One Moo'r Plow

Ishila stepped over another crag and did her best to quash the profound sense of longing that filled her being. She should be excited, ecstatic, and overjoyed that her time had finally come. Instead, she felt nothing, and that was worst of all. For all that she tried, she had barely been able to stir emotion at the sight of tears in her father’s eyes as he hugged and told her to stay safe. Her mother’s pained silence had done little to stir anything within Ishila as she turned and left.

And now, she trudged over another cluster of rocks, in close pursuit of the party. Harsh, relentless sunlight broiled down from on high, a blanket of heat that did its best to smother her. Still, Ishila clutched her axe and soldiered on, bringing up the rear.

She was not the only new face among the party’s ranks. Several others had joined from the Verdant Dawn’s camp, and now near a dozen adventurers-to-be made their way up the slopes of the Redtip in search of ancient treasure, and an even older danger. The guide that wove their path ever higher was decent, but he was no Le’rish.

But he served his purpose, and as the sun reached heaven’s zenith, they emerged unto the peak. The stone itself bled here, crimson in color, barren save for the occasional bloom that struggled to grow.

“We’ve arrived.” A long, lanky man with a rogue’s smile and dissaffacted posture indicated the obvious. “Now we need only scour the peak’s entirety, dispel whatever magicks and traps hide the entrance, if any among this lot are capable of the task at all.”

He was among the several gathered from the Verdant Dawn’s camp. The man carried no weapons, at least none that were obvious to Ishila. He consulted with two others that stood near him as Etlos laughed, loud and boisterous. His face showed humor, but his scent conveyed none, the orc noticed. For her part, the group’s edges offered the most comfort.

“I would be delighted to tell you then, that we need not waste days, nay weeks in search of this entrance among these barren rocks.” The tiefling beamed and swept around the gesture grandly at the expanse of stone that lay before them. “For we have what no other expeditionary party to this Gods-forsaken place has had before.”

“A dwarf.” Said fellow grunted and withdrew a hammer-staff. “No stone can hide its secrets from a true son of the Underdark.”

Without another word, the small, sturdy manling strode across the rock, hammer raised to smite the ground every few steps. With naught to do, Ishila settled her back against a slab of stone that jutted skyward and surveyed those who she would entrust her life to.

Etlos, a reckless hedonist. She could smell the stench upon him even now, from this distance. A man who could fake it till he made it. Marile, the disaffected malcontent. Whatever schemes the elf had, she kept them close to heart and dissuaded all attempts to come near with a razor’s tongue and unfiltered, brutal honesty. Vargosh Stoneheart had only so far demonstrated a liver of steel, and now revealed that he could wield magic. An unseemly talent among sons and daughters of stone, or so she had been taught.

Their guide, an on-edge beastman, conversed nervously with the trio of mercenaries from the camp below. A lanky human in brown and green, with dark hair and darker complexion. Several others stood with him, all of varying height and seriousness. Some joked, others stood stoic. All reeked of nervousness. Separated from the rest, Ishila found herself approached and straightened as Marile drew near.

“”Ello.” She nodded briefly as the elf stepped close. Wisp thin and without scent, the elf unsettled Ishila. The skin was perpetually pale, without so much as a hint of tan under the harsh sunlight.

“You are a halfbreed.” Not a question, a statement.

“Yes, and?” The half-orc shot back, expression defiant.

“Nothing. Simply curious. You are unique. The first of your kind, even. I have never heard tell or seen another elf copulate with an orc, of all races.”

“And now you have.” She crossed her arms, already wanting the topic to bugger off. There was enough grief on her mind in relation to her race, buried deep. There was little want for more. ‘Are you satisfied?”

“Not at all.” The woman’s eyes slowly moved over Ishila as if surveying a quaint new distraction. Sizing up her muscles, lingering on her pointed ears and small tusks. “You are not optimal, but better than I would have expected.”

“At what?” Came Ishila’s scoff. A turned back was her only answer. Half-tempted to throw something at the haughty elf’s back, she instead settled back in to do naught but wait and boil beneath her armor. Mercifully, the boredom did not hold long, and shouts rang across the stone.

The dwarf had discovered something.

Ishila brought up the rear as the party congregated and found themselves before a wall of rock. The dwarfs’ hammer-staff smote the stone, and a massive web of cracks formed.

“Sealed shut.” Marile murmured so low that only Ishila picked it up. “That bodes well.”

