Mikhail Serulgar-- "Opening Gambits"

[GameMaster]

Evening of the Second day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

In the hallowed halls of the Church of the Red Knight in Cimbar, a young cleric named Mikhail stood, his gaze piercing the ornate tapestries that depicted ancient battles. There was a chilling silence in the air, as if the very stones of the church whispered of treachery and deceit.

Mikhail, a prodigy both in divine and arcane arts, found himself surrounded by high-ranking priests, their faces etched with barely concealed envy. These priests, threatened by Mikhail's prowess, had devised a plan to rid themselves of this uncomfortable thorn in their side. Chessenta, a nation that revered warriors and despised the cloistered intellect, saw Mikhail as an aberration. His lack of martial prowess, juxtaposed with his immense magical abilities, made him an outlier in a society that celebrated physical might over mystical intellect.

They dispatched him to a tiny village, Valiant's Rest, perilously close to Luthcheq... a city notorious for its vehement disdain for magic and its brutal treatment of magic users.

Luthcheq, to Mikhail's mind a dark shadow on the horizon of Chessenta, was a place where freedom was shackled, and magic was a crime punished by death. A vocal opponent of Chessenta's practice of slavery and a beacon of magical talent, was walking into obvious danger by going anywhere near Luthcheq's oppressive atmosphere.

As the orders were handed to him, Mikhail's keen mind unraveled the sinister undertones. He was to assist Fenric Varholm, a name that for some reason resonated with a vague sense of foreboding, under the orders of providing protection. But Mikhail knew better. The priests expected him not to return from Valiant's Rest, a sacrificial lamb to the altar of their jealousy and fear.

As Mikhail prepared to leave, he pondered the true motive behind this quest toward his own death. Was it merely the envy of the priests, or was there a deeper, more sinister plot at play? Why were they so eager to see him fail, and very likely, perish?

Like most things in Chessenta, the answer was probably very obvious and simple, but Mikhail could not help but think there was something else going on here that he just wasn't aware of.

[GameMaster]

Pre-Dawn of the Third day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

Rested, prepared, determined, Mikhail hands an apple to his mare, Old Maude, who promptly takes it in her teethe and begins enjoying it.  With a pat, he climbs up into the worn saddle and begins the arduous journey out of the stables, and out of the city.  The guards pay him little attention as he leaves, and for a short moment Mikhail wonders if he should stay this course or turn back and beg forgiveness and more chores?  What if something happens to him after all, how will Old Maude find her way back?

Bitter anger steels his resolve, however.  He would rather die than go back and face those backstabbing priests and fall upon their mercy.

Onward at a steady if somewhat slow pace, the lone figure rode into the coming light of the dawn.

[GameMaster]

Late Morning of the Third day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

In the late morning bustle of Cimbar, within the stone walls of the Church of the Red Knight, in the private quarters of Priest Gavril Noran a disturbing portent materialized. The early morning light, seeping through the stained glass, splashed the stone floors with a myriad of colors, setting a stark contrast to the grim discovery that awaited each of the four conspiring priests. At the foot of their beds lay a sinister symbol of their betrayal: a gray-white knight chess piece, its presence an ominous portent. As they reached out with trembling hands, the pieces crumbled to dust, a chilling metaphor for the fragility of their scheme.

High Priest Armandus Valtor, his complexion pale and ghost-like, gathered the others in a secluded chamber. The terror in his eyes was unmistakable. "The Red Knight knows," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "She has marked us for our betrayal of Mikhail Serulgar. We are in grave peril."

Priestess Calistra Mirene, usually composed and calculating, struggled to maintain her poise. Her hands shook as she clasped them together, trying to mask her fear. "We need to be decisive," she said, her voice laced with panic. "Our conspiracy cannot be exposed for all to know... We must find a way to contain this!"

Priest Dorian Ellesar, who often played the role of the level-headed scholar, was visibly shaken. "The assassin... we must intercept him before he fulfills his task," he stammered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "If Mikhail perishes and the assassin speaks, we are doomed."

Even the old former knight Gavril Noran, known for his stoic demeanor, was now showing cracks in his iron facade. "We must leave immediately," he asserted, his voice firm yet tinged with a sense of urgency. "Let's concoct a story, a mission of great importance. Perhaps, seeking information on a sacred artifact... something to justify our sudden departure."

