"I... I told him there was nothing to worry about - that the gods would," Elisa's voice failed, and tears fell down her cheeks. "They would be watching." Her hands covered her face, and her brown hair, the color of molasses, fell over her face. In the courtyard of Therenborough chapel amid a circle of faces showing fear and sorrow, Tirost frowned as Angel reached out a hand to rest reassuringly on Elisa's shoulder. "We'll find him," she said. The pair passed through the great doors of the chapel moving through the streets toward the southern gate. "This is the sixth," said Angel. "Yes," replied Tirost, as baronial guards passed, gazing with respect upon the former Ambassador of the Guard, and deep suspicion upon the warrior mage. "The disappearances are growing more frequent."

The stars glinted brightly in the autumn night sky, while the blue orb of Xibar cast a silvery-blue light over the forest. Tirost knelt and examined the position of the fallen leaves and trampled grasses. "Many have passed this way," came an unseen voice beside him. The warrior mage nodded. A shrill voice rose on the wind to the south. Tirost stood instantly, like a stag brought to heightened awareness. He darted over the leaves and fallen branches in the direction of the voice, his black mantle flowing behind him.

Urnest faced the kneeling figures dressed in dark cloaks. The cold night air of autumn chilled his flesh as he stood over the old man bound with rope. Candles surrounded the elderly victim's form, resting on a black rock in the desolate forests south of Therenborough as those in attendance watched Urnest's every movement.

Slipping the dagger from his belt, Urnest ran his tongue lovingly over dark flesh he'd hued to its pommel. He inhaled deeply, imagining himself in communion with Them. "The Mysteriarch has shown us the way!" he shrieked. His voice strained with unholy enthusiasm.

The myriad eyes of the collective were upon Urnest. He could sense their desire for a sacrifice, a yearning for the dark rite that would bind them into something greater. He lifted his dagger high into the air, but the sound of something moving through the forest drew the attention of the worshipers, splintering them from the collective will that had followed the movement of his knife.

A figure dressed in black sprinted through the trees toward Urnest, but the worshipers quickly moved to protect their leader. A blaze of lightening lit the grove, followed by flashes from incinerated clothing and sizzling flesh. Weapons were drawn and the clash of metal and magic rang throughout the darkened woods.

Urnest gnashed his teeth. Rage filled every nerve in his body, and he gazed down at the old man who spent so much time at the chapel in Therenborough, who so arrogantly trusted in the tyrannical gods of the Temple. His body tensed as he prepared to sink his dagger into the prone victim. The clink of metal against stone drew Urnest's attention. He then became aware of a wet sensation, and the movement of his arm presented a splash of gore over the helpless man at his feet. In nearly the same instant, Urnest noticed his hand, still gripping the dagger, flop to the ground, blood pouring from the where it had once been attached to his limb.

Urnest tried to scream, but his vocal cords were severed by a flash of blue, and he crumpled beside the one he'd hoped would be his conduit to unity. Some distance away, icy swords, lighting and haralun cut through the worshipers who did not flee, though the intruder was not left unscathed.

Tirost's panting breath produced clouds of steam in the pale light of the morning. He approached Urnest and the bound elder lying side by side on the black rock. "At least two escaped," said the warrior mage. "Is he a necromancer?"

"I don't think so," replied an unseen voice. "I cannot sense any of the effects of necromancy, but his dagger has been made with some kind of flesh, like that of the altar we destroyed in Therenborough." The speaker released her spell, and Angel slipped her throwing star into her bag, as the pink fingers of morning stretched across the clouds of the sky. She held up Urnest's dagger, showing the warrior mage its fleshy pommel.

Tirost frowned. "Sir Hebion was right to point out that Jeihrem is subtle. Sivroch is a symbol of defiance and power," he said darkly. "She is fearless. Many who are disillusioned with the gods and tired of the arrogance of the Favored are drawn to the flame of her rage." Angel nodded. "As more become aware of the greater demons, they will seek to draw their attention."

A groan came from the old man. "He is still alive," said Tirost. "Yes," replied Angel, "but perhaps not for long."

"I'll take him back," said the war mage. He ran a rag over his sword, and slid it into his sheath, then knelt beside the old man. His wounds burned, but it was not anything that Aislynn could not heal. Pulling the elder over his shoulders, he stood, as Angel turned her attention to the heavens and began to trace lunar sigils in the air. A fierce blue-white glare illuminated the grove, and a moongate blazed into existence, beyond which could be seen the hospital of Therenborough. "I'll see that this man gets help, and then speak with his daughter," said Tirost. "Meet me at the college?" Angel nodded. With the old man slung across his shoulders, Tirost stepped through the moongate, which vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Angel knelt beside Urnest. Among his things, she found several grim trophies, wood carvings of horrid forms, and what appeared to be a journal bound in yellowing human flesh. Flipping through its pages, Angel's stormy gray eyes narrowed as she studied the images and words. Wrapping it in a silk cloth, she slipped the volume into her bag, and, raising her gaze to the faint glow of Xibar not yet outshone by the morning light, she traced the lunar sigils and was gone.