Etlos was too busy exulting to the heavens to hear her, the sounds of his rejoicing serving to drown out anything the elf muttered further.

“We have crossed countries, walked through harsh deserts, flirted with danger all the way to find this place, and at last fate has seen fit to reward us!” He announced, arms spread wide. “Let our names live on in legend as the first to find this place, and the first to plunder its depths!”

“Wait, we don’t know if-” Ishila voiced her protests, only to be cut off as the rest turned to her.

“This is the adventurer’s life.” Etlos silenced her, and raised a clenched fist up. “We seek riches and laugh in the face of uncertainty! If you have the spirit, the thirst, then you will understand. If not, return to your farm and leave this life behind.”

Ears red-hot and face burning, Ishila dropped her head and looked away as scoffs came from the others. She was an adventurer now, Thrones-damnit. She would prove that, one way or another. For now, others reaped the glory of the find, and she tailed the rear once more. There was a serious few moments as the rest armed themselves fully, laid out a few plans and discussed formations. Throughout it all, unease pervaded the half-orc’s gut. The plans were laid before her, but she understood little overall. In her case, she was simply to guard the rear and be the muscle if it was required.

All too soon, the time came. Axe in hand and a few stolen fleshknitter potions at her belt, Ishila breathed in and crossed the boundary between the world and this dungeon.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

The air remained hot, even in the shade. No trap sprung from the floor, no monster emerged from the darkness. A moment passed, then another. Until she let out a shaky sigh of relief and began to follow the party into the darkened depths.

Etlos drew a saber from his belt and held it high with a hearty yell as Ishila blinked, momentarily blinded. Phantoms sprung to life around him, their bodies lighting up the darkened interior of this high hallway. An unorthodox way to provide light, but the glow they provided was crisp and flooded the stone walls. Inside a massive corridor, they traveled continuously downwards into the earth. Lifeless statues of alien beings were half-crumbled along the walls, their rocky forms dwarfing the party.

So high was the ceiling that Ishila could barely see it, as well as the lumps that coated it. Whoever had carved this tunnel had obviously not given it the same attention as the faded grandeur that they passed with every step.

Ishila remained silent and wary the entire time, on edge with every further step she took into this place. Only Marile seemed to share her wariness, as the others were content to boast and examine every small thing. The dwarf seemed fascinated by the statues and stone, only to be dragged further inwards as the Tiefling urged everyone along.

They passed through endless corridors, skirted around a massive, empty pit and passed through empty gates. This place was ancient. Anyone could tell that. Abandoned. Half-broken traps jutted from the walls, jammed blades that still gleamed without rust. Nary and corpse or bone decorated the empty lengths of stone hallway, however.

By the fourth gate, Ishila was well and truly on edge. There was something wrong about this place. Yet any concern she voiced was laughed off and waved away. If anything, Etlos moved even faster, spurred by a hunger to find whatever treasure was hidden in these depths. The path diverged, and one was chosen at random. Then another split.

Soon, Ishila found herself creeping down steep, spiraling staircases as the statues vanished, replaced by sigils and craved tapestries of stone. Multi-limbed beings offered up sacrifices to gods she didn’t recognize on perfectly preserved murals of iron. The worn corridors were tinged with color now, and above all, the walls seemed..fragile.

Yet through it all, she fought her own nervousness. She would be brave and venture these depths, not be spooked and yearn for home with every small detail. She was Ishila Flintfang, and no one would ever accuse her of cowardice.

They emerged into a new cavern, and she gazed in awe at a massive mural set into a titanic wall. The entire scene was built around a massive, upraised altar that housed a slew of wispy orbs atop it. Behemothic beings did battle with each other, set forever in stone. Smaller, alien creatures bowed before the titans, knelt in supplication even as their own brethren were devoured by these things.

So entranced was she that Ishila didn’t realize she alone still stood at the entrance. Only a loud click snapped her from that wondrous trance. Her eyes snapped across the room to where Etlos had liberated an orb from the altar and held it high.

A moment of triumph.

The spike that pierced his chest turned it into one of horror.

His scream drowned in rock as the ceiling shattered, and rubble fell throughout the cavern. Shapes tumbled amongst the thin slabs of rock, hidden by clouds of dust. Ishila whirled, gut tight and axe in hand as both walls of the corridor they had just walked through collapsed and revealed the silent, forms within.

Eyes dragged open and forms unstirred for millennia began to move.