The four priests, each grappling with their own fears and the realization of the divine wrath they had possibly invoked hastily prepared for departure. They mounted their horses, the animals' hooves striking the cobblestones with urgency as they rode through the busy streets of Cimbar. Their flight from the church was not just a physical escape but a desperate attempt to evade the consequences of their own misdeeds, a race against an inescapable fate.

[GameMaster]

Dusk of of the Fifth day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.


Two days into their frantic race to stop what they had themselves set into motion, the four priests finally caught up with the assassin.  The meeting, intended to be clandestine, was fraught with tension. The assassin's eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation, his instinct sensing the priests' desperation.

"You've exposed me with your carelessness," he hissed, his voice a blend of anger and contempt. "My price has tripled. Hand over payment to me at once, or face the consequences of your sloppiness and poor planning!"

The priests, already ensnared in their web of deceit, were cornered. With no means to pay the increased fee and their plot unraveling before them, they found themselves at the mercy of the very assassin they had hired.

In a moment of chaos, a violent skirmish erupted.

As Priest Gavril Noran stood in the dim light of the moon, his heart raced with a mixture of fear and determination. The four priests had finally cornered the assassin in a secluded glade and belived they had the advantage, but he couldn't help but notice the shadows of the trees casting long, ominous silhouettes on the ground. The assassin, a lithe figure clad in dark leather, stood calmly, his eyes glinting with malice.

Armandus Valtor, his mind clouded by desperation, stepped forward with grim resolve. Whispering a prayer to the Red Knight, his voice a low murmur, he extended his hand towards the assassin. Dark energy crackled at his fingertips, the air around them growing colder as he channeled the power of his deity.
With a sudden thrust of his hand, he unleashed the negative energy towards the assassin, attempting to envelop him in a wave of life-draining force. The spell, a manifestation of divine retribution, sought to leech the very vitality from its target.  The assassin, sensing the impending danger, twisted away with a swift, agile movement. The dark energy grazed him, a look of momentary pain flashing across his face, before he regained his composure. The deadly spell, though powerful, had failed to achieve its full devastating effect.

Calistra Mirene, her voice laced with fear and fury, conjured a shimmering barrier of magical energy around them. But the assassin was swift, drawing a pair of gleaming daggers and lunging at Dorian Ellesar. Dorian, caught off guard, parried with his own blade, the clashing of metal echoing through the night.

Gavril, clutching his mace tightly, joined the fray, swinging with all his might. The assassin, however, danced away from each blow with terrifying agility. In a fluid motion, the assassin hurled a dagger, its blade finding its mark in Dorian's chest. Dorian staggered back, a look of disbelief on his face, before collapsing to the ground.

Armandus, enraged, chanted another spell, sending a wave of searing flames towards the assassin. But the agile figure leaped high, avoiding the flames, and landed behind Calistra. Before she could react, a swift strike from the assassin's dagger silenced her forever.

Now, it was only Gavril and Armandus left standing against their fate. Gavril, his faith in the Red Knight burning fiercely within him, charged at the assassin with a battle cry. The assassin met his attack, parrying Gavril's mace with a dagger. Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel.  Armandus, seizing the opportunity, prepared a final, desperate spell, but the assassin was the quicker. With a swift, fluid motion, he threw his last dagger straight at Armandus. The dagger found its target, and Armandus fell, his spell dissipating into the night air.

Gavril, now alone, faced the assassin. Blood from his comrades pooled at his feet, their eyes staring blankly at the moonlit sky. In a last act of defiance, Gavril swung his mace with all his remaining strength. The assassin parried and plunged his blade into Gavril's side.

Pain exploded through Gavril's body, his vision blurring. As he fell to his knees, the world around him began to dim. The assassin's face, a visage of death, hovered over him. Gavril's grip on his mace loosened, the weapon clattering to the ground.

In his final moments, as darkness enveloped him, Gavril's thoughts turned to the Red Knight, seeking forgiveness for his transgressions. He thought of Mikhail Serulgar, the innocent target of their envy, and prayed desperately for his safety. Then, with a final breath, Priest Gavril Noran succumbed to the darkness, the echoes of the battle fading into the stillness of the night.

[GameMaster]

Moondark of of the Fifth day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.


In the dark night of the dense forest near Valiant's Rest, Mikhail Serulgar, ever vigilant, anticipated the shadow of treachery. Though the priests' motivations were veiled in mystery, their intentions were not. As the silent *ping* of a small bell went off in his mind the assassin emerged, a silhouette too dark to be natural crossed the path behind him. Mikhail nodded slightly to himself, content that he had chosen the location of this ambush well.  He was ready.

