In the pristine snow dusting the streets of Rhy?Din, the color of Alysia?s clothing served as camoflauge. She was clad in a white corset and leggings, silvered suede boots, a white feathered cloak that reached nearly to her ankles. The effect conspired to make the exiled priestess look like the bloodless wraith she had nearly become, a creature painted with too little pigment save for the stark contrast of glittering scarlet eyes.

?Why don?t you wear something other than black, for once? Everyone in this damned city wears black every single day.? Emma had idly remarked, after Alysia mentioned her intention to attempt to draw out the would-be assassin with another trip to the Red Dragon Inn.

Alysia had muttered that she wore plenty that wasn?t black, but really, nothing else went with her coloring, and besides, it wasn?t like she was going to make a trip to the cold, empty Dark Lake Manor just to pick up a change of clothes just to have a drink and bait a trap. In response, the White Queen, rather exasperated, shoved Alysia into a closet and told her not to come out until she?d found something less morbid to wear.

After leaving the Red Dragon Inn, a young hellion had mistaken Alysia ? from behind, of course ? for the owner of the clothing, and had dashed slavishly across the street, exclaiming his undying and subservient affection for the White Queen. Upon realizing that the woman wearing the white feathered cloak was entirely too tall and red-eyed to be Emma Frost, he immediately attempted to cover his embarrassment and dismay with a series of loud, brash insults. Alysia responded by sating herself on his blood and leaving him a dazed, murmuring heap in an icy alley.

Tastes better than lemon juice, ichor, and salt, anyway, she thought, savoring the experience, rushed though it was. Avoiding the frozen mud, she stepped lightly across the surface of the dirty snow, then tugged the cloak free from her shoulders, examining it as she passed by a darkened shop window. She chuckled softly, and muttered, ?Emma will never forgive me if I return her cloak with bloodstains.?

Her quiet amusement drew the attention of a man huddled in the shadowy doorway of a tobacco shop. He wore, predictably, black, and he glanced at her as he stamped his feet, trying to keep warm. She met his eyes, and he stared at her. ?You!? He hissed at Alysia in recognition.

In nearly a single movement, he unsheathed a sword and swung it at her. Surprised, she stepped back, tossing the cloak aside and bringing her bare forearms up. In the space between heartbeats, Alysia recognized the black rune blade, the gleam of crimsor upon the hilt, the tracery of hellish energy coiling about the weapon, Angylsblud.

The assassin swung at Alysia. She danced back, away from the bite of his blade, and countered instinctively. The air quickly ignited at her fingertips and coalesced into a fiery, roiling sphere, a fireball which sheeted harmlessly around Sheagrandis and dissipated. The assassin permitted himself a grin, a confident expression at odds with the dull madness in his eyes, and the outline of the ornate bracers he wore glowed with protective runes for several seconds.

She sensed a faint tickle at the edge of her Shadow Shield, then immediately felt drained. Her heart skipped a few beats, and she struggled to catch her breath. Well... damn. Javan and Karthalan would have a fit if they saw me now. Damn.

?So predictable,? scoffed Sheagrandis. His voice resonated strangely, and Alysia thought that the sword was probably using his voice to speak. Blood and souls... ?So bound by the laws you made. You of all people... you should know you can?t try hurt another one of D?threndtalen?s Guardian Priests without suffering..?

Alysia growled, ?You?re obviously here to kill me, so shut up and fight.? She condensed a short blade from elemental ice and Shadow and closed, trying to get inside his guard.

The assassin priest tried to kick her away; she ducked away from his foot and gripped his right forearm with her left hand. Alysia twisted and bent her knees, yanking him forward. As he began to topple, she drove the dagger of frozen shadow through his bracer. A thin sheen of frost covered the runes, then the bracer cracked and fell from Sheagrandis? arm in three brittle pieces. A black and blue circle surrounded by a tracery of crazing lines marked the spot where the point of her dagger had pierced the pale tender, flesh of his wrist and broken off, shedding ice and Shadow into his blood.

She kicked him onto his back while he was staring at his wrist and tried to catch her balance, sickened from the backlash.

