As it turned out, it was well and truly good that they'd waited. Given the Chapter house time to relax a bit, to cool off.
The relative openness of their actions at the Brawl held hidden motives; there was enough information, spotty and most often incorrect as it was, about the redneck on the streets for plans to have been made on the opposing side of the fence. Enough people knew that when such contests arose in the Slums she often attended, more often than not with at least one guest, for a trap to have been laid. Though they had no idea how connected (and to whom or what) Thorn was, they'd known she'd be there, and had known that her hackles would have been up enough to investigate, in person.
Another trap had been set, layers in place to snare the meddling woman and any who'd gone in with her, had she been foolish enough to follow through with a next day intrusion. The week's wait had the priesthood doubting their information, troubling their sources in ways that were both subtle, and not. With each passing day they'd grown more lax; this particular House was young yet, with few elder members in their midst. Young and arrogant as all of a certain age were wont to be. Arrogant as members of any society who'd been, as of yet, unchallenged in their work. Arrogant as any who thought their maneuvers well enough hidden in an area known for its decay and rot had gone unnoticed, or simply ignored for the sake of expedience.
What they, in their complacency, hadn't counted on was the redneck's tenacity, or what her curiosity could, and would do to drive her on when there was a problem or knot in front of her. They also hadn't considered that at least one in their midst, was not pleased with the way things were slated to go. They hadn't counted on one of their number being pragmatic enough to feed information to a pair of outsiders when asked in just the right way.
You'd think a group such as they would know better than to give their trust to a necromancer who'd been willing enough to join their ranks.
Very nearly Thorn followed the path of distrust that her shadowy opponents should have. In the end she bit her tongue, gritted her teeth and extended just enough trust to take him at his word, on several points. When it came to the layout of the house, and the placement of its guardians, she was grateful enough, or would be later, to regret her suspicion. A little.
The House was small, new enough formed that, to date it was only stray animals disappearing in the night. They hadn't graduated to anything larger yet. The first of the guardians had been an illusion, and it was a good thing they'd been warned else they'd not have made it, alive, past that point. As it was, it'd been difficult to hold to the necessary lack of belief long enough to survive and pass. The second, had been all too real. And at one time alive. A flesh golem, depending on its parts and the state of those parts when they'd been bound together, was at once a horrific creation, and a terribly sad one. When done hastily, or too if the parts were too fresh, there were lingering traces of the pains and ills of those who'd gone into the making of the thing.
Even as it did its level best (and that had been damned good enough) to destroy the two unlikely interlopers, there'd been the desire in it to be destroyed and put back to rest. When at last the creature had been reduced to a pile of moldering, putrefying flesh, the redneck and the welder had both been grateful for the forethought of healing items. And for the respite of a fine-detail search of the ground floor.
A search which, turned up nothing on the first go. Ever prepared, they played rock-paper-scissors to determine if they'd leave and burn the house to the ground behind them, or continue searching. The welder won, Dave's choice was to keep looking. Under the table in the kitchen scrape marks in the wood lead them to a hidden hatch that, when lifted revealed a vertical shaft, its bottom lost in darkness. Hands in various stages of decomposition lined the walls of the drop, reaching out when they sensed unwelcome visitors. A fireball leading them, and another item to lessen their fall and ease their landing, the duo dropped down the shaft.
Dropped down into total darkness that even the eyes of a summoned Hound could not fully pierce. Though the Hound had other senses that came to bear. Invisible assailants in the dark, did not have to worry about telltale shimmers around their outlines when they moved to attack, or retreat. Wounded and bleeding, the welder took brief refuge behind Thorn when she drew another wand and began shooting off more fireballs. Which, admittedly, wasn't the best of ideas in an enclosed space where the smaller of the two was protected from fire.
Protected from fire, but not from percussive force, both the redneck and the welder were scorched and suffering from several cracked or broken bones by the time she finally realized the Hound had relaxed. Might have been easier for her to see that, if he hadn't also been behind her. Being an astral creature didn't keep one from being sent back wounded, or from suffering a type of death that kept one bound to that plane for weeks.
The master of the house turned out to be much easier to find than either of them had expected. Easier to find, but nearly impossible to kill. With the weapons they had at hand, their battle with the Master had nearly taken their lives, more quickly than any other challenge they'd faced in the house. Spells didn't touch the male, they either passed through or rebounded, blades seemed to bounce off or slide away as though turned by some unseen armor. In desperation they transported themselves, and the Master to the ground floor once again.
And found themselves surrounded by robed figures, at least until a lucky jab of the redneck's right hand finally managed to get past the Master's steel rib cage, and blades slid home through his heart.
For her, everything had faded then, darkening around the edges as though looking through a tunnel.
One of the devoted had a psionicist's art, and a very deft touch. There were methods to use when breaking a person, tactics to employ when convincing some headstrong fool of a human woman to back down and stay out of the way. Those methods had worked countless times before when he'd put them to use, found the right buttons to push, the right cords to twist and pull. The Second was surprised, and enraged when those methods did not have the desired affect.
He'd threatened the very existence of everyone she called family. Given glimpses of the years long torment they would endure at the hands of his brethren if they were lucky, and he's shown her the puppets they would be, with just enough of their consciousness clinging to their rotting flesh to realize what they were, if they were not-so-lucky. He'd promised, and shown, her the ruination of everything she'd ever touched, everyone she'd ever so much as spoken to in passing. He'd shown her this, and felt all of her shrink back from it. He hadn't counted on the backlash when she rebounded. Hadn't counted on the traces of the Outer Planes (Lower and Upper) he felt gathering within her as she found her mental feet and fought back as best she could.
The little woman, who was more than she seemed, gathered her rage and instinct around her and pushed back against the intrusion she'd finally figured out was only in her mind. Sneered and spit in the face of threats that made her want to gibber and wail in some dark hole where it was safe. And she promised something in return.
The redneck promised War.

