Night had long since fallen over the Reshal Sea. A chill breeze reigned; the crown of Autumnal bleakness. In the sky, a knot of cimmerian storm clouds crept ever forward with insidious self-assurance, like spilled ink threatening to usurp its own canvas. Glimmering in defiance, even the stars fell victim to the Dergatian appetite of the brume, in bands of twos and threes. Seemingly oblivious to this celestial dramaturgy, a small merchant ship ploughed on through the oily swells, keeping just ahead of the creeping gloom above. As Xibar and Yavash struggled to breach the surface of the clouds, their combined glow formed nebulous signal beams focused on the deck of the ship, staining the wood in chimerical shades of magenta.

The relief helmsman, a dwarf bearing the livery of House Nadamian, stood vigil at the wheel. Further along, on the larboard gangway, a young Rakash couple huddled together within the shelter of a shared greatcloak. The only other passenger above deck was a human, clothed in unremarkable attire and perched atop a stool on the quarterdeck, facing the water. A fishing rod lay at his feet, and he appeared to be working diligently over the corpse of a black scorpionfish on a nearby barrel, removing the scales from the carcass with short, raking swipes. A second, untouched, scorpionfish lay beside the first. A simple gaethzen orb cast a frail glow from atop a wicker folding table, which also served as a surface for the fisherman's tools, lined up neatly in a row on a folded up copy of the First Land Herald. As the cleaning process continued, the human would, now and again, pause in his task to take notes and make sketches in the well-worn book balanced precariously on his lap.

A score of roisan passed in this manner, after which the Rakash woman let out a cavernous yawn, eliciting a sleepy chuckle from her mate. He placed a kiss on her forehead and took her by the hand, escorting her toward the stairs leading below deck. As they descended, they passed by the towering figure of a one-eyed S'Kra Mur, enwreathed in black robes and slightly hunched over within the relatively narrow confines of the passage. Both Rakash uttered concise and attentive pardons as they pressed themselves against the wall, eager to avoid contact. The S'Kra Mur nodded once in response before continuing onward.

Unbending as she stepped out into the brine-laden air, the S'Kra Mur stood tall, seeming almost to be empowered by the murky weather. A pale light exuded from her body, dispersing into the nearby fog to create an eidolic nebula illuminating the hammer and red spiral emblem embroidered on her tabard. Gazing up at the encroaching storm clouds, she placed one gauntleted fist over her heart and bowed her head in silent communion. She then marched away, toward the forecastle.

She favored the helmsman with a cursory glance as she passed him by, continuing around the perimeter of the ship at a viper's pace. Her reptilian head swiveled this way and that, staring accusatorily at her surroundings as though her one eye was a searchlight to pierce both fog and darkness. She slowed her stride as she approached the quarterdeck, stopping altogether several paces behind the human fisherman. From there, she watched his motions with intent suspicion.

The first of the two fish on the barrel had been completely de-scaled and split open through the middle, with two elongated flaps of skin pinned open to reveal the creature's internal organs. The human glanced back and forth between the carcass and his book, writing feverishly within it in quick, violent jots. He then flipped to a new page, muttering to himself, though the words were indiscernible. Tapping his stylus against his leg with his right hand, he raised his left palm to his face, as if he had trapped a wisp of fog for study. Leaning forward, he inhaled deeply. For the briefest moment, his entire body trembled. In an instant, he was moving again. He exchanged his stylus for one of a series of knives on the nearby wicker table; immaculate, unlike the smaller blades surrounding it, which were stained with blood and other fluids. He stared at the untouched body of the second fish for half of a roisan. Then, with the precision of an experienced chirurgeon, he made a long, deep incision into the abdomen of the fish, cutting through scale, sinew, and bone in one perfect cut. Following this, he made several other lacerations, seemingly at random.

Throughout this procedure, the S'Kra Mur's expression shifted from suspicion to recognition, tinctured with disgust. Finally, as the human paused to assess his work, she stepped forward. "Necromancer." She spat the word as though it were a curse.

