Before the pair stood an altar, a rectangle of stone that glowed with candlelight and was softly backlit by a large, tapering window above. To its side upon a stool of dark timber rested Sister Friede herself, her gown of white trailing around her slender legs, her shawl of brown pulled tight against the chill; arms crossed and expression bordering on petulance. She had no liking for the Ashen, and no desire to hide it.
"What now?" Noraan cast about, seeing no obvious door or Gate of fog.
"Well typically, we would trek all the way back from whence we came, vanquishing numerous foes and doing all manner of tiresome tasks until this altar inexplicably retreats, and the true chamber is revealed." Or'do said this conversationally, backhanding Sister Friede, who scowled and vanished, unamused. "But I don't have the patience for that." Or'do strode to the altar, setting his foot upon it. "One of my more entertaining weaknesses." With a shrill crunch, the stone gave way beneath him, crumbling and sliding like a river of ash along the flight of stairs below, at whose bottom loomed the thrice man sized wall of mist. Graceful as always, Or'do slammed into the staircase, rolling along it to its base, where he stood and merrily dusted himself off.
Shaking his head, Noraan followed his comrade into the depths, striding through the Gate and blinking at the chamber it revealed: a long, rectangular room at whose peak an immense form hunched, light from three peaked windows spilling across its coarse, filthy fur which twitched as if awaking with a life all its own. Along the chamber's sides pillars bowed, their arches sheltering the glow of ever more candles, these set upon tridents that themselves rested upon three crooked talons of bronze. In these alcoves only darkness waited, a promise of space beyond, yet its uninviting emptiness reason enough not to venture beyond the uncertain light.
"I see flame. Flame flickering once again." Its voice was deep, grating, ominous. "Not enough blood has been shed." It continued, hands restless upon its knees. "My flail... bring me my flail." He demanded. "Ahh, Friede, what stops thine ears?" He muttered. "Please. my flail, right away." As Noraan approached at Or'do's side, he realized that this creature sat bowed, its face held in clawed hands, voice muffled by its immense palms. Over a large, ornately engraved bowl it crouched, peering through its fingers into those murky depths.
The beast was itself at least four times his height and perhaps six times his width, a formidably built foe, yet he had fought worse. Slowly, it raised its head. "Ah. Oh. Bring Friede to me, please."
It opened its mouth to say more, yet Or'do already had his hand upon its brow, forcing back its head, revealing skeletal features haunted and grim, sunken cheeks wan as the faded moon, teeth yellow and crooked jutting from its perpetually pursed lips.
"The Flame does indeed flicker." Or'do jerked its head back, vertebrae snapping like brittle twigs, blood gushing from its maw in a dark geyser. Life instantly fled its ruined body, and limp as an abandoned marionette, the monster slumped, falling atop the massive bowl into which it had with such avarice peered.
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