His name was Jeran. A youngish man, filled with foolish pride at the position he held. Fearful that one day he'd come up against something he'd not be able to defeat, or have destroyed at the snap of his fingers. Looking into the shadows for assassins and murderers where there were none. His mind creating enemies where there had been none. His ambition overreaching and reckless, his power was great. And he was dangerous. Pock marked from a disease having run its course when he was a child, with pale skin and hair, he'd given his life to the pursuit of power, to the having of it. To the wielding of it.

Such vital information had been given, with no attempt at reaching an accord. The man who'd so freely offered what Thorn had been searching for from the beginning of what had become a not-so-private war, had had no fear of the two who'd brought his House down above him. Neither he nor his controlled Balor had anything to fear from the two humans in front of them. Blind as he was, Creation Master Geoffrey hadn't felt fear in so long he didn't have a memory of the memory of its last touching him.

This house was the second that had fallen that night; Thorn's war had become Dave's as well, though the welder's reasons were much more visceral and immediate than the redneck's had been. Saris, a cousin of Thorn's blood, lead a team into another House in another part of the city. And, while the other House had fallen to ruin with a minimum of life lost on the part of its invaders, it seemed Thorn's luck held true. It also paid better.

They'd voted, the redneck and the welder, to kill Geoffrey and his Balor, and had gone into the cavern he'd made into his laboratory and home with every intention of doing so. That was, until the chill of the room had cooled blood running at a boil and Thorn finally heard the warning in her blood. Until she'd realized, and accepted that had they tried, they'd have died. Died and had their bodies raised to be used by the Cult against the others in Thorn's "army". The implications of that had chilled her to the very center of her being. If they'd gone ahead and attacked, the Cult would have had access to every member of Thorn's heart family, as well as foot holds in every sector of the Slums that the redneck had begun helping to improve. Carte Blanche to spread their wings and destroy every living thing they touched.

The power at the Blind-man's finger tips had been, most humbling for the two mortals. Beyond the strength of the Balor, which Geoffrey could and would call upon with impunity, his own had been a tangible thing. Crawling through the air, shivering along the redneck's skin and brushing against her senses. Dave, his need to wipe the Cult from the face of Rhy'din was so great that if he'd been aware of the man's strength, he'd given no sign. His single-mindedness really was understandable in the course of previous events. No one liked knowing they'd been used, even when they didn't know the full extent of that use.