"Bit of a harsh word to just throw out there, lady." The human spoke with his back turned, in spite of the vehemence of the accusation leveraged at him. "I'm just a fisherman preparing my dinner."

the S'Kra Mur crossed her arms and glared in response, her entire being permeating vitriol. Her livid, marine-hued eye seeming to pierce through the man's back. He shivered visibly.

"Yikes." He swiveled around to face the S'Kra Mur, squinting at her through rectangular spectacles. His right eye gleamed with a reddish-green light, casting a lurid shade over the tiny purulent sacs clustered in and around his left. He frowned. "Not one scrap of levity among the Inquisitori, is there?" No sooner were these words spoken when something popped within the man's left pupil, discharging a sickly lime-yellow fluid that ran down his face. He sighed melodramatically. "Fine. You caught me. And you discovered my dastardly plot of studying ichthyology, no less." He narrowed his non-suppurating eye at the S'Kra Mur in an expression of casual annoyance before turning his back on her once more. "Now that that's been settled, don't you have some kittens to drown, or something?"

"Not presently." The S'Kra Mur's response was distinctly pithy. "It is not yet the anlas of Starwatch, and yet you are here, not even attempting to conceal your perversions. Your kind grow bolder by the day."

"Mm. Yes, it was bold of us to kill a demon, wasn't it?" the human drawled, wiping off the left lens of his glasses.

A look of cold menace fell over the S'Kra Mur's ruined features. She smote the surface of the deck with a sharp lash of her tail. "Insipid profligate," she snapped. "As arrogant as the day is long. You grossly overrepresent your significance."

"On the contrary." The human closed his book and placed it on the folding table beside him. Turning around, he folded his hands over his lap. "We were quite necessary for the plan to proceed. You know that." He fixed the S'Kra Mur with a frank, even stare. "Or, at least, you did. But, true to form, now that the danger has passed, it seems you've changed your mind." He grinned, humorlessly. "How convenient, the purity of one's soul."

The S'Kra Mur met the human's stare. "I admit to the error of my judgment," she murmured. "It was a mistake to allow such a putrid throng. A proliferation of vermin greater than I had ever witnessed, swarming in like maggots descending upon putrefied flesh. So eager were you to bring your corrupting magics to bear. Would that I could return to that day, I would have seen the Darkstone Inn roil in holy flame."

"And what would you have done, then, hmm?" the human asked, conversationally. "Prayed Maelshyve away? Because that's always worked just so well in the past." His voice took on a distinctly smug tone as he added, "You needed us."

"That is assuredly false. Yet another honey-gilded lie fed to the masses by that execrable abomination, Osven." The S'Kra Mur woman spoke with cold disdain, staring down upon the human with the lofty authority of a chief justice. "His unholy device was a terrible solution. One that the betrayed children of the Gods will absolutely come to regret in the years to come. May the decaying remnants of his ruined soul wither within it for untold eternities, for such is profanity's reward."

The human scratched distractedly at his thin beard. "That's a little uncalled for. Osven's research and discoveries were revolutionary breakthroughs that quite literally saved the world. He was a good and decent man."

"He was a heretic," came the terse reply. "An arrogant schemer, a shameless defiler, a silver-tongued deceiver, and a poisoner of the innocent. The pith of insidious Necromantic evil."

The human snorted. "Hefty condemnations, from a zealot who drowns children for favor." He tilted his head, fixing the S'Kra Mur with a shrewd glance through one glowing eye. "Everyone is well aware of your deeds, Inquisitor. When you burnt down that library on Sarasunath and coerced those pirates into mass ritual sacrifice on Pi'Qanah... When you marched alongside Drogorian monstrosities, murdering civilians in the streets... I'm quite sure that you acted as such only with meritorious intent, toward the advancement and betterment of your fellow man."

"A priest who works in the service of man has forgotten herself," the S'Kra Mur droned, "and should be struck low. The will of the Immortals is sovereign. Whatsoever Drogor demands, He shall not be denied."

The human shook his head. "Spoken like a true cultist. No different from the ones who take the knee to the Islander." He continued to favor the S'Kra Mur with a look of distinct incredulity. "Don't act like you don't relish what you do."