The assassin, his figure then blending seamlessly with the darkness, approached with a quiet confidence. "We can make this painless, cleric," he taunted, his voice a low hiss in the night air. "You don't have to suffer before going to meet your Goddess."

Mikhail, calm and collected, replied not with words but with action. Though he had no real skill in it, he had read enough to set a series of traps.  They were each no doubt quite weak and might fail, and certainly would not skill this attacker.  Several of them placed in proximity would perhaps incapacitate the man though, especially considering he seemed to be moving with a pained limp already. All Mikhail had to do was manipulate the fight enough to drag his attacker into them.  The first was a tangle of ropes meant to ensnare, lay hidden in the underbrush. As the assassin advanced, Mikhail deftly maneuvered, trying to lure him towards the first. The assassin, skilled in his craft, sensed the danger and evaded the snare with a swift sidestep, a smirk of triumph on his lips as he launched a probing thrust to force Mikhail himself toward the very snare he had set.

Undeterred, Mikhail engaged in a calculated dance with his longsword, each movement as precise as he could make it, each feint and thrust a product of his keen intellect and long study of historical battles, not any actual experience as a warrior. The assassin, though formidable, was clearly hampered by whatever injuries he had sustained in pursuit of his target, and so his mobility was reduced and his focus imperfect.

Mikhail, observing this, adapted his strategy. He feigned heavy breathing and fatigue, a vulnerable moment in which he appeared to be slow enough for the killer to score a blow. As the assassin lunged, expecting to capitalize on this weakness, he instead found himself tumbling into Mikhail's second trap.  The assassin, agile but impaired by his previous wounds. As he pressed forward, his foot found the treacherous mudslide, nearly invisible under the leaves and brush. With a sudden loss of footing, the assassin's balance faltered. His arms flailed in a desperate attempt to regain stability, but the slippery earth offered no purchase.

With a muffled curse, the assassin slid and bounced down the muddy slope, tumbling over the edge of the sharp drop. His body crashed hard to the bottom of the hollow with a heavy thud, echoing through the quiet forest.

"Terrain itself makes the best snares" Mikhail said to himself under his breath, quoting a line from the scrolls known as The Wilds of War: Strategies and Tactics of Wilderness Battles.

Mikhail approached the edge of the ravine, looking down at the incapacitated assassin some forty or fifty feet below. The man, now a broken heap of desperation, looked up and pleaded, "Don't leave me to the mercy of the wild, priest!"

Mikhail, his expression resolute, replied, "Your actions have led you here. This is mercy enough." He chose not to end the man's life, nor to utilize his magical abilities. Instead, he would leave the assassin in his natural prison, a decision reflecting Mikhail's adherence to strategy and his aversion to unnecessary violence.

It took a few steps away from the drop to the ravine below, his mind grappling with the weight of his decision, for Mikhail to reconsider.  Closing his eyes, he stood in silent contemplation, the sounds of the forest surrounding him in a quiet embrace. After a moment of stillness, he turned back, his resolve taking a different shape.

With careful, deliberate steps, for he was not skilled in climbing and possibly not strong enough to get down without falling to his own demise, Mikhail descended towards the edge of the shallow water. The descent was treacherous, but his movements were calculated, each step taken with precision. As he reached the bottom, he approached the wounded assassin, who lay amidst the debris, broken and defeated.

From his pack, Mikhail retrieved a single healing potion, its contents glowing with a gentle green luminescence. He placed it within crawling distance of the assassin, ensuring it was close enough for the man to reach.

His eyes met the assassin's, cold and resolute. "Follow me no more," Mikhail spoke, his voice stern and imbued with a quiet authority. "You will find this mercy but once."

The assassin, pain and surprise etched on his face, looked at the potion, then back at Mikhail. It was a gesture he hadn't actually anticipated, a moment of unexpected compassion from his intended victim.  He nodded, but Mikhail didn't really linger to witness the man's response. He had already turned, making his way back up the ravine with the same careful precision. As he walked away, the forest seemed to close in around him, its shadows deepening with the approaching night.

[GameMaster]

Dawn of the Sixth day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

Morning's first rays cast golden fingers across the quiet village of Valiant's Rest, illuminating quaint cottages and humble storefronts. Mikhail Serulgar, worn and weary from the journey and trials of the previous night, guided Old Maude down the gentle slope into the village, the horse moving slowly but faithfully beneath him. Villagers beginning their daily tasks paused briefly, eyes curious yet wary, before returning hastily to their chores.