Along with the name, they'd been given other, equally invaluable information. A number. A goal to work toward. Fourteen or sixteen, Geoffrey hadn't been able to be more clear than that as there'd recently been plans to open another few Chapter Houses. Whether or not those plans had come to fruition he could not say. Though, with a negligent wave of a hand he'd indicated a map on the wall. A map of the sectors they'd been moving in to, moving in on. All with a Chapter House in its center. In the voice and manner of all crotchety old men faced with minor annoyances he'd dismissed them.

Crankily asserting that he didn't care if the rest fell so long as he was left in peace to continue his work and studies. And so long as that idiot Jeran was, chastised for his stupidity in beginning this hidden conflict. The Cult would survive on other worlds, on other Planes, where they could carry out their work in secrecy and silence just as they had for centuries. The loss of ground on a handful of worlds and Planes didn't bother him that much. Only the strong had the right to survive after all.

Finally, finally! The tunnel she'd been charging head long down was showing light at its end. Was showing that there was an end and it was attainable. Plans were made, discussed, reworked and fine-tuned in preparation. Weapons were sorted, inspected, sharpened, repaired, and handed out. Armor was altered to fit the wearer, or reworked into something new entirely. Mercenaries were hired, more than a few turning down bonuses in favor of knowing they fought for a Cause that was right. For the chance to say they'd fought for, and done, the right thing for the right reasons and people. And for the promise.

The promise of regular pay, an entirely new world to fight for and on, the chance to attain position and rank that few would have ever had before.

With "Tim" (the name she'd hung on the limping necromancer who'd first approached her from within the cult), explaining, in fine detail so that even the redneck and the most simple minded of her army could understand and accept, their spirits and morale rebounded. Rose higher than it had been in the long weeks of this conflict. Words could either deepen a burden, or lighten it depending on the intent and skill of the speaker. And the simple truths imparted.

The Cult, Jeran in particular, had underestimated Thorn's need to protect what she held dear, her sense of right and wrong. When a group of people had built their base of power up by destroying and using the life around them, morality was not something that entered into the equation. Threats and bloody promises had worked so many times before, they had no idea what to do when they didn't. Thorn was just one woman with a handful of friends, surely there was little she could do to stop the brethren in the long run. She didn't have the resources that the Cult did, nor the discipline, the history, the resilience. She didn't have the drive to see this through to the end. And, if she got too close, managed to damage the Cult too far, they'd offer her Jeran's life, taken by one of their own over the course of days. He was the one who'd started this little mess after all.

That at least was the common consensus among the more hide-bound, traditional Masters and members. The younger tended to agree. But there were some, their numbers difficult to judge, who were starting to see a future they didn't like. There were a few who had no voice in meetings or plans, but who could see the way of things. And they felt fear. Fear and the increasingly certain knowledge that they would not be able to stop the redneck, that they could not win this. They'd be lucky to survive if they stayed.

Those thoughts among some of them were only reinforced over the coming weeks when patrol after patrol, procession after procession, either simply did not return, or had to be carried back to their Chapter Houses by the few survivors left strong enough to tote or drag the bodies of their fellows. When entire Chapter Houses were leveled in the course of a night, or hours, their unease grew.

While the younger Houses were given orders to pull back into older, better established Houses, those who'd glimpsed the possibility of annihilation, made plans to leave Rhy'din for good. The thought of betraying their own, or putting off their robes and forsaking their order, never once crossed their minds.

"I might need to be resurrected, again, before the end, but I'll see it through.
"I gave them two choices, door number one or door number two.
"On the whole, they chose door number two. They die.
"The Blind-man and his Balor seeing-eye-dog live, I need to pass this along to Mr. Knots.
"And decide how the hell, and if I even want to, I'm going to run into my uncle Surgot (who did some hard steering into the crazy skid), and tell him that the blind man says hello.
"I've never met Surgot, and don't really want to. He's a whole new level of bat-sh*t crazy that I'd rather not experience."