The S'Kra Mur's expression of ophidian antipathy did not waver. "I naturally celebrate the satiety of my lord, as any servant would. However, I will say this." She folded her arms within the sleeves of her robes. "This world and its people would only benefit if the ostensibly civilized races would would understand and accept their standing in the natural hierarchy. Blessed are the obeisant," she intoned, "for they shall be succored by the hand of Hodierna, and the piceous steed of Asketi shall pass them by."

"Until their memories, soul, and identity are utterly consumed by those same immortals on a capricious whim."

"Do you attribute caprice to the farmer who slaughters a calf for nourishment?"

The human gave vent to a bitter burst of laughter. "By your own admission, the gods treat us as cattle! And still, you would worship these monsters?"

"The farmer's axe takes the calf, and Urrem'tier's sickle takes the farmer." The S'Kra Mur spread her arms expansively. "The natural order. What a man deems malicious is merely the ordinance of a caste beyond his own. One that he does not - cannot - realize with mortal senses, nor judge with mortal scruples. Nothing is arbitrary. Every creature has its role to play." She brought one hand around to point at the human, and although she did not raise her voice, her words carried outward like encroaching thunder. "It is your kind that, steeped in hubris, seeks to mutilate this rightful order to suit your pleasure. All of creation suffers for your meddling. And so shall you all suffer when the forces that empower you leave you abandoned to the judgment of the Eternal and Almighty Divine." She lowered her fist to her side once more. "As you have witnessed with Osven. There is only one fate for Necromancers, irregardless of whether or not they attempt to obfuscate their sins through the guise of a demon hunter."

"Yes, yes. The gods work in mysterious ways that we simple fools could never possibly understand," the human drawled. "Believe me, I'm well versed in Temple propaganda. But let me ask you this: What in Fostramor's name is 'natural' about the creation of an Asketian harbinger or drowned one? The enslavement and exploitation of the souls of sentient creatures?" As he spoke, the red and green glow engulfing his right eye ebbed away, revealing a dark brown pupil. "If the 'natural hierarchy involves demons eating away at us while the immortals are content to stand idly by, subsisting on the leftovers like a pack of scavengers, then I want none of it.

"And where were They, these 'eternal and almighty divine'? Where was Karszen? The Temple hierophants?" He stood up, not dropping the S'Kra Mur's stare. "Where were you? While the gods and their servants were dithering in glorious ineptitude, we stepped forward. We researched. We fought. And we succeeded. In the span of several days, we accomplished what the gods could not even approach for millennia. Remember, the aspect of Meraud was stymied by a single human channeling the power of The Hunger. A demon - Maelshyve herself! - is dead. Dying." He waved a hand unconcernedly. "No longer a threat to anyone. And it was not by the hand of any immortal, but through the science of Necromancy." He narrowed his eyes. "The title of 'demon hunter' is no guise; we wield the only weapon that can permanently destroy them."

"Incorrect," the S'Kra Mur snapped. "In spite of Osven's confidence, his vaunted device ultimately failed. It was only by the holy power of the Immortals that Maelshyve was vanquished. The white light which immolated both the demon and the impure flesh of the Necromancer, obliterating them at once, together... There is but one source, one font, from whence such a pure, destructive force could originate: The collective might of the Thirty Nine."

The human stared incredulously for a moment. He then chuckled, shaking his head. "So that's how the Temple's trying to spin it this time. I think you lot are going to have a harder time covering this one up, though. Too many people witnessed it."

The S'Kra Mur snapped her tail in irritation. "I speak only the truth. All that occurred was foretold by the Immortals Themselves in a vision seen by many worshipers at the High Temple. The wasp and the centipede did battle, only for the victor to be pounced upon and devoured by the Shrew. And so it came to be."

"Ah, but the problem with that is that it only proves the true nature of your gods; duplicity and cowardice. You ally with us because you need us. Our technology, our science. And then, when the status quo is restored, when the fires have been doused, you deny it all, cast us out, and quell the truth. But this time, I think it's going to be a little harder to threaten us into silence." The human allowed a thin smile to play upon his features. "You see, Inquisitor, people don't like oppression. And they hate hypocrisy. They want to know the truth. A few, now, are coming to us with questions instead of blindly heeding your lies. And those that speak with us, listen. A good number of us are quite reasonable individuals, actually."