The trap had been primed, lain in wait through the ages, and now its steel jaws snapped shut.

Ishila had always thought herself fairly tall, with an advantage that let her loom above what few peers she possessed. A mix of wiry elvish frame and orcish height left her with an innate advantage in many physical fields. Now, she furiously swung upwards, axe aimed at the long, multi-limbed creature that towered over her. It cut into the monster’s bulky, jagged skin, tore through its upraised arm, and gashed open the throat.

Shouts and screams mixed among the whirling dust, the chaos illuminated by flashes of light and surges of power. The orc ducked beneath a vicious lunge, slammed her form into the monster to topple it, and found it unmoved. Too sturdy for such a thin form. She jerked back on reflex and barely saw the wicked claw that passed a hairbreadth from her forehead.

Were the axe not enchanted, she doubted it would even have affected these monsters, came the thought as its magical edge struggled to separate flesh beneath another swing. A furrow of claws carved into the armor and left bloody tears down her back.

Pain came heartbeats later. Eyes bloodshot, she tore through one monster’s leg, stumbled forward and ducked beneath another blow, and split the legless creature’s skull open with an overhead swing as it toppled forward.

Pale, sunken eyes regarded her as she whirled to find more of these monstrosities. Amid the clouds of dust, she lacked the eyesight or smell to see how the other fared. Nor did she particularly care, here and now. She faced at least four of these pale creatures now, and however many more lurked within the haze.

Retreat was her best option. Only a fool would charge right into their midst. With that in mind, Ishila hopped backward, turned, and ran. Her armor was as effective as butter beneath those scythe-like claws, and much as she prided herself for being able to fight, certain death was certain death. Arms pumping, she charged through the dust, coughing all the while. Eyes wide, she move around a silent blow and dashed past the monster.

There was nothing to guide her path, save for the occasional flash of energy that shone through the clouds of dust like a fleeting ray of sun, only to vanish and leave her in darkness. Her foot struck something, and she looked down to find a corpse. One of the mercenaries, his eyes stretched open wide and body cleaved almost in twain. Bile rose in her throat, but she pushed on. No time for that. Death nipped at her heels as the orc ran towards the light, every near miss that swung from the darkness another death denied.

She ran towards the flashes of brilliance, even as they faded, became fewer and further between.

Only for them to fade entirely as she drew near. The light died in quiet whimpers, and the darkness reigned now. Quiet, unsteady, every direction promising the end. The halfbreed crouched, eyes wide, trying to see anything as the dust began to settle. She caught glimpses of steel string as the wire whipped soundlessly through the air, eviscerating anything it touched.

The elf lived, and danced amidst the carnage, cutting through the monster with contemptous ease. Long streams of steel string flowed from between her fingers, lashing through the gloom. Every flick sent creatures back to the dirt, bodies shorn apart.

Barely able to hold back the tide.

The elf vanished and appeared before Ishila before she had enough time to so much as blink. Firm hands seized onto her shoulders as the elf snarled. Ishila shook her head, blinked and realized she was saying something.

“-dead. Fucking bushbeard teleported himself out. Only you alive. Run. Flee. Don’t you dare look back. Tell them the dungeon has woken.”

With that, Marile shoved Ishila away and lept back towards the horde, wires flashing.

No time to process anything. She turned and ran. The elf had done something. Magic settled into the orc’s skull and something flared behind her eyes. Sweet agony blossomed. She stumbled mid-stride caught herself and found she could see through the gloom. A small spell, but a welcome one.

The walls were empty, she found. Broken open, hollow. Horror settled into Ishila’s stomach as she saw a few lone corpses slumped inside. Fears confirmed themselves as she rounded a corner and saw the mass of monsters that streamed before her. Hundreds of them. Thousands. All headed down the path the party had entered through.

A pack turned towards her as she stood, shocked. Instinct compelled her to turn and run. Desperation sped her limbs. Reason whispered she was trapped between two hordes. A half-crumbled section of wall offered salvation. Through sheer force of need, she ripped a corpse free and dragged it from its stone cocoon. Their footsteps drew near the bend as she wriggled into the hollow wall and jammed herself in among those that had not awoken from their slumber.

Pressed on all sides by stone and dormant creatures, Ishila waited, the sound of her own heart a drumbeat, her breath impossibly loud.