?You?ll pay for that,? muttered Sheagrandis as he scrambled to his feet, clenching his fingers around the hilt of the humming soulsword. He sounded petulant. His forearm looked mottled with bruises from elbow to wrist now. ?I know you?ll pay for that.

The ice is creeping through your veins, and the blade is hungry. . . Is your body going numb. . . ? does your arm even belong to you anymore? Alysia made eye contact with the corrupted priest, placing the shape of her thoughts in his mind. Doubt and fear might slow him enough for her to get Angylsblud back and end this duel without too much mess.

?You can slow me down, but you can?t kill me without killing yourself!? He swung at her again, and she narrowly stepped aside, feeling the wind of the blade?s passage near her shoulder. ?And it will only take a scratch from this damned sword to sever your soul and kill you. Just a scratch!? His voice rose with something like hysteria and the sword shrieked.

Gods and demons, but this fool talks too much.

Ayreg, predictably, was wearing his black.

The death knight skulked about, as he often does. He was never one to be shy of walking in the dark places of the night, and the streets were no different. He had almost gotten his shadow mare out of the stables, but couldn't find the groomsman to unlock her stall.

"And it will only take a scratch from this damned sword to sever your soul and kill you. Just a scratch!"

Serendipitous, perhaps, was that this night's walk came upon the scene of the man accosting this woman. Ayreg ignored it, at first -- he was no hero, after all, and he hadn't felt a noble bone in his body for the past some thirty years or so, by his reckoning -- but the flash of white was enough to catch his attention. The boots, the leggings, the corset.. even the cloak that was laying almost hidden in the snow, it all was familiar to him. There was a possibility that he had been oathsworn to one that wore those, though it was many years back. The odds of it being the same person would be... remote, at best, but Jodiah Ayreg was feeling rather fattened and bored from days spent in mind-numbing nothingness since the battle beyond the dark portal. His memory was hazy on the exact specifics surrounding his past relationship with her.


Perhaps it was the White Queen. He just didn't recall her being so tall.

"You were one of the Guardian Priests, you even fought in the Twilight War, and you swear by Varltesh? And you fools thought to judge me for betrayal of an oath..."

He turned and stalked across the street, careful of his footsteps. Leather boots, lacking the heavy rubber treads of the kind favored by many in this day and age, made no sound as he moved. He also forewent a scabbard for his runesword, as well -- true, it was safer to have the weapon tucked away, but then it made noise when drawn out. Leather makes a gentle scrap on drawn steel, and metal scabbards are even louder. This was now a moment for quiet; there was knife-work needed doing.

"..but we have learned there is power in betrayal. It is a fitting treachery that you'll die, mortal again, betrayed by your own blade, bitch."

The man, who seemed to Ayreg to be a bit more than a touch on the side of maddness, lunged forward. From his place behind the man, Jodiah was unsure if he hurt her or not, though the movement of pale flesh around the edge of the man's dark figure suggested a block or parry -- and her without a weapon of her own to do such a thing. The sword itself struck his attention as it was raised. Black, an etching of runes such as his own, and it seemed to wail.. not a physical wail, mind you, but Ayreg was more than familiar with the sound he almost thought he heard in the back of his mind. It was soulforged.

Perhaps the man was about to gloat again. Perhaps the man was about to make the killing blow. Perhaps he was about to cut her pursestrings and run. There were many possibilities for what he could have done in the next few seconds, with the White Queen before him.

He was able to do none of it.

The length of Jodiah's own runesword blossomed forth from the man's throat. Serrated edging near the base ripped flesh, sinew, and bone alike as it was thrust mercilessly downward upon him. He jerked the hilt, twisting the blade almost ninty degrees, and wrenched it out with a sickening noise. The man may have had a soul-forged sword, but it counts for nothing when you don't see the assailant from the rear.

Throwing the man to the side, that black soulforged sword clattering to the cobbles at their feet, Ayreg slides his own runesword back into its belt loop. Turning, he looked down at-- well, no, she wasn't the White Queen after all.

It was Alysia Skye. All in white. A blinding look for her, to be sure.