The S'Kra Mur growled low in her throat, a sound not unlike that of an adult bull crocodile. She stepped forward, glaring balefully. The human stood his ground. At that moment, the skies above rumbled with thunder, as if in response to the S'Kra Mur's call. She shifted her gaze upward. The fog had dispersed somewhat, but the storm clouds loomed just overhead. Yavash had fallen to their voracious appetite, leaving Xibar to a similarly gristly fate, even as it shone its pale defiance just beyond the grasp of boiling clouds. The S'Kra Mur took on a pensive expression.

As she appraised the heavens, the human seemed to relax his posture. He leaned against the barrel that had served as his workstation. "You know," he said, "you might be interested to hear that your Halfling friend has been especially worked up lately. The Inquisition and the Hounds are in a bit of a, heh, a frenzy. You know what I think?" He smirked at the S'Kra Mur as she returned her gaze to him. "I think you're afraid. For good reason, too. The more you lash out at us and ours, the worse you and yours appear in the eyes of the public. The common folk still talk about Inquisitors rounding up civilians to 'test' with holy fire. The Provincial Governments of Kermoria have begun to realize, some faster than others, just how useful we are."

"Impossible," the S'Kra Mur interjected. "Necromancy is a crime in all the civilized lands of Elanthia. There is no town of any repute that would knowingly harbor such sinful creatures. Nor is there any righteous ruler who would welcome a Necromancer into his jurisdiction."

"Is that so? You know that one of ours was granted asylum in Dirge, right? You made quite a stink about it during the latest Festival of the Volcano. And still, he resides there. What do you think that means?"

The S'Kra Mur did not respond to this question. The human, emboldened, continued on. "You know what's even more exciting? I think that, in the backs of their minds, people are just now starting to ponder the implications of a device that's capable of lobotomizing a demon. Now, most people? They don't much like being treated like cattle. I wonder... how long will they continue to tolerate endless torments and indiscriminate destruction at the hands of childish despots? How long will they suffer under the insubstantial justification of 'balance'? How much longer until they realize that the only difference between Maelshyve and Drogor is the indoctrination of a corrupt Temple, the members of which directly benefit from kowtowing to extraplanar tyrants? Well," he said, fixing the S'Kra Mur with a fearless stare, "I think the next time your fish god feels froggy and throws a temper tantrum, maybe the people won't go to you to appease the monster. Maybe they'll come to us to slay it, instead. And I can tell you now, we'll be more than happy to oblige."

The crash of restless waves seemed portentous in the absence of voices that followed. After a roisan of silence, the S'Kra Mur spoke up, her countenance eerily calm. "Do you not fear entertaining such evil thoughts whilst standing at the threshold of Lord Drogor's domain?"

"Feh." The human strolled over to the railing and spat into the water. "What's the worst he can do, smite me? It doesn't take." He turned once more to face the S'Kra Mur, shrugging. "I'm too far along this path to be scared by the barking of beasts." He adjusted the fit of his spectacles. "Or the parasites that attend them," he added, pointedly.

"The profane aegis is fallible."

"Heh. Profane aegis." The human's demeanor momentarily became one of pitying superciliousness. "Well. Even if it is, there's nothing that you can do about it."

"You seem confident in that assessment."

"It's simple fact. Necromancy is an ancient and enduring art. Without the shard of Karszen and the support of your provincial leaders, your holy fire is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The former is irrevocably damaged, and it's only a matter of time until you lose the latter."

"You overstep," the S'Kra Mur rumbled. "Wag your blackguard's tongue as you will, the majority of Kermoria's populace will not be so easily led astray. They understand that the Gods are good and just. They are Fathers and Mothers as well as Kings and Queens. As such, They deliver Their children from evil, and safeguard Their empire, including this plane of abiding, from the ravening maws of demons that would seek to devour everything. The same beings that are attracted to you and yours like ants to a ripe fruit. Do not think the common adventurer so naive as to not appreciate this." She stood tall, her eye burning with the light of condemnation. "The souls of the lambs of Elanthia recoil within your presence; an unlearned peasant could perceive your very existence as a transgression unto nature. And many are the Guildsmen who are aware of the true nature of your wicked philosophy - the exaltation of one at the cost of all."