Death drew near. Trapped in the darkness, her breath came hard and fast, wedged in amongst the monsters. The sound of stone being scraped by claws passed long before she moved once more. Eyes wide, she stared at the stone for far too long before remembering she needed to move. By the grace of the Thrones Above, the dormant monsters did not wake as she ripped herself free of their embrace and spilled back out into the corridor.

Insanity presented her with a bafflingly dangerous plan. Follow the horde to escape. Without another option, she moved to do just that. Pressed against the stone, she clutched the axe in hand and peered around the corner. Empty space greeted her. No mindless stragglers waited to be dealt with or alert the others to her presence.

These monsters were anything but mindless, she reminded herself. This was not a shambling horde of undead. Slowly, cautiously, she followed. The statues and stone murals invoked only mild horror in her now. Parts of her brain were shut off to function with this, Ishila realized vaguely.

This much death and carnage in a short span had no profound effect on her. Even that thought lasted for but a fleeting moment as her thoughts were wrenched back to hyperfocus on survival. Her escape from this place was all that mattered now. The rest could come at a more convenient time. She stalked through the darkness, quick, low and quiet. Or as quiet as armor allowed.

She found the horde before it found her. A flood of monsters poured before her, all long, multi-limbed humanoids. She kept at the edge of vision and tailed the flood, heart pounding away all the while. Silent, as they were, their movements produced enough noise to mask her own.

Eyes darted back and forth as she kept glancing over one shoulder, expecting more to come at any moment. Only now did she realize how stupid this plan was. But fate smiled in her general direction this day, and she they drew near the entrance.

Only for that smile to turn into a gleeful laugh.

Something else loomed from the darkness. A towering form of draconic features and steel feathers burst into view and crashed into the flood. Bodies began to fly and the massive corridor shook as the frenzied Apex tore into the monsters.

Ishila did not question the hows and whys. Ishila did not stay and watch the storm of fury that spilled loose before her. Ishila turned and sprinted back the way she had come.

And fate chose to be cruel to her this day. Monsters streamed from a fork in the tunnel. Stragglers to the flood behind her. The axe ripped through most, and through some small mercy they were not bunched together. But it only took one. One misstep. One stroke of poor luck. One failed swing, one return swipe that cleaved through her armor like the steel was paper. A single slash and her life’s blood ran onto the stone below.

Ishila screamed and smashed the monster’s head open, making it burst like a rocky fruit beneath the axe’s blade.

It lay dead, but she was not far behind. A long furrow gashed into her body from stem to stern. Cold agony gripped her now as the orc writhed on the stone, limbs flopping around as the wound began to burn like nothing her short existence had felt before.

True pain blanked out all else as it gripped her in barbed talons. Fumbling hands managed to pull the fleshknitter flank loose from her belt. The metal was dented but whole. A sight she almost sobbed in relief at. Her hand proved useless at twisting the cap open. So she jammed it into her mouth and let her fangs tear the top off instead. Crimson liquid spilled onto her cheeks, guided by a trembling grasp. It burned going down her throat, and flared even harder as she sloshed it directly onto the massive wound.

Another would have blacked out from the shock. But she was the daughter of Teshalis Warborn, and by virtue of orcish blood alone did she remain conscious. Her throat screamed raw as the fleshknitter worked its agonizing purpose, but she lived.

Dazed, beset by fresh agony and hounded by death’s looming presence, Ishila stumbled up, collapsed again and screamed in frustration. She refused to lie here in pain until another one of these twisted monstrosities showed up to end her. Crippled by agony, she grabbed the wall and hauled herself back up, gasped and began to move.

Roars from behind only pushed her harder as the Apex moved through the flood like an avatar of destruction. It was enraged beyond reason, a wild dance of death ripping monsters to shreds. But it was one against thousands, and the monsters cared little for how many fell beneath its wrath.

Spurred on by the enraged cacophony, the halfbreed staggered along, further into the darkness of this tomb. She lunged down new paths, took turns at random. The corridors were a maze now, desolate and broken. And on she plunged, ever further into the heart of darkness.

Ever further from the light.

Down here in the darkness, furthest from the light, there was no solace. Every corner held the promise of danger and death. Most lied, and she was thankful for that. But now, Ishila limped along, teeth clenched in pain, the stench of her own blood clouding all else. Her armor was rent open both front and back, the metal pressing into barely-knit skin.