Mikhail dismounted near the village square, patting Old Maude affectionately before tying her to a sturdy hitching post. The quiet atmosphere of Valiant's Rest belied its proximity to Luthcheq's oppressive shadow, yet an underlying tension lingered in the villagers' guarded glances.

"Fenric Varholm," Mikhail spoke to a nearby merchant arranging crates of fresh vegetables, his voice calm but clearly weary. "Do you know where I might find him?"

The merchant eyed him cautiously, then nodded toward a modest building on the far side of the square. "That's his place, priest," the merchant answered quietly. "But watch your step. Fenric's been more cautious than usual lately, jumpy even."

Mikhail thanked the man, crossing the open square with a measured stride, conscious of the eyes subtly following his movements. He approached the simple wooden door and knocked firmly, the sound echoing gently.

A moment passed before the door creaked open slightly, revealing the face of a man in his middle years, weathered and worn by life's hardships, yet with sharp, discerning eyes that swiftly assessed the young priest.

"Fenric Varholm, I presume?" Mikhail asked politely.

The man hesitated only briefly before opening the door fully. "Aye," Fenric replied, stepping back to allow entrance. His voice was gruff, tinged with suspicion. "Come in quickly, priest. Eyes watch everywhere these days."

Inside, the room was modestly furnished but orderly, scrolls and books stacked carefully along the walls, maps spread across a large wooden table at the center. Fenric closed and bolted the door, turning to Mikhail with cautious appraisal.

"You're younger than I expected," Fenric observed dryly. "Yet if the Church sent you, I must assume you're capable."

Mikhail met the older man's gaze evenly. "I assure you, I am more than prepared for whatever task you require of me."

Fenric sighed, his guarded demeanor slipping just a bit as he motioned for Mikhail to sit. The man was clearly frightened—his face was sunken, and though he might have once been considered handsome, his paranoia gave him a gaunt, worried appearance. Despite his evident fear, Fenric was well-dressed, suggesting significant wealth.

Leaning closer, Fenric spoke urgently, his voice nearly a whisper. "I need protection. I'm afraid for my life. I can pay you, more than you could ever want."

Mikhail regarded Fenric calmly, choosing his next words with care. "Protection implies someone intends you harm. Help me understand who they are, and why they'd risk such a move against you."

Fenric shifted uneasily, his eyes darting about the room. "It's not so simple, priest. The less you know, the safer you'll be."

"Respectfully," Mikhail interjected softly, "ignorance rarely equates to safety. Your enemies clearly possess resources and intent. Let me help you—starting with clarity."

Fenric exhaled heavily, obviously struggling. "It started with my employees—two weeks ago. They've been murdered, one by one. Brutally, each stabbed through the right eye."

Mikhail raised an eyebrow subtly. "An oddly specific method. Someone clearly wants to send a message."

Fenric swallowed hard, hesitant to reveal more. "Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "A debt unpaid—a loan from powerful men, ruthless criminals. I borrowed to fund armor production; armor that turned out flawed. They took my business, forced me into their ways, dark methods, bribery, blackmail—anything short of outright murder."

"But circumstances changed," Mikhail prompted gently, guiding rather than forcing.

"A new competitor arose," Fenric continued cautiously. "A retired militia man named Garrick Elbron. Skilled, connected, principled. Immune to bribery, blackmail, sabotage—even violence. My... associates grew desperate. They resorted to murder, employing assassins from the White Skulls, merciless and effective."

Mikhail leaned forward, subtly drawing Fenric deeper into the admission. "Yet these assassins now face their own reckoning?"

Fenric's expression twisted with genuine fear. "Exactly. First the assassins, now even a White Skulls leader. All murdered the same way—stabbed through the right eye. Someone knows, someone seeks revenge."

"Elbron's family, you presume?" Mikhail's tone remained neutral, encouraging Fenric's assumptions without fully endorsing them.

Fenric hesitated, doubt flickering momentarily. "Who else? They have reason, motive. They must know everything."

Mikhail considered this quietly. "Yet, motive alone is insufficient evidence. Tell me more about the armor production—why exactly did it fail so spectacularly?"

Fenric grimaced, reluctant to revisit that particular humiliation. "It was dwarven craftsmanship, strong and reliable, yes—but it was designed to be worn openly, proudly displayed. Humans hated it. It ruined their clothes, tore through cloaks, tunics. Nobody wanted armor that destroyed their finest garments."

Mikhail nodded thoughtfully, piecing together the details. "So the issue was cultural misunderstanding rather than quality?"