He gave her a deep, bowing nod, but it was a brief thing before he moved quickly to her side. Wordlessly, he passed his hand over her arm. Necromancy dealt with many aspects of life, and death, and one of the little known sides of it was its ability to heal injured flesh -- albiet in a far more painful manner than the standard priest or cleric could do. He shook his head, though, as he delved lightly at the wound. Scratch though it may be, it was beyond his own meager capabilities.

He looked up to her, then, and he knew the results of an injury suffered from a soulforged weapon -- they do not wound, they kill. At least, that's the case when dealing with a normal human. If it were Ayreg standing with that scratch on his arm, he would already have been dead.

Such was the esteem he held the High Priestess of Rhilshen in, that Jodiah quickly squashed the impertinent gesture to worry for her sake.

Offering his arm to support her, Jodiah spoke at last, his words soft, "Where would you like to go, Mistress Skye?"

Alysia looked up at Jodiah and muddled through a few potential responses to the death knight's question. The first thing that sprang to mind, Where did you come from and what the Hell are you doing here, was inappropriate for a number of reasons.

"You mean, where would I like to die," she eventually muttered, forcing herself to speak distinctly. "That is inevitable at this point. But at least you got that treacherous slime." Her eyes were scarlet and clouded, elven features drawn and wan, and she took the arm he had offered.

"But if I have to die, I'd rather do it at home." Yet home is so far away, thought Alysia. The wraith flung her free hand out, tracing a narrow, glowing arch in the air. A velvety blackness, beyond which some uncertain movement could be seen, was defined by that silver arch. "'s a shadow gate," she explained, "to Rhilshen. Can manage tha' much."

The dark expanse of the shadow gate gave way to a narrow hall brilliant with yellow candlelight and the slightly iridescent illumination of magelight. The hall was dominated by a long, dire-oak table and was crowded with perhaps a dozen arguing people. Seated wearily at the head of the table was Alaric, a tall young man with long, unruly yellow-gold hair and sapphire blue eyes. A slim circlet of scaled gold rested upon his brow. He was dressed in dark red and black, and looked distressed, even anxious. To his left was Javan, a man of similar height and lean build, though fine lines at the corners of his dark eyes betrayed him as much older. His hair was shoulder-length and jet black, and his skin was olive-tanned.

Both men stared at the pair who stepped silently through the void shadow gate. Javan studied the pale, wounded priestess and the death knight who accompanied her; perhaps recognizing Ayreg from decades past, he nodded, but said nothing. It was reciprocated with the faintest of nods from the death knight.

?It seems the subject of our debate has decided to join us,? commented Alaric quietly. ?Thus rendering further discussion pointless. Hello, Mother and. . . whoever you are.? His voice cut through the council?s rising arguments and silenced them for a few moments while they gawked at Alysia and Lord Ayreg.

If Jodiah was about to introduce himself to this committee, he made no sign of it. The self-proclaimed guardian of Alysia Skye raked his eyes across the room and its occupants warily.

?Alaric, Javan,? said Alysia almost inaudibly to her son and adopted son. ?Get these other people out of here.? The silver-haired wraith loathed the weakness audible in her voice, but was appreciative of the illusion of strength that Ayreg allowed her to maintain.

An overweight, apple-shaped woman with extremely short, spiky gray hair and a ruddy complexion maneuvered her bulk in her seat and gasped in melodramatic shock. The wattled skin of her throat trembled as she ponderously stabbed a stubby finger in Alysia?s direction. ?Perhaps the Emperor has forgotten that he exiled his noble mother from this realm. Lady Skye must not remain here, for the punishment is death.? Murmurs of vague assent followed this statement. Jodiah's hand lightly gripped the leather-bound hilt of his runesword. He looked like a compressed coil ready to spring.

Javan got to his feet and strode quickly to stand behind the rotund, gray-haired woman. She shrank as he approached. ?Councillor Chiona, whether or not she remains here, the Lady Skye will die. So do us all a favor and shut the hell up.? He smiled coldly and showed the points of his fangs.

?Nevertheless, it is the law. We are all bound by the law. She has no authority here anymore. The law holds that she must die.? The large, ruddy woman smugly folded her arms over her chest, wrinkling her robe of bright green embroidered silk. Her watery blue eyes were now fixed on Alaric, in challenge. The youthful Emperor growled and ground his teeth at her.