The human struck his open palm with a fist. "The exaltation of one is the exaltation of all. Look at us!" He threw his arms open. "We belong to different races, different species, but we are all one people. We all bleed the same. We live our lives enslaved, shackled to this cruel wheel of life and death. By Their design. Can't you see? They benefit from our suffering. They scheme and They take and They demand more, all the while Others poke and prod at the boundaries where cracks have formed from the fumbling of all." He paced back and forth along the deck, his voice mounting to a fevered pitch. "But it doesn't have to be this way. If we could just... stop these petty arguments and work together, we could take it all back. This is our plane. Our souls. Our lives. Sever our ties to Them. Cut Them out. Cease negotiations with Arbiters and push back the monsters to Their own planes.

"Think about it!" He stopped in his tracks, appealing to the S'kra Mur with wide-eyed fervor. "Rather than celebrating senseless massacres at the turn of the new year, let us instead honor our own achievements, our victories, our discoveries... our humanity! And those of who choose to observe monstrous traditions will be treated in kind. Let all those who drown children and revel in bloodshed be struck down in obscurity!"

The human paused, taking in a deep breath. "But... heh," he chuckled, sheepishly. "Now I'm starting to sound like you. I'll tell you what." He folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head at an impish angle. "Unlike your fish god, I'm reasonable. When my Work is complete, I'll be more than happy to share my knowledge and experiences with anyone who seeks it. Even you. You know, you could achieve so much more if you weren't so determined to be a mindless weapon in the hands of a thrashing infant. In fact, I'd love to chat with you about your potential over a drink at any establishment of your choosing. I'd even treat. All for a simple apology." He offered his right hand with a disarming smile. "How about it?"

"Enough." The S'Kra Mur's voice cut through the air like a guillotine. She slung a massive trident off from over one shoulder and thrust it forward to point at the human. "Under the auspices of the Thirteen, in the name of the Holy Inquisition, I condemn you. You are hereby detained, Necromancer. Resist, and face the judgment of the divine."

"Ah. Violence. The autonomous reaction of the zealot." For the first time that night, a look of genuine hatred twisted the human's features. "And we were having such a pleasant conversation."

"Not particularly. I have endured the same noxious discourse from your kind time and again."

"And not once did you even attempt to listen?" The human shook his head as he attempted to step backwards and around in a counterclockwise motion. The S'Kra Mur stepped forward, intercepting him. "What a shame," he uttered.

"Will you surrender and repent before the absolute authority of the Immortals?"

The human responded with a particularly vulgar hand gesture.

The S'Kra Mur raised one eyebrow-ridge. "Then, you dare to resist? So be it." Planting the haft of her trident on the deck, she beckoned the human forward with her left hand. "Come, then! Do what you will. Will you bear fell arms against me? Will you burn me with conjured acid? Will you summon an undead aberration to attend you? Let us see the true extent of this forbidden power that you so eagerly defiled yourself for."

"Heh. Not bloody likely." The human attempted once more to circle around the S'Kra Mur, only for her to move along with him, cutting him off. "I know how you work," he muttered, glancing around into the surrounding darkness. "You've the ear of the crew, no doubt. And you'd just love the chance to prove how evil I am, wouldn't you."

"Oh?" Unexpectedly, the S'Kra Mur's snout split, revealing rows of pointed white teeth in a draconic smile. "How curious. You were informing me of my loss of influence, and yet... here you are, admitting that the Captain and his men would rather heed the word of a trusted Priestess over that of an innominate heretic who desecrates the dead for profane rites."

The human shrugged at the S'Kra Mur, the hatred in his eyes now replaced with a weary bleakness. "If your ultimate goal is to strong-arm and rile up the weak-willed, unlearned, and superstitious throngs of Elanthia to your own bloodthirsty ends and call that a victory, then all I can do is feel regret for all of us."

The S'Kra Mur pressed forward in one monumental stride, kicking the fishing rod aside as she passing by the stool the human had sat upon earlier, fully barring his escape. "Will those suffice for your final words?" she asked.