Fenric's face twisted bitterly. "Exactly. But by then, it was too late. My reputation was damaged, sales plummeted, and debts piled high. It left me vulnerable to exploitation."

"An unfortunate miscalculation," Mikhail observed carefully, weighing Fenric's explanation. "One that your creditors were all too eager to exploit."

Fenric nodded gravely, his gaze haunted. "Precisely. And now, I'm left paying the ultimate price."

Mikhail smiled.

"What!?" Fenric snapped.

Mikhail narrowed his eyes slightly at the outburst.  "Perhaps the stars have aligned in your favor, at least for the moment."

[GameMaster]

The candlelit room was thick with silence, punctuated only by the faint crackling of flames and Fenric Varholm's anxious breathing. Mikhail Serulgar, standing near a heavy oak table cluttered with maps and half-opened ledgers, had been carefully absorbing Varholm's hesitant revelations. His piercing gaze was steady, calm eyes reflecting both patience and quiet intensity as he processed the merchant's anxious words.

Suddenly, a resounding crash shattered their tentative peace, echoing ominously from the floor below. Varholm's eyes widened in terror, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the table.

"They've come," Varholm whispered hoarsely, panic saturating his voice. "It's Elbron's kin—they've come for vengeance! We're going to die!"

Mikhail immediately moved to block Varholm from the stairway, placing a firm yet gentle hand on the man's trembling shoulder. His voice was calm, resonant, a balm of rationality amidst Varholm's spiraling dread.

"Compose yourself, Fenric. Assumptions are the shortest path to defeat," Mikhail said softly, yet with undeniable authority. "Information is a prerequisite of a winning strategy."

Taking a step toward the stairway, Mikhail inclined his head slightly, straining his senses for any further clues. His sharp mind quickly dismissed mundane explanations; the noises carried an unsettling quality—low, guttural, unnatural. The air around him seemed to chill subtly, a familiar warning pricking his senses and stirring a quiet tension in his chest.

He glanced around the room swiftly, noting potential advantages and defenses: heavy furniture that might barricade doors, stacks of armor neatly arrayed along the walls, lanterns casting wavering shadows. Even Varholm's terrified presence was an asset, something to be managed strategically.

Varholm began to pace frantically, his voice a panicked whisper. "We need to flee, now! Out a window, perhaps—anything!"

Mikhail turned calmly, silencing Varholm's hysteria with an unwavering look.

"We are not even sure yet that fleeing is possible," he stated firmly. "Until then, we prepare. Calm yourself. Fear will only blind you to the path we must take."

Another noise erupted from below, louder this time—something heavy scraping across the wooden floor, accompanied by a hollow, mournful moan. Mikhail's brow furrowed slightly, a careful balance of caution and determination settling across his features.

"Undead," he murmured softly, almost to himself, confirming his suspicions. The threat was even more dire than Varholm imagined. Yet, rather than succumbing to the terror that threatened him in that moment, Mikhail began to swiftly and methodically consider their options, each movement and thought precise, deliberate—a living embodiment of strategic calm in the face of approaching death.

[GameMaster]

Mikhail steadied his breath, holding a intricately carved red chess knight piece tightly in one hand. The subtle warmth of its polished surface served as a calming focus as he whispered a quiet prayer:

"Lady of Strategy, reveal the unseen and illuminate the paths before me," he intoned softly.

A faint, silvery radiance emanated gently from the chess piece, momentarily bathing the room in a subtle glow. Mikhail's vision sharpened, attuning to the subtle threads of supernatural energy weaving through the air around him.

Almost immediately, the presence below clarified into stark, unsettling detail. Three distinct sources pulsed strongly with dark, malevolent energy—unmistakably undead, their auras potent and chilling. The cold emanation was oppressive, reaching out like icy fingers to sap warmth and courage from the unwary.

Yet even more alarming was the lingering imprint of a fourth presence, a spectral echo whose overwhelming aura dwarfed the others. The potency was staggering, unlike anything Mikhail had ever encountered, saturating the lower level with a haunting intensity.

Mikhail opened his eyes slowly, the brief illumination fading back into candlelit gloom. His expression betrayed no panic, only calculated concern, as he glanced toward Fenric Varholm, who remained wide-eyed and trembling.

"Three undead are below us," Mikhail reported calmly, allowing no tremor to enter his voice. "They are formidable, but something far stronger has been here-- Its aura remains, dominating and overwhelming. We must proceed with utmost caution."

