turned and gave her a slow, encouraging smile. "Together, milady," he said with a nod, resting one hand on the corner of the box she held and pressing the tip of his thumb beneath the lid.

When they opened the triskelion-marked box, Roland stayed the awed swear that wanted to escape, not wanting to spoil what must have been a deeply spiritual moment for the woman beside him. The prize itself was wrapped loosely in white silk worn thin, frayed at the edges and yellowed with age, which fluttered away when they lifted the lid. Within was a chakram, a circular throwing weapon already familiar to Roland from his short time at the sanctuary. He recognized the unique type of steel used, too, as Damascus steel, known for its resilience among ancient and medieval weapons and the lost art of its forging. The metal had the distinct mottling, wavy pattern across the surface and a light bronze hue, but the edge was extraordinarily sharp and revealed a brilliant silver luster.

On careful inspection, revealed as the knight shifted, allowing rays of light to spill over his shoulder from a hanging lantern, the inner edge was not sharp but had the same color as the outer. Inscribed in its surface was a prayer in a language, or at least a dialect, that Roland would not understand but Sheryl might. "Is that Gaelic?" he asked softly, frowning, and pointed to the inscription.

Roland stared at her in prolonged silence, before he carefully uttered, "It may be..." But it seemed their minds raced along similar paths. The knight had studied all he could of the Order's enemies that his Baron had pursued for so long, and he wondered who might be listening — and he questioned his certainty that they had not, in fact, been followed. The city was a dizzying, confusing place, full of so many secrets even in broad daylight, and now the light was waning....A look back at a tiny window confirmed the orange glow had faded from the sky, replaced with muted blues.

At the grasp of his arm and the desperate whisper, he gave her hand a firm, reassuring squeeze. Then he moved quickly, letting go of her hand to flick the silk back over the weapon and clap the box shut. He pressed it into her hands (the larger box, marked only in the monks' strange language, would be abandoned) and turned to the monks, making an x with both hands before his mouth and murmuring, "Ezz-ezz-ezz-ezz-ezz." It was one of the few things he had learned from them, signifying that they should be quiet, as he had signified with much of his previous research as well. The monks nodded excitedly, packing up the larger box, carefully replacing the cloth cover and quickly disappearing with it into the shelves.

Roland stepped through the maze of shelves towards the front door, almost bringing it within sight when he heard a shuffle from up on the top floor, the wooden rattle of a window and the distinct sound of the monk's hidden wings buzzing them away into the sky. They had either seen or sensed something — or, if Roland and Sheryl were very lucky, they had merely been spooked by Roland's insistence for silence.

The knight was not counting on their luck. "Follow me," he mouthed at Sheryl, pressing a finger to his lips, and began picking his way towards the tiny back door into the courtyard as well as he could remember...

Sheryl pushed and Roland moved. He had long since learned to listen to his comrades, no matter how new their camaraderie, and offered no resistance, speeding his steps the best that he could.

There was no way to lock the door without a key, and was a circular window overlooking the courtyard about two feet in diameter — a tight fit, though the mud plaster framing the window was not known for its strength. The courtyard itself was triangular, damp mossy cobblestone surrounding a broken fountain in the center that had been leaking for years. The back walls of the two 'social clubs' were to their left and right, and all of the first story windows were protected by heavy iron bars, though one of Sylvia's second-story windows had been left open, the trill of elven laughter (and other sounds besides) floating out into the courtyard.

Orem's back door was guarded by an orcish woman carrying a spike-studded club, wearing patchwork iron armor and a warning scowl for the pair of fleeing strangers. "Don't even think about it," she growled as soon as Roland so much as glanced at the door. She dropped her cigar from between her tusked teeth, pushed off from her lean and put herself between them and the door.

The warehouse wall that faced them offered no immediate options either, only a solid brick wall at least twenty feet high and a chained and padlocked cellar door. Theoretically it was breakable, but if they were followed? Their pursuers, whoever they were, would be upon them before they were done.

However they escaped, it would not be easy, though blundering out the front door into whatever had frightened the monks still struck him as a worse option. "I can watch the temple while you climb into Sylvia's," Roland whispered quickly to Sheryl, but then he heard another noise, not unlike the one they had heard inside the temple. This one came from the warehouse roof; then another noise came from atop Sylvia's Sylvans.

Roland whipped off his coat, drew his sword and pressed his back to Sheryl's, turning slowly in place. "Watch the windows, the shadows, the rooftops," he breathed. "Our best chance now is to draw them out and then escape."

The two shadows leaped from the rooftops, landing before the knight and Scathachian. Both were repulsive creatures with rotting skin and smelled of decay and fresh blood. Both of them were cackling with glee as they closed in, hungering for the taste of flesh. Those familiar with the undead would recognize them as ghouls.

At the two warriors' flank emerged from the upper wall of the temple was a shadow, and that was all it appeared to be, a shadow. The creature appeared to be completely immaterial as it hovered in the air, claws poised to strike at any moment. The undead creatures had them completely cornered.