The human sighed heavily, the ship's railing at his back. He threw his arms up in the air as if to ask 'what's the use'? "Sure. Why not. We both know I'll be back on my feet in about half a dozen roisan, so all this posturing and grandstanding is, quite frankly, ridiculous."

Hefting the full weight of the gargantuan trident in both mailed hands, the S'Kra Mur raised the weapon above and behind one shoulder with the primary, razor-edged tine centered on the human's chest. "Then, may the Hand of the Immortals wrest your decrepit soul and scour it within the flames of the Red Spiral!"

The human glared his defiance, tensing up in preparation of the final blow.

At that moment, however, the S'Kra Mur froze. Like a creature possessed, she stared upward at the mass of storm clouds, slackjawed, her eye clouded over by a sanguine film. The human observed in abject suspicion. Just as he attempted to step away from the entranced S'Kra Mur, she spoke. "Yes, Lord. Your will be done."

The S'Kra Mur swiveled her head at an unnatural angle. Bulling forward with alarming animal swiftness, she pinned the human against the railing with her arm against his throat. "Hearken to me, wretched one!" she crowed. "Cast down your unclean eyes and tremble like the aspen before the storm!" She darted backward, pointing down at her quarry before proclaiming in a great, booming voice. "Succumb!"

The human attempted to run as soon as the S'Kra Mur released him. He had achieved several paces' distance when, at his enemy's command, a spiritual tendril emerged from her fingertip and darted toward him, seeping into his back. At once, he dropped to his knees, gritting his teeth as dysphoric tears streamed down his face.

Many times taller than the human, the s'Kra Mur lifted him bodily by the back of his shirt. "Stay still or be slain!" she roared, slamming him back down against the deck. Stunned and immobilized by the power of her spell, he could only stare upward at the foreboding sky.

"Now you will witness the power of the Almighty Lord Drogor!"

Following this declaration, the S'Kra Mur turned her back on the human. Shouldering her trident, she picked up the worn book resting on the wicker table, its contents somehow undisturbed during the fracas. She withdrew from around her waist a rusted, iron hook at the end of a salt-stained chain. She raised the apparatus over the open pages of the book and began to chant:

"Exalted Drogor!
Hallowed be Thy name!
Your wrath is known and feared throughout Elanthia!
Your power knows no equal!"

With a savage wrench of his head, the human broke free of the enchantment. Rising to his knees, he saw the S'kra Mur poised to strike at the book. He darted forward to swat the tome out of her hands, but she blocked his advance, menacing him with the hook. As the iron came within reach of his skin, he pulled his hand back, an intense nauseated pallor washing over his features. "That's-!" he gasped, his eyes wide.

The S'Kra Mur continued to chant as the human looked on, his forehead beaded in sweat.

"The sickness of Necromancy is a blight upon Your kingdom!
A plague which must needs be cleansed!"
I, the Holy Servant, shall permit not a single corrupt word to exist within Your blessed sight!
By the divine power invested in me, I cast this profane knowledge to the void!
May this black art and its rites be forgotten by history!"

At the conclusion of her psalm, the S'Kra Mur threw back her head and howled: "Pass judgment!"

She impaled the hook through the open tome, leaving it to rest with the tip buried through several pages.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. The faint glow emanating from the S'Kra Mur congealed into a brilliant, electric halo that flickered around the S'Kra Mur's head for the briefest of moments before sinking into her scales. Then, with a crack of thunder, a web of marine-hued lightning burst into existence, fully engulfing the S'Kra Mur. Within the webbing, thick forks of lightning smote the curve of the iron hook three times. On the third strike, the electricity dissipated, revealing a tiny black flame encompassing the hook. It crackled hungrily as it burned, although, curiously, it did not seem to consume or even singe the fragile parchment surrounding it. The flame coalesced into a minuscule gloaming orb that rose into the air just above the surface of the page, where it hovered, nonthreatening.

Emitting an unearthly howl of gale-force winds, the orb expanded in size, pulsating hungrily and crackling with electricity. The words, diagrams, and careful labeling on the pages ran together into a dull red sludge, pulled upward by some inexorable force into orbit around the starless orb, only to be absorbed into its Stygian depths. Ink from further within seeped through the pages in canal-like conduits to the surface, only to be sucked into the whirlwind of sanguineous liquid feeding the storm-wracked sphere, which had grown considerably since its creation. Then, emitting a sense of fullness, the cystic black mass disappeared as though it had never existed.