"Today. Today. Today.
"Today is the day. Today is the day we go in.
"Sooner than I'd thought and later than I'd hoped.
"By dawn tomorrow, it'll be done and over with.
"Thank the dead gods of a thousand worlds.
"Today this war ends.

Finally the day arrived. The day they'd spent two weeks and more preparing for. The army would be split, each segment following its leader into the House designated for it to hit.

As drawn out as this war had been, within twenty four hours it was over. They'd struck, that many headed hydra who'd been gathered at a redneck's request, though the money she'd offered had done almost as much to draw them in, as one unit. At the specified time, all the remaining Houses had been hit.

And as those smaller houses were having their front and back doors, literally blown off their hinges, the Mother House was being assaulted. For the first time in the Cult's history, one of their new Mother Houses had been found, had been attacked. And, before the sun rose, would be razed.

Fierce as the fighting had been leading up to that point, what raged inside those walls took them to their limits and beyond. Broken, beaten, slashed and hacked, scorched and crisped, torn and bleeding, they'd made their way down hall after hall, past trap after trap. Through ambushes meant to stall and into flanking maneuvers meant to decimate. Through scores of doll eyed children, their faces pale, many of them sobbing as they cut them down, the invaders swore never again. Not on this world or another. Never again would this Cult be allowed to spread its brand of evil so long as one of them remained alive to fight.

Down corridors and around bends. Through doors and over pits. Down slanting shafts with walls broken by razor edged lips to take the fingers of those desperate enough to grab hold. Past minor demons and lesser devils. Through initiates and slaves, through priests and mages, a bloody swathe was cut.

In one of the last, deadly crushes where blade met blade and spells flew into their midst to scatter human bodies like bowling pins, an assassin's steps had gone unheard. His approach unseen, his target too distracted by the three trying to move in to surround. With one hand planted swift and firm, fingers curling to take in the swell of the skull, the other wrapping around to cup the chin from the other side. So little force needed really. So little pressure to snap the neck and kill the head of the beast who'd hounded them. Dogged nearly their every step for months. And when her fellows turned on him, tore him to bleeding pieces and tattered bits, he was smiling at the work well done. Didn't take that much to kill a redneck.

The group's spirits had been flagging, dropping minute by minute during the bottle-necked stalemate in the subterranean corridor. Those spirits rose, determination and anger strengthening their limbs and resolve, when the blonde woman so many had come to at least like, went down. The mercenaries, though they'd fought beside assassins often enough, often employed them when necessary, discovered an abiding hatred for those that wore midnight blue in the following minutes. A wordless shriek of that hate and rage echoing in front of them, they crushed the brethren in front of them. Ground their corpses to paste against the confining stone walls, and more than one of the surviving invaders p*ssed on the dead that'd remained relatively whole.

For a number of the almost-soldiers, instantaneous healing, even of something that was considered a death blow was not something new. It was however not something they saw everyday, not something they were used to. More than one gaped when a very wobble-legged Thorn, her face pale and her skin clammy to the touch, stood under her own power. Amethyst eyes were hollow as though she hadn't quite made it all the way back yet, slender jaw set as her teeth ground together.

"Almost."

Almost died there. Almost lost everything. Almost done. Almost at the end of this. At least, the end of this for her.

There, past the iron bound door that had blocked the corridor before it'd been blown off its hinges. In that circle of blue-ish light, surrounded by the elders who'd been so sure they'd never get this far, was what was left of the man Jeran.

Painstakingly they'd taken days to bring him to that point. The point where he begged to be allowed to die had taken the utmost care. An artist's work with an assortment of tools and implements. Translucent strips of skin, removed one layer at a time, hung on a many level display fanning out behind him. Only his face remained untouched and whole.

Pallid eyes wheeling in their sockets, he'd long since given up hope for forgiveness. Given up even the thought that this simply was punishment for his transgressions. A slap on the wrist for his mistakes. Gibbering, without the will power left to even chew off his own tongue, or swallow it and end his suffering, Jeran listened while his superiors, those aged men who'd taken him in after his family left him to die on a world whose name he could no longer remember. The respected men who'd promised him every thing his heart desired in exchange for his soul. In exchange for his very existence. He listened to them trying to strike a bargain with the woman he'd come, over the last few days, to believe was the collective soul of every thing he'd ever killed sent by his God to test him, sent to break him.