?She is dying, you daft bitch, that?s why I called this meeting!? Alaric exploded in frustration. ?Every damned member of her bloodline felt her take that wound from a . . . a soulsword.? He stammered as his eyes fell on the blackened blade held by Jodiah Ayreg.

?-It wasn?t him, Alaric. Get the others out of here. I don?t want them to watch me die.? Alysia sounded tired.

"Leave us. Everyone except Javan and... you." He nodded at Ayreg, then continued speaking.

Jodiah Ayreg was without expression as Alaric ordered the council out, and only barely tilted his head when he was going to be allowed to stay. It would have been amusing to see Alaric try and have him removed, what with that soulforged sword tucked down into his belt. Jodiah Ayreg could use it, then, and rip the man's throat out like--

He blinked. No, he didn't wish to kill Alaric. He would, if it came down between him or Alysia, but it didn't seem to be going that direction. No, he most certainly didn't wish to kill Alaric. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he heard the dark sound of the spirit used in the creation of the soulsword. They were, normally, quite mad.

As if from a great distance he felt... something; like he heard something howling at him, a hidden voice filled with an unquenchable thirst for living things, filled with a hunger for pain, filled with frustration. The voice seemed to whisper in Jodiah's ears, right at the brink of understanding, and within it.

"Flesh so fine, so fine to tear, to gash the skin; skin to strip, to braid, so nice to braid the strips, so nice, so red the drops that fall; blood so red, so red, so sweet; sweet screams, pretty screams, singing screams, scream your song, sing your screams..."

He pushed the voice down as hard and as quickly as he could. When it finally ceased, he let out a long, shuddering breath.

?Your bloodline is cursed, Lady Skye, and I take great pleasure knowing you will die, betrayed by your own blade.? the fat woman said.

He blinked, again. Everyone was in different places now. The fat woman was at the door, now, and Alysia... Had it taken him that long to overpower the will of the soulsword?

Alaric nodded to the other man, Javan, who started after the woman in the green robe. In the interim, Jodiah slid his hand up onto Alysia's arm, and gently pressed it back down toward her side.

"Do not exert yourself, Mistress." he said to her, softly, barely an audible whisper at all. Hardly the thing that was proper to be said in such a moment, but certainly something that needed to be said, if low enough for Alysia's ears only. "You must hold what strength you have."

Formal and respectful as he was, the death knight had a knack of abandoning all ceremony to speak the truth when it needed to be said. He had always been that way, though nowhere near as formal and respectful in years past. Stubborn, perhaps, even now -- there is little to a man too easily biddable.

At least, insomuch as he was concerned.

"The council may return, Javan. It is over with." A low voice intoned, muffled by layers of woolen tapestries, warm wood paneling, and the dark stone that lay beneath the panels.

Rhilshen's Master of Assassins shrugged and opened the door. He gestured with eloquent formality, indicating the councilors should precede him. Understandably, they hesitated. "Go on," coldly prompted Javan. "Get back in there."

The councilors traipsed in single file, with mincing, hesitant footsteps. Several of them gasped and fell silent as they entered the chamber, a few taking their seats, the rest standing to the side. Curious and impatient, the large, spiky-haired Ambassador from K'Thaen province attempted to force her bulk through the door at the same time as the willowy and petite Ambassador from Destil. Javan grabbed Chiona's wrist and twisted slightly, mouthing the words, "Wait your turn, Madame."

Chiona wrenched her arm free and bustled in with a hurried air of smug self-importance. She immediately looked toward the head of the council table, prepared to offer some trite, soothing words to her Emperor to comfort his misguided grief upon the death of his mother.

Instead, she saw Alysia seated at the head of the table. The woman was still clad in white, but looked horribly healthy, instead of weak, wounded, and fading. The death knight, Jodiah Ayreg, stood flanking her, his hand upon his runesword. Javan had seated himself at the foot of the table and was holding one of his daggers, apparently examining the blade for imperfections. Chiona thought that the man was smirking at her.