The S'Kra Mur wrenched the hook free. One by one, blank pages tore themselves free from their bindings, hurled outward on an unseen and pitiless wind. Fluttering feebly like the wings of fledglings, they were swallowed whole by the gluttonous sea.

All that remained of the tome was its hollowed out bindings, weak and brittle as if it had aged several hundred years. Holding it up to the blank-faced human before her, the S'Kra Mur raised her voice in mocking eulogy. "This is the future of your alchemy of the flesh." She closed her fist around the book's spine, crushing it to dust within her grip.

The human continued to stare, bereft of words, even as the S'Kra Mur dug her hook through the bottom of his chin, lifting him upward as though he were a caught trout. She snarled into his face: "Your discoveries, your research, your teachings - I will incinerate every written word and tear out every wicked tongue until the last trace of your philosophy is erased." As she spoke, the iron hook flared with a brilliant radiance, and the skin on the human's hands and arms began to spontaneously rend open in hundreds of small wounds, each one pouring forth with a hissing, starry red light. "I will take up the torch of Khurek and lead the Inquisition to your inevitable extinction!" An agonized expression of shock and horror seemed to galvanize the human into awareness as his left leg spontaneously snapped. Shafts of the misty red light lanced through the grievous injury, causing the remainder of the limb to melt. The S'Kra Mur continued her triumphant declamation as the human's back burst partly open and tendrils of searing, incarnadine mist streamed outward. "I will see to it that you endure the pain of the Red Spiral each and every time you are struck down, until you are abandoned to it!" Deep gouges suddenly tore open in the man's neck as shafts of the blistering light began to pour through, concealing his gurgled moans underneath. The S'Kra Mur pulled her struggling foe in closer. "And if you return again, go and relay to your peers in filth all that you have seen. Let them know how it feels to be a wasp in the crucible of Drogor-!"

The human coughed into the S'Kra Mur's face, discharging a mixture of saliva, blood, and acid into her good eye. She hissed in surprised, staggering backward. There was then a flurry of indiscernible movements from the human, followed by a gasp of pain from his tormentor. Effectively blinded, she reached down to grasp the object protruding from her abdomen:

The hilt of a knife.

The S'Kra Mur frowned in irritation at the discovery of this mortal wound. Moving with practiced swiftness, she gathered a collection of oils and other liquids from a small belt pouch, anointing herself with each one in kind. She then uttered a brief, solemn prayer under her breath. She grunted as a lick of silver flame flared out of the contusion around the knife's handle, blazing intensely, before retreating back inside of her body, effectively cauterizing the injury. She bowed her heat and uttered a word of praise.

A light rain had begun. The S'Kra Mur turned her head skyward for a time, allowing the droplets to administer to her eye. After several roisan, she began to take stock of her surroundings. She twisted her head to and fro, squinting blearily all around her through one milky, swollen eye, but the human had seemingly vanished into the storm-laden air. The two scorpionfish that had been laying on the barrel had similarly disappeared, but the human's tools remained, as well as the folding wicker table that housed them. A pair of cracked spectacles lay forlornly on the deck. The S'Kra Mur approached the stern rail, leaning over it to peer into the water, but could not sustain a focused gaze without being interrupted by bouts of painful blinking. She smote the railing with a fist. "Tch!"

The S'Kra Mur cleaned off some melted flesh from the tip of her iron hook before looping it around her belt once more. She bent down to examine the blood spatters on the deck for several moments, and then straightened. Turning abruptly on her heel, she strode off in high bad humor, her greatcloak snapping about her in the wind.

As she approached the dwarven helmsman, he turned from the wheel at the sound of her encroaching footsteps. "Is it done?" he barked.

The S'Kra Mur crouched to address him. "He disappeared before I could administer the killing stroke," she said. "However, with the severity of his wounds, the only one who might hear the tale from his own lips is Aldauth."

"Good," came the gruff response. "It'll be a blessing for the rest of the crew to hear. About had their nerves torn up suspectin' there was one of 'em undead types lurking about."