"There is no need for further bloodshed. As you see, the one who wronged you, the one who threatened your loved ones, is here." The Eldest's voice was smooth, his orator's skills polished and refined through long years of service to their cause. This, of his many arts, perfected. The soft, wheedling tones one used when reasonably speaking to someone who merely disagreed with you. The cajoling notes when trying to bring a wayward, head strong young one back to the path they know in their hearts was right. He could either punish, or reward with words alone, bargaining with this woman should be a simple enough matter. Surely she would accept what they were offering her, the destruction of the one who'd set her on this path in the beginning.

"All we ask is that you take this. Take him and consider the scales balanced." With a rustle of heavy velvet he'd pointed to the nearest tunnel, the shortest route back to the surface and out. "Take him, do what you will with him, and leave us to our work. Leave us to carry on our business, and this" another grandfatherly gesture had taken in her rag-tag group in such a manner as to indicate the whole of the war. "Will be over for you. You can all go back and carry on with your lives as though none of this had ever begun. It would be like, nothing happened." Surely she would see the wisdom in that. Surely she could see that the brethren held the upper hand here. She had to know that they would crush her and the fools she'd gathered with promises of gold and foolish lies of glory.

Amethyst eyes flicked weighing glances between the Council, what was left of Jeran, and the fighters at her back. Thoughtful, considering, she'd tipped her head to the right while trying to decide whether the bargain was one they'd keep or break as soon as it was struck. Right handed index finger held up, the red smeared blade that curved past the tip of that finger catching the light.

"To clarify. I take what's left of this one," negligent, distasteful flick of right handed fingers toward the slow-dying Jeran where he was propped against a giant oak X. "Walk out of here with it, and we put all of this behind us? No harm, no foul? Y'all leave mine alone, we leave you alone, and it's all good?" Tempted, so very tempted.

The Eldest beamed a smile that never came close to reaching his eyes. "Of course." Indulgent father to favored child, his left hand came across his chest as his head dipped into what might be considered a bow. "All ... water under the bridge. A misunderstanding between neighbors." Children break windows all the time. When she stepped back, that same considering expression on her face, he leaned back in his chair sure she'd see the way of it. This war had cost the brethren too much. Too many fine young initiates lost, too many Houses reduced to rubble. Too much attention to their very existence! The look he shot the much reduced Jeran was full of venom for the brief moment it lasted.

Behind her, she felt the unease of the men who'd fought with her. Felt their doubt ramping up every moment she went without spitting in the old man's face and telling him just where he could shove his offer. Once more she looked from Jeran to the Council. A shaft of wood, slender and smoothed with great care, pulled out of her back pocket to tap against the palm of her hand before she turned to face the men she'd made promises to. A half elven woman, one of those among their ranks equally skilled in spell-work as she was with blade work, tensed and began edging back.

Delicate desperation while digging at the last scroll case at her belt. Her movements camouflaged by the press of bodies around her, she unrolled the scroll she'd been given as a last resort by the redneck's cousin. Now she knew why such an item had been given to her. That thrice damned human was as insane as the beasts they'd been killing! In a soft whisper that barely stirred the air as it left her lungs, words of magic tumbled one after the other with her voice raising in volume without her control. As she spoke, the page cleared syllable by syllable, the magic within gathering at the call as it should. At least, she hoped that's what was happening. This spell was beyond her skill!

Thorn listened to the old man's continued wheedling, slowly turning to face the room once more. That slender shaft of wood was so springy when thumbs pressed against its tips. "That, all'a that sounds pretty damn good to me. Pretty fair too when it comes down to it. You get to go on about your business and we get to go on about ours." Wand shifted to her right hand while she rubbed her face and mouth with her left. "Gotta tell you, this sh*t's taken more outta me than I thought it would. Cost me more'n a bit to finance it y'see, then I had to outfit everyone when they didn't have the right sort of thing." Shrewdly she eyed the fine robes of the gathered Elders, measuring their worth and cost before turning a smile on the Eldest. "Course, that's just the price of the game yes? Can't expect to get out without payin' some thin'."