There was yet more movement in a dark corner of the courtyard as the concealing shadow seemed to vanish and a feminine shape clad in head to toe in a black suit of steel armor. Where the helm allowed view of the lower half of her face, a manic grin with vampiric fangs greeted them. She approached them in a nonchalant sashay, reveling in their perceived helplessness.

"How kind of you two to find that for me," Dracina cooed, that wide grin never leaving her lips. She held out a gauntleted hand to them. "Now hand it over. As you can see, I have you two lovelies surrounded, so there's no hope for escape. If you cooperate, I might consider sparing your miserable, insignificant lives."

Her fingers wiggled, open hand impatiently waiting.

The chakram cleaved cleanly through the ghoul's head, causing the top of its skull to fall to the ground. Rather than die like a mortal being would, the ghoul let out a gurgling shriek of rage as it went into a blind, berserker fury, thrashing and clawing at anything nearby. Its eyes on the severed section of its skull merely moved back and forth as if trying to determine how it could direct its estranged body in its attacks.

That was the cue for the other ghoul to leap into combat, charging for Sheryl, it's claws outstretched and prepared to unleash their paralyzing power with precise strikes.

Dracina crossed her arms as she observed the combat, ready to step in when it looked like she needed to. But at the moment, one damaged ghoul wasn't reason enough to do that just yet. She still had her more powerful of the three undead beasts on the field....the shadow.

With a nod from her, the shadow moved swiftly into action, diving from its previous position toward the knight that accompanied the Scathachian. With its chilling touch, it'd drain a little bit of his strength with each attack it made until the deleterious effects would catch up to him and claim his life.

That dark, malicious grin never left her as she watched the two fight futilely against her dreadful creations.

As true as her strike had been, that was as cold as the shiver that ran down her spine. That beast, that foul anomaly was not only still moving, but charging her! Being blinded had almost no effect on the ghoulish creature, and Sheryl was straight in its haphazard path. So startled was the young Scathachian warrior that she nearly missed the razor-sharp chakram as it caromed off the stone door jam, to the eaves and whistled its way back to her hand.

Her blue eyes were still wide with disbelief as the second of the beasts charged her, with Roland's voice in the background. "Dismember them!" She snapped her head toward his voice, but before she could focus her eyes on her knightly companion, she was slammed into. The force of the second beast slammed into her so hard that she was on her back in less than a heartbeat, staring into the rotting maw of the hellish ghoul. A thick, black viscous fluid was slathered over his decaying lips and tongue and set of the glint of sharp teeth that snapped before her in the waning daylight. Sheryl's instinct had kept her alive thus far as she was pushing both her own chakram and the artifact against the beast, trying to keep him from crushing her or devouring her...or both.

Her legs kicked as she tried to knee the creature off of her, though as she began to free her bottom self, she could feel the pressure of another set of claws. The half-decapitated ghoul was perhaps searching for his partner...or searching for the one that had taken his eyes from him! Sheryl knew that she had moments, and even in those moments, fate may not be so kind to her. But she had to do her part to at least give Roland the opportunity to get the possible Scathachian relic she held back to Isuelt and the Sanctuary.

As she grit her teeth, she gripped her own chakram tightly. With a slashing motion that resembled a hand saw, she cut into the peeling layers of muscle and sinew on the creature's front paws as they pinned her down. The creature began to howl in what Sheryl presumed was pain; this inspired her further. The stench from the ghoul was nearly unbearable, but she kept on until she heard a sickening >crack< of bone as her weapon was able to cut through the beast's arm.

However, before she could call out to Roland for help, or even begin on the ghoul's other arm, it was Sheryl who screamed aloud in pain. The first creature, the one she had initially thought she could take out with her well-aimed shot, was running its needle-like claws over her lower legs. Perhaps it was after more than its mistress' orders and wanted revenge? The serrated claws drew blood as they scraped, picked and sliced their ways from the blonde warrior's knees to her ankles. A warmth spread over the piercing pain, and Sheryl knew the cuts were deep.

What happened next was birthed of panic and desperation. With the black ooze of the beast's maw dripping onto her neck, Sheryl yanked open the small box that housed the ancient chakram. She reached inside, past the discolored cloth, to clutch the venerable weapon. And as the olive wood box tumbled off of her chest, she struck out at the beast's remaining forearm with the sharp outer edge of the prize this armored woman had come to claim from her.

The stench coming from the creature atop her chest was almost as stifling as the weight it laid upon her. Sheryl's fingers curled around the chakrams in her hands: one of her own, one was the mythological chakram of Scathach. She used the edges of the blades to push against the now two-legged ghoul on top of her. She could feel the ancient chakram pushing through the sinew and bone more easily than her own. This was certainly a plus in the priestess's favor because her legs were beginning to tingle, rather than hurt. At the moment, she would thank Scathach for small favors. She would later address the severity of her wounds.