A small discomfort, inconsequential in the quiet void that surrounded her. She staggered through long hallways, took paths at random and kept moving. Forward, step by step. Anything to avoid stopping. Uncertainty was preferable to stagnation. If she had options, her pace would have been slow, methodical, thorough. She was not afforded those.

The dungeon woke around her. Rumbles and screeches sounded over the clank of her armor and the sound of heavy footsteps. Far-off cries of strange creatures she had no desire to meet. Adrenaline spiked in her veins, a sensation that kept her footsteps swift and mind on the razor’s edge. Breath came hard and fast, lungs trying their best to keep pace as she pushed her body close to the limit. Long, fast strides kept Ishila just below a run.

Another turn brought her to the edge of a pit that yawned before her, its gaping maw vanishing far below. A stone ceiling stretched high above, at the edge of vision. She glanced back, and thought of seeking another path, then discarded it, Onwards.

Adrenaline, blood, fear, and need fueled the sensation, the drive to keep pushing onwards.

Something stirred below, deep in the darkened guts of the pit as she edged along its outer circumference. The orc hugged the stone walls and froze as something swung its gaze along the walls. Something stung her ears, and instinctive motion brought her hands up to cover them as a high-pitched whine brought physical pain into the confines of her skull.

The depths roiled as darkness stirred below her. Ishila bolted along the slim path, legs shuffling in a stumbling run as something ascended from the pit. She caught glimpses of a tattered, serpentine figure that emerged over the edge as her legs carried her across the stone, through the arching exit and back into the darkened stone corridors of this place.

Flogged onwards by some invisible thing to her back, she delved further and further into the depths. Pain flared in slow, excruciating waves throughout her form as she stumbled down myriad halls, through massive rooms lined with sleeping golems, past ancient altars to foreign gods and over massive, detailed mosaics wrought into the stone itself.

Pristine silence surrounded her now, only desecrated by the sound of her own movement. Every lungful of air she sucked was dry and cold, beleaguered by pain and tinged with the faint taste of her own blood. Her limbs felt numb now, slow and heavy. Yet the drive, the will to live pushed her onwards, even if the destination was unclear.

Ishila stepped through a doorway, felt something slam into her stomach and lurched backwards, a frenzied scream of pain torn loose as she clutched at her gut. The trap’s blade had not pierced her armor as it swung around, but dented the metal inwards. Eyes wide, she swore and grasped at either side of the split metal with her hands. The metal dug into her flesh as she strained. Slowly, excruciatingly, it pulled back outwards and she collapsed.

Nausea reared it’s head inside, and overcome by it, Ishila leaned against the wall and vomited. Bile and blood splattered across the cold stone as her eyes stung with moisture. Pain’s sharp talons raked across her insides as she slumped against the wall for a moment’s rest. A brief respite in this hell. One that did not last long. With a grunt, metal-clad hands heaved her back up, to continue her desperate dive into the depths.

Hands grasped the cold metal, and with a grunt, she ripped the trap free from the stone, spit at it and threw it aside. It clattered lifelessly as she stepped into yet another massive chamber. A hall of crumbled statues greeted her now. Massive behemoths towered over her, vaguely humanoid and otherworldly. Some intact, some hacked apart. All in various poses of splendor, grandeur, and victory. Perhaps they were some beautiful color, but her eyes only saw greyscale as they pierced the darkness.

Another altar loomed between the statues, upon it a long, decorated spear, held aloft by invisible force. Past that lay her actual destination. Archways led to more tunnels, darkened recesses of stone that called to her.

Every movement made sent noise echoing across the massive chamber, something she flinched it. She felt..small in here. A tiny, insignificant intruder in this hall of ancients. She passed beneath the titanic statues, their stone gaze felt upon her back as she shivered. Her careful path took her towards the upraised altar and she carefully skirted around it. The last altar being touched had events that lingered fresh upon her thoughts.

The ground gave way beneath her, and only a desperate leap saved her from the pit below. A leap that carried her forward and had her clutch the altar, her hand brushing the spear.

The sun rose within this stone tomb as light’s blinding brilliance bloomed before her. Stone began to shake as pure, raw heat entered her arm and flowed up into the orc’s body. The smell of her own flesh heating was drowned away by power and sensation. The greatspear vanished, and things began to stir about her.

Ishila turned her head, saw the statues were beginning to move, picked herself off the altar and bolted. Pain and heat ruled her existence, but instinct guided her towards the nearest archway as everything began to shake. The walls crumbled before her even as she desperately dashed into the corridor, dragging her body.