Smugly, he leaned to the left, his forearm resting on the chair's arm to take his weight. "With great effort comes great price my dear." Triumphant looks skewered the few in the room who'd dared suggest they use caution. The cowards who'd settled into their chairs and counselled retreat and hiding. They'd suggested giving up, letting this piece of dreck, this fleck of dross, this woman think for a moment that she'd won. "There have been losses on both sides, though I dare say yours were greater than ours."

Someone was murmuring something, a few among his brethren were fidgeting, shifting in their seats, and well they should. The shame of their actions should burn them for eternity. "Can I say that we have reached an agreement then?" It cost him nothing to be gracious to yet another of those he'd defeated.

Behind her, the half-elven woman's voice had risen almost the point of being clearly heard by the Council. Thorn pulled in a long breath that inflated her lungs to their fullest and let the air sigh out through her nose. "Actually, I think you can't." The apology in her voice almost sounded sincere. The sheer hell in her eyes when she lifted them from their momentary study of the floor in front of her boots, was most definitely truthful. When she brought the wand up and snapped it (an act that took entirely more force than it really should have, she'd have to find out how wands were actually made at some point in time).

Multi-colored sparks showered from the breach, splintered wood smoking even before they were tossed to opposite sides of the room. "I think, y'all done f*cked with the wrong redneck." And the scroll-bound spell behind her was released, here's hoping that it actually worked, a heartbeat later.

The Eldest recoiled, his avuncular expression dissolving in a snarl of rage at having his will thwarted by such a miserable excuse for an opponent. Even as he threw his hand forward to release a spell that shot a glob of acid at the woman and the idiots who gathered behind her, the group was gone. Whisked away by a shouted word from another female, the whole lot of them!

Around him the chamber's denizens dissolved into panicked attempts at escape. Desperation had more than a few trying to douse the increasingly distressing eruptions of sparks and shattered magic from the two halves of the wand. More than one, simply disappeared from their seats.

When the realization that the brethren had been defeated on a world where no one would have believed it possible, finally snapped the Eldest into useful action, it was far too late.

Wands created by arch-mages to spew forth storms of acid meant to be used to defend against armies, did not cause slight amounts of damage when they were broken. Nor did they work in any way resembling the way they should. A wand of acid storm, when its form was broken and the magic trapped within was released with no one controlling it, left a very wide, very deep, very smooth hole. And no one in the room when the back lash broke free stood a chance. No one who'd been left alive in the area stood a chance.

Was a good thing then that the area around the Mother House, a twenty block radius, had been emptied of living souls months before.

Sunrise found the army resting and recovering. The majority of those who'd signed up and gone in, survived. They'd likely never be the same and a good many of the younger ones would probably be looking for another line of work, but they'd survived.

Several of the older sell-swords would be returning to Saris' world when he left. They'd continue the fight there and give the troops that he commanded much needed reinforcements. The morale boost in knowing that those newly joining their ranks were seasoned, and had already helped destroy a faction of the Cult on another world, would prove invaluable.

A good many were sleeping. The deep, motionless sleep of utter physical, emotional, and spiritual exhaustion.

One was singing a mourning song in the language of her grandmother's people, kneeling in the Summer Glade where a battle axe was twined with summer flowers most often found in the far north. A memorial for a nameless man who'd died in her place weeks before, surrounded by blankets of daisies. When she rose to leave, finger tips trailed along the petals of roses and lilies on her way past.

The day was just starting, and already it was one of the most beautiful she'd seen in years.

"The Dance is all I can offer, so the Dance will suffice.
"My pain for their pain.
"My blood for their blood.
"My release for their release.
"Of course, it's not about my dying to make up for what I've done.
"It's paying for forgiveness, with pain and blood and perseverance and renewal.
"It's an old thing to serve as penance for the sin of living in the world as part of the world and having to do what's done to survive.
"There are some prices that should never be asked, some debts that can never be paid in full.
"All I can do is hope I can at least make a dent."