The creature at her chest finally sniffed sharply and then jumped off of Sheryl, though it was more like a front-ended warble that sent him crashing into the wall of the small courtyard. It seemed as if the air had come back into her life, as she gasped a deep breath. Sheryl pushed up off of her elbows and tried to sit up...and came face to...well, half-face with the second of the ghoulish hounds. She saw that her lower legs were cut, she saw her crimson blood splashed without prejudice amid the shredded fabric of her white pants.

It was an instant really, though it felt like much longer...

The cool blue of her wide, innocent eyes focused on the shadowy silhouette at the other end of the small enclosed courtyard, the one who had demanded Sheryl hand over the artifact. The shadow's arms and hands were moving in an incredible rhythm of movement, and the words coming from her lips were anything but recognizable, even to Sheryl's learned mind. She was nearly hypnotized by Dracina's motions and her voice, but then a glint of steel caught her attention from the corner of her eye.

Turning her head, blonde ringlets spilled over her shoulder; her own movement made her feel dizzy, as if she were drunk. She tried to focus her eyes on Roland. There was a shadowy creature, a specter, closing in on him as the knight was circling around. She wanted to help him, she needed to help him. Sheryl made ready to launch her body up and off of the ground and to his rescue, "ROLAND!" But as she tried to move her legs, she found that she was unable to do so. Sheryl's lips parted into a soft 'o' as she looked around, focusing on her bloody legs. Perhaps she was injured more severely than it appeared. The nearly headless monster, however, was beginning to circle the young Scathachian and it wasn't long before his companion joined as best he could from his stationary position with his gnashing jaws.

That instant waned and dwindled and reality was back to full-speed. The realization was quickly setting in that she was in a lot of trouble as the priestess swallowed. Her knuckles cracked as she gripped both chakrams. She'd not go down without a fight, that was for sure. She made the decision to keep the artifact with her and use it to fend off the creatures she was faced with. However, her own blessed weapon, the one that had partially decapitated one of the ghoulish beasts, was jettisoned with pinpoint accuracy at the phantom that Roland was battling. Sheryl was praying that she could at least give the knight a moment's advantage.

She couldn't clearly see what happened to the man that Baron Alain DeMuer had sent to aide the Scathachians, however. Her world began to distort and slip from her consciousness. "Rol....." Her head felt heavy, and her body even heavier. Still, she gripped the ancient chakram and made ready to defend it and her life until the last...no matter what descended.

The ground underneath her back was cooling now and felt slightly sticky. And just like the blood-sullied blonde hair that was starting to stick to the cobblestone of the courtyard, her body was feeling as if it were glued in place. His words seemed so far away...yet as he screamed, Sheryl tried to reach out to him. Roland sounded as if he were in great pain, and she cursed herself for not being able to help him. The priestess tried to call out to him, though her voice was stilled in the back of her throat, refusing to spill past her tongue. All the while, those infernal beasts kept up with their growling, lunging and jaw-snapping.

Her vision was darkened, but she could still see...though she really didn't want to at this point. She was looking past Roland's shoulder as the specter was growing larger, coming closer. The only thing she could do was try the strength in her hands. She thanked Scathach, as her fingers could still feel and grip the arcane chakram in her hand; and she thought to defend Roland from the beast that was gaining on him. Only...as she blinked...that beast was not gaining on Roland at all. That beast was Roland. Fur and teeth and a hulking frame was in front of her, a great bear stood where her knight companion once did.

...grab onto him....and never let go...

Her brain was slowed and she chewed on Roland's voice in her ear, even though moments had passed since he'd said it. Her free hand, stubborn as ever, refused to lift, refused to reach for the fur that softly stood before her. Sheryl gritted her teeth and dug her proverbial heels in until she forced her free hand to lift. Gasping with the strenuous effort, she pulled a fistful of fur and sat up. A breath, then two, and she used every ounce of strength she had in her body to cling to that fur. Holding onto the bear's thick neck with one arm, the other hand clutching the antique chakram, she lowered her blonde head and buried her grimaced face into the warmth of fur.

The great bear roared when the vampiress' blade flashed and the lightning seared his flesh. He could feel the shadow's chill at his back, and the ghouls, even undeterred by a foe this size, continuing their clawing, biting assault. He was completely surrounded, and the only way out was straight through.

A single swipe of a massive forepaw sent both ghouls sailing into Dracina's path as the bear lumbered ahead. Like many creatures he could sense the path to the Sanctuary better than any sight- or scent-memory, and that path took him straight into the warehouse cellar. The locked chains snapped with his impact and the wooden doors splintered apart as he went sliding down a ramp into the pitch black basement, but he did not stop his momentum, bounding up to speed the moment he reached the smooth dirt floor at the bottom.

Wooden supports whiffed through his fur and bruised his massive shoulders but he could smell where the night air came in. He raced up another smooth ramp on the far end of the cellar and came out through the open loading dock, barreling out into a busy street. Somebody screamed. A Watch whistle shrilled.

"Hang onto me, Sheryl!" He turned north, north for the river and the Sanctuary beyond.