Monster emerged as panic rose in her throat, only for the creatures to fall forward. Bodies collapsed in sequence before her as Ishila dragged herself along, her life a haze of agony. She noted massive holes ripped through bodies as she stepped over them, beheaded sleepers scattered everywhere. Uncrumbled sections of wall showed methodically placed holes at head-height. Butchered while they slept.

The adventurer stumbled over bodies, clutching her superheated arm and pushing on through the haze. Another doorway loomed ahead and she staggered through.

A mistake.

A stone slab materialized behind Ishila as she entered, even as the chamber came to life before her. Frozen monsters moved as she entered, only to collapse in pieces. Not all, however. Several remained alive, their gazes turned towards her. Fangs bared and back slumped against the slab that sealed her within, the orc struggled to draw her axe.

She would die here.

Cold. Alone. Entombed by the endless tone.

But she would not die with a whimper. If she went to meet her maker this day, it would be upon her feet, screaming rage and hatred into the void. A bloated, chitinous force stalked near, long armes tipped by scythe-like claws. Smaller hands set further back upon the arm. Bulky, long and armored. She saw clearly now, without dust to obscure her vision.

And they were horrifying to look upon. Wrong was the only word that sprang to mind.

Back against the wall, she panted and raised the axe as the monster drew near. Legs wobbled beneath her as the momentous toll upon her sapped the strength from weary limbs. Four arms were raised as the creature darted forward and brand all of them down at once.

Ishila lunged forward, into the blow. The wicked blades whistled over her head and sliced the stone to her back even as the black arms crashed into her shoulders. She buckled beneath the blow, for an instance, then grunted in anger and brought the axe up. It tore through the beast’s stomach, then chest and neck as she strained.

Freshly knitted wounds threatened to tear themselves open as she gouged a massive rent into the monster and saw the light leave its eyes. Breath heaving, she ducked aside as it toppled towards her and let it slump forward, into the sealed doorway.

More came.

Her arm tingled as Ishila stumbled into a vague mockery of a run. A doorway beckoned to her, offering her an escape from this slaughterhouse.

Her legs gave out halfway there. Ishila tasted stone and blood as her face smashed into the floor and pain blinded her once more. Her throat howled raw, she flipped over and began to drag herself away as the monsters approached. Something compelled her, urged her on, and she raised her burning arm. The limb trembled, barely held upright. Swollen, bloody eyes widened in pain and shock as light bloomed in her grasp.

A massive, weightless spear formed as her flesh felt dipped into the sun itself. The hair upon her head smoked, another small bout of pain added to the excruciating heap she endured. With nothing to lose, ishila shakily aimed the lance at a monster bearing down upon her and hurled it with what little strength remained.

The pure, unfiltered ray of light tore through the darkness. Heaven’s lance obliterated the monster, those behind it, the wall, the earth and much more before it vanished. In an instance, they were. In the next, gone. Ishila blinked, dumbfounded as she surveyed the pure destruction she had just wrought.

She felt oh, so cold.

Her body shivered as she collapsed once more, any and all energy spent. Not a single spark remained within. Drained by her desperate flight and the last vestiges taken by the spear, she could not find a single smoldering ember for her to burn.

She lay, empty and spent, eyes staring into the darkness, deep beneath the surface, far, far away from the light and any hope. A tear rolled down her eye as she watched the end approach.

One monster had survived, part of its body simply sheered away. Its remnant tottered towards her. But there was nothing left. Her limbs hung, lifeless, her muscles unresponsive. Heart beating slowly, faintly, she gazed upon death coming to take her.

A life short-lived, burned away in pursuit of her dreams. Another soul, claimed by the System.

Her death loomed before her as she stared at it, unable to do so much as close her eyes. Claws raised up, and its chest burst open. Clawed, metal arms reached through and tore it in twain. Ishila stared blankly as the monster fell away and another emerged. This time, one in human form. Dread and malice struck her like a hammerblow as the dark figure loomed above her. Colorless hair spilled beneath a skull-like helm as death’s face examined Ishila.

“A greenskin.” Came the sharp, female voice. Metal hands grabbed Ishila’s chin as blazing eyes regarded her. “Down here in the depths. Your kind never learn.”

The void took her as Valencia looked at her with disdain, disgust, and a hint of pity. As the light left her eyes, the last sensation she felt was being slung over the dreadknight’s shoulder as she finally found peace.

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