"They had cause for such discomfort," the S'Kra Mur said, her tone dour. She withdrew from some concealed location an ordinary glass marble. "I confiscated this from the creature's belongings. Look you here, and see."

The dwarf leaned in for a moment. Recognition dawned in his beady eyes and he pulled back. "Trothfang's beard, woman, you get that blasted thing away from me! I lost a good mate to one of those glass bastards a year ago."

The S'Kra Mur stowed the object carefully. "You are fortunate, then. The Necromancer threatened to release this monster on the morrow. He wanted to kill as many as he could in one bloody swath. In his own words, he required fresh body parts." She sneered disdainfully and flicked the tip of her tail downward. "Despicable."

The dwarf's ruddy features creased in outrage. "That thrice-damned, slimy, scum-sucking, son of a Gorbesh," he growled. "I sniffed him out right away, as you know; soon as the rumors started. None of the others was wise to him, but I know bad blood when I see it. I let him go at the time, but ever since then I knew it was a mistake. Said he wasn't like 'em other Necromongers, but I should have known better than to take a corpse botherer at his word."

"Your wisdom is admirable." The S'Kra Mur nodded in approval. "You did well to report him to me when you did. Judicious discernment and swift action is exactly the sort of approach that will ensure these creatures stay in the ground where they belong." She paused for a long, calculated moment. "Unfortunately..."

"What?" asked the helmsman.

In spite of her swollen eye, the S'Kra Mur maintained a mien of imperious command. "Tomorrow, I will perform a full consecration upon this vessel. That should be rid of any lingering unclean presence. I fear, however, that may not be enough. Necromancers are insidious creatures. He may have planted more profane contraband, as a contingency. He may have even inaugurated a separate plan of attack involving one or more covert minions." She paused once more before continuing, seemingly reluctant. "I may have no choice but to request a thorough investigation of all present cargo."

The dwarf's brow knit. "Folk ain't much gonna care for that," he said.

"It is necessary," responded the S'Kra Mur. "Those glass orbs require only the slightest pressure to shatter. And the sheer corrupting potential of a single Necromantic artifact of sufficient power is such that, even with time and powerful cleansing rites, goods that have been tainted by its mere presence may carry with it an unholy stain that remains for many days. The foulness can spread to all of a merchant's wares... and the merchant himself... in a matter of anlaen, if not roisan."

The dwarf looked visibly troubled, but still remained silent, his mouth set in a grim line.

The S'Kra Mur pressed on. "Truly, I understand your misgivings. It is a great imposition that I am exacting upon all of you, who toil so exigently." From a coin purse at her side, she withdrew a fistful of platinum coins, which she then pressed forward into the dwarf's own hands. "Consider this gratuity but a single allotment of the rewards you shall receive for your patience and tolerance," she chirred.

The helmsman fixed the S'Kra Mur with a calculating stare before secreting the coins away. "... I can't promise anything. But I'll put in a word with the Captain 'bout the good you've done for us and your being an authority of this sorta thing."

"That is all I could ask of you, my son."

"Mm." The dwarf grunted, looking a little uncomfortable. "By the way, you, ah, need a healer or sommat?"

"Hmm? What do you..." the S'Kra Mur followed the dwarf's eyes to the knife handle, still protruding from the front of her tabard. "Ah." She waved one hand in a dismissive gesture, rising to her full height once more. "Make it so."

She turned to leave as the dwarf returned his attentions to maintaining the ship's course. However, something stopped her. "How long until we arrive at Ratha?"

The dwarf peered ahead through the drizzle. "Just shy of four andaen, I'd wager. Got two more islands on the trade route before we make landfall at our final destination. We'll be disembarking at our next stop in about... three to four days. Weather permitting," he added, hopefully.

"Pray." The S'Kra Mur spoke with her back turned. "Mighty Drogor will hear. But know this: His favor, and with it, the coming of another day, is a hope. Never a promise."

The S'Kra Mur retreated below deck. The helmsman gazed out into the waters ahead, the wind at his back. The rain lingered for a time, and then dispersed.

That morning, there was a knock on the Captain's cabin door.