Before Chiona could sputter out her indignation, Alysia stood. "Many of you had forgotten that my son was the Avatar of D'threndtalen, the Guardian God of Rhilshen. Recognizing the challenges this realm will be facing in the future, your Emperor is a mere Avatar no more; he has transcended the limitations of mortality and is the physical incarnation of D'threndtalen. "

"I don't believe this," muttered Chiona. Her face was white with rage and fear, and she spoke louder. "How are we to know that you didn't kill your own son, take his blood to heal yourself, and concoct this story? You've killed all of your other offspring, haven't you?"

"I killed all of the failures. Alaric was not a failure," Alysia calmly retorted. She looked pointedly toward the windows, which had been flung open to admit the cool night air. The thunderous beat of leathery wings preceded the appearance of a massive, gold-scaled dragon head at the windows. Glittering ophidian eyes focused on the council chamber as gleaming jeweled talons gripped the windowsill. Stone cracked and crumbled under the talons.

The dragon spoke, and there was something of Alaric's intonation apparent in the deep, sibilant words. "Even in exile, my mother always remained the High Priestess of Rhilshen, and the Guardian chose to acknowledge that. It was necessary for me to take this form not only to heal her, but to prepare for the coming battles with the Dark Ancient. Alysia Skye stands before you as a matter of Divine Right, and she will be Emperess of Rhilshen."

"This is a ludicrous charade!" Chiona exclaimed, slamming her hands upon the table and looking wildly at the other councillors. She attempted to exhort them to her passion, but they stared at her mutely. "Surely you can't believe this! In the absence of the Emperor, we rule! Not some savage, exiled mongrel who's killed her own children! Dark Ancient? pah!" She spat on the table.

"Enough!" Jodiah Ayreg left Alysia Skye's side then. His hard, green eyes staring coldly at the portly Ambassador from K'Thaen province. He moved down the length of the table in measured, calculated strides, turning his gaze to rake across the gathered others. They stepped back as he approached.

His voice rolled out to them, like the sound of an empty snake's husk grinding against rock. "Kneel before your Emperess."

Chiona's considerable jowls shook with indignation, sputtering a few times before forming coherent words. "Who are you to give such a command, peasant? I, for one, will do no su--"

Runesword was wrenched free from its belt loop, and the icon-etched warsword swung in a wide arc. Ambassadors gasped, pulling away and a few even crying out in anger or surprise. The few that had taken seats stood to the rough sound of wood scraping the floor, and more than a few daggers were unsheathed. The arcing runesword bit into the base of the Ambassador from K'Thaen's neck, slashing through it in a vicious, singular blow, proving that fat made poor armor.

Her body slumped forward onto the table she had been standing next to, like some brief supplication to Alysia Skye, seated at its head. Gravity took its toll, though, and Chiona's chunky figure slumped to the ground with a wet thump, unmoving.

Her head hit the table, and rolled. Leaving behind a trail of blood and bits of sinew, it came to a stop in front of Alysia, lifeless eyes staring up in shock.

Jodiah Ayreg turned around on his heel, glaring holes into the other ambassadors. His voice was cold, and emotionless, like dead leaves burning on the ground. "You will kneel, and swear allegiance to the Emperess of Rhilshen... or you will be knelt."

The other ambassadors did not require as much convincing as Chiona did.

Jodiah Ayreg and Javan were the only two not to be on their bellies like worms. He looked out over the kneeling ministers and ambassadors, swearing fealty for the returned Emperess, and a gleam of satisfaction shown in his brilliantly green eyes. Turning to Alysia again, he bowed his head deeply to her.

"Rhilshen, Emperess. . . is ready to serve," the death knight said, formally.

Later, throughout the city of Rhilshen, people woke with the dawn, going about their day-to-day activites as they are apt to do. When their eyes rose to the great fortress of Rhilshen, they beheld a banner waving from its greatest height. Across a field of scarlet flowed the sinuous form, like a great serpent devouring itself in a circle. Men came, stunned and frightened, from the fortress to speak in hushed tones of what had happened in the night, and men and women thronged the streets, weeping as they shouted.

"Alysia Skye has returned!" they cried, "The Emperess has returned!"