Inhabitants of the Spires

Andre's sword clatters to the ground as he draws his stoler blade, ripping the spirit in half! A thousand ethereal faces twist in agony, rage, and horror as they dissipate, leaving nothing but a nasty scar on the ranger's shoulder. "How's the wound?"

The ranger grunts out, "Nothing I can't fight through captain."

"We've no time to sit and lick your wounds. Patch up as we move and keep your fuckin' eyes open next time."

He barks his acknowledgement as Andre goes to grab his sword. They shouldn't have split off from Kar'Desh as aggravating and useless in a fight as he is. He's a natural spirit repellant. The one thing the duke's rangers have a difficulty fighting. Andre'll fight corporeal foes all day and all night. Even the damn mages aren't a terrible concern when they don't know you're there. The ghosts however, always know where you are. They must be able to sense the living through mana or some bullshit like that. Adding to the bullshit, is that the damn things glow. Even if you tear them apart with your bear hands, they won't make a single sound. But who the fuck wouldn't notice a bright ghastly light going out? Despite the think canopy and suffocating underbrush, it's only a matter of time before something giant notices them. A bear, a gryphon, one of the beastmen abominations, or some other magic-flinging monstrosity native to the Spires.

Andre clicks his tongue in frustration as he and his squad stalk through the thorns. The scar across his mouth feels cold. It only does that when there was something looking to tear him a new asshole nearby. Who was it then? Something manageable?
The ground shifts beneath him as though something was burrowing under him. Roots poke out of the ground, passing through the still rotting bones left behind by some beast's meal. One of the trees behind him seems to be undulating like a dog in heat.

Well this is new. One of the reasons Andre has survived as long as he has is being able to recognize when something was beyond him. This was one of those things. "Get up, let's go! The damn trees are out to get us!"

It doesn't matter if the gods descend and the world opens up to eat them alive, he in not letting a single soldier under his care be taken! Sol be damned! The others will have to rely on their training. There was nothing more he could do about that. But these men? They were walking out of this god-forsaken place whether the gods willed it or not!

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Stoler is in awe of this place. Such vibrant colours and sights no matter where he looked. Something so simple as the dirt shifting beneath his boots was a fabulous shade of red or perhaps brown, to say nothing of the orchestra of colours above him! It was almost as if he could see again. It's a shame the Spires are determined to rip their souls straight from their skin.
His friends had come across a ravine stretching far off into the distance. It made more sense to pass through the ravine instead of fashioning a bridge from fallen trees. Roots or perhaps fallen branches from the arch trees cross through the moss covered walls of the ravine, holding the chasm apart. Sprawling pines and tree-sized mushrooms only found in the dwarven farms flourish in the shadow of the ravine's walls. Stoler is sure to avoid the bones scattered on the ground, both out of respect in case they might have once been sentient and out of general caution in case they rise to attack.  

So far, the march has a pleasant one for a long while, despite the mad spirits trailing them waiting for a chance to ambush. They fear his and Summer's power, but the chosen are an appetizing meal to any ghost. Should they manage to defeat and consume even one mage, their powers would explode, possibly letting them advance to lichdom. Hopefully Aroura would stay safe. She should with Kar'Desh around. His siphon is a ghost's greatest fear. Simply being in proximity to him would drain the spirit of its sustaining energies.
How is Stoler supposed to tell Kar'Desh his mother's been taken? The elf's grudge against him festers despite his attempts to placate the elf. No matter how many times Stoler saved Kar'Desh directly, he would assume it's a trick to coax information out of him.

He whispers to himself, "I don't hate anyone elf. Not even you."
It doesn't matter how. Kar'Desh could see him as a liar all he wanted, the elf deserves the truth. Once they were all free of the Spires, he would tell him.

The ravine forks, one path leading off towards Zendari, the other into a small alcove that could have once been a shrine to a long forgotten god. The structure is rough and weathered, as though it were built in a night and left untouched for years aside from the moon-themed ornaments and pottery that are apparently the objects of affection of whoever constructed this hovel. The corpses of a few wolves and some strange reptilian lay outside forever prostrating themselves to the shrine. Except forever ended early when they all rise to glare at the living who dare intrude on their worship.

They curse the air with the putrid stench of decay forcing Stoler to breathe through his mouth. Age rotten skin and flesh hang off them in tatters, ancient scars expand and contract under raspy breaths. Aside from the obvious undeath, these aren't normal wolves. They stand like men, elongated claws skimming the ground. Some breed of jarcoba then? Not one he was aware of that's for sure. But what of the reptilian?
A strange mix of scale and fur, wolf and saurian, it hangs on to more of its flesh then the jarcoba. Stoler is certain neither the jarcoba or the reptilian abomination were never documented in any of his father's encyclopedias. In one undersized hand it holds a gnarled gray censer, saurian runes etched into the bark and fresh blood flowers placed in the cavity. It's massive arm drags a moon-motif club. Only Stoler and Summer see the tendrils of blackened and sickly mana extend from the censer, slithering to the piles of bones laying about, picking them up like a dark hand scooping water. Old bones form into fighting shape, held together by contemptable magics. A draconian artifact then.

Lucia, one of Stoler's life-long friends, says, "A necromancer. I assume it's the lizard-wolf then?"

"Not quite. The censer it carries. Sol grant your warriors strength as we purge the undead."
No beastman can see them down here, so it should be safe to use Sol's magic. Stoler aims his fingers at the artifact. It's a shame such an ancient item need be destroyed, but its evil would no doubt spread.

Black mana, darker than night, erupts in the jarcoba's claws as they tear it across the grass! Every templar falls to dodge the sudden slices of magic, nearly avoiding the assault.

"Lucia!"
Lucia, was not as lucky. Though it only clipped her armour, the black magic spreads, engulfing her! Though fully encased, she moves unharmed, planting her poleaxe in the ground, bracing for a charge. Haroth, Stoler's other life-long friend, cries, "Lucia! Are you hurt? Answer me!"

Aiming instead at Lucia, Stoler bathes her in Sol's light as the masses of bones trudge towards them. The light does nothing to dissipate the total darkness surrounding her. He would have to hope the darkness stays as it is. "Eyes forward Haroth. She is fine for now, so focus the foe before you."

He brandishes his poleaxe and grunts his agreement. Again Stoler aims his hand towards the censer collecting blazing sunlight between his fingers. The glory of the Sun beams into the reptile's shoulder as it twists to protect its artifact! The jarcoba lurch forward, slinging more magics at the templars. Stoler slips under the slivers of black carving his sword through the air towards the jarcoba! Unlike the ghouls these two have a sense of preservation, dodging and parring his blade with steel-strong claws. Quicker than a thought, he adjusts, bypassing their meager defense and slicing at their torsos, hoping organs remained. At the slightest hint of damage both jarcoba are driven into a frenzy, lashing out with gnashing claws and clattering fangs!

Haroth's axe burrows into the jarcoba's neck, driving its blind rage towards him! With one hand blasting the other undead, Stoler navigates his unwieldy blade through its ribcage, through the heart, and out the back! With a rasp of pain it lashes out at Stoler, catching on his armour and shrieking, leaving gouges in the rosy metal! His armour may be weaker than steel, but blades can't carve through it! What are these things!?
Again, Haroth hammers his poleaxe down, smashing the undead's skull to the ground before twisting around and smacking away the bone-masses! They need to remove the skeletons before they're overwhelmed. "Summer, purify the lizard!"

Never losing her elegance, his sister drowns the necromancer in light while blasting the other two jarcoba and bone-masses with pure force, allowing her selected templars to duel the abominations. Truly, she is amazing. Stoler isn't skilled enough to use pure force without blasting his hands apart, let alone commanding both domains of magic at once. And so effortlessly.
The necromancer charged forward with unbelievable speed for one so large. Through the light, the lizard reared back, massive club arm raised over Summer like a looming specter of doom! In one fluid motion Summer blasted the lizard's arm with such force the whole body was dragged back. Escaping the scabbard, her sword tears through the lizard's pectoral muscle at the shoulder causing the club arm to fall limp!

With a grip still on the club it swings its whole body, smacking Summer with the haft! She is flung back towards Stoler, skidding across the ground! One undead jarcoba pounces on her! Desperately deflecting a flurry of claws she kicks the undead with a blast of magic! Stoler needs to hurry.

Haroth creates another opening, driving his axe through the undead's knee! It falls with a growl as Stoler brings his blade down! He rips through one shoulder, then rises through the other letting the claws fall lamely to the ground! He twists to cleave the undead's head from its neck when dark magic flickers between skinless jaws. It had more mana!? It snaps its teeth in a final act of defiance, flicking its spell in Stoler's face even as his sword decapitated the jarcoba.

His vision goes dark almost as if the Sun had been plucked from the sky and the moon no longer shone its eerie glow. Focusing his eyes, he could catch but a glimmer of the world beyond his cage of darkness. The mana holding the spell together is thin and will dissipate in time but certainly never quick enough to finish the fight before him.

He can not wait. Summer's selected templars will not survive for long without his help. He knows how the jarcoba fight now. Even without his vision he should still be able to fight well enough for Haroth and Summer to capitalize on his actions. He is certain. All he needs is the correct direction to run. "Sol protect your chosen."

Stoler charges blindly towards the abominations that threaten his friends. They will perish!

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Slelf'Eir's mind is always clear after a consuming a soul, despite the new voice added to the constant cacophony of whispers, always whispering whispering and whispering some more! Or was his name Jerrod?

No no. Jerrod is the name of the tree. And maybe one of the souls Eir consumed, who knows? And honestly who cares? The crux of the matter is that an opportunity has finally crawled into his clutches and he must seize the moment before it slips away like the seasons.

Wresting control of his legs from the others who thought to usurp all that he had toiled and clawed for! At any rate. Slelf'Eir strolled across the mana infused water, trailing the group living souls as they rush through the marsh. He would need to speak with them.

They would, of course, futilely attempt to destroy him. After all none understood his intentions despite whispering directly into their minds. The fools. Always such fools! Neigh on every occasion he was surround by fools! No matter. If they would not hear reason, he could simply tear their enemies asunder and they'd no choice but to listen.
Or, perhaps even more simply tear them asunder and drag the siphon to the border himself! He wouldn't have to rely-

NO!

No. Eir needs them alive. The elf seems unaware of his curse or perhaps unable to control it. Were he to perish, Eir's opportunity would crumble like his mind. The siphon must survive. He will ensure it.