Varholm visibly recoiled, clutching at the nearest chair for support. "Undead? Stronger presence? Elbron's kin couldn't summon such horrors!"

Mikhail shook his head slightly, maintaining his measured composure. "This is not yet proven to be the work of grieving family members, Fenric. Remain calm and gather your courage. We no doubt both require it very soon."

He turned, assessing the room rapidly, mind already forming plans, considering escape routes, defenses, and strategic responses. "The Five Defenses," he said quietly to himself, quoting from an old military text "Echoes from the Lanceboard" by General Aristan Kellanos.  "We can't absorb their attacks.  We can put something in the way.  We can attempt to evade through the window if we must.  It's unlikely we can long parry the attacks of all three.  Can we simply ignore their attacks and attack back stronger, instead?"  Mikhail looks around again, calculating.

[GameMaster]

Mikhail's eyes narrowed in tense vigilance, watching intently for any sign of the overwhelmingly powerful undead presence he'd sensed earlier. He knew if that more powerful entity appeared, his only recourse would be to hold it off long enough for Fenric Varholm to escape through the window.

The barricade shuddered violently under another forceful impact, and with a splintering crash, three zombies pushed their way through, forced into a narrow entry by Mikhail's careful preparations. Their hungry gazes immediately sought the living within, and the room filled with oppressive cold.

Panicked, Varholm began desperately throwing books, quills, and random metal objects across the room at the advancing horrors, his useless attempts drawing the wights' full attention. Mikhail winced inwardly—this was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid.

"Fenric," Mikhail called firmly, struggling to keep his composure despite the merchant's panicked actions while also trying to calculate his first swing so that it would cut into the torso of the leadmost zombie, "Calm yourself—"

But Varholm's eyes widened further in horrified recognition. "It's them!" he choked out. "The assassins—and that's the White Skulls' leader!"

In that moment, Mikhail looked back and clarity struck with chilling certainty: These were not mere zombies; they were wights— far more lethal undead creatures whose slightest touch could drain away life itself from their victims. His blade, he realized grimly, would prove nearly useless against such foes.

"I didn't want any of this!" Varholm pleaded with them as they advance.

"Their souls cry out for peace," Mikhail murmured solemnly, sheathing his longsword with a decisive motion. "It falls to us to grant them mercy."

He stepped forward boldly, standing directly between the undead and Varholm. With deliberate calm, Mikhail raised the carved wooden chesspiece, holy symbol of the Red Knight toward them. Channeling an incredible amount of positive divine energy through his devotion as an offer to them, rather than as a threat against them.

"Be at peace," he said quietly, a sorrowful plea rather than a commanding invocation.

Radiant energy flooded the room, washing over the wights in a gentle yet powerful wave. With silent screams, their corrupted forms trembled briefly before disintegrating completely, crumbling to ash on the cold wooden floor.

Varholm collapsed back against the desk, relief overwhelming him. Yet Mikhail stood still, momentarily stunned. Such overwhelming power was beyond what he had ever summoned before— greater than what should be possible for an acolyte of his rank.

Mikhail looked back to Varholm, whose face shown that he was in danger of being completely overwhelmed by both the threat of the undead and the bared power of the priest himself.

"I only want to sell... I only wanted to make enough money..." he stammered, clearly falling into a state of shock.

They had little time to ponder this revelation. "We cannot remain here," Mikhail declared urgently, regaining his composure. "The evil responsible for their creation still lingers. This room—and this compromised building—offers no safety.  Seize control of yourself, and let us move quickly!"

[GameMaster]

Mikhail swiftly guided Varholm away from the barricaded room, descending carefully toward the lower level. Every creaking step was cautious and calculated, his senses attuned to the lingering darkness. As they reached the bottom floor, a tangible coldness lingered, the aftermath of unnatural energy.

The room below was in disarray, evidence of the violent entrance and struggle plainly visible. Furniture lay overturned, items scattered across the floor. Mikhail knelt carefully, examining the remains of the entry point. Something caught his attention amidst the chaos—a distinctive dagger, embedded in the splintered wood of a broken cabinet.

Varholm stared at the dagger, recognition flooding his face with dread. "That... that dagger belonged to one of Elbron's assassins. I gave it to them myself, part of their payment." His voice was weak, laced with guilt and fear.

Mikhail carefully pulled the dagger free, inspecting it closely. Its hilt bore the emblem of what must have been the White Skulls. A troubling realization formed in his mind—the vengeance being enacted was deliberate and deeply personal.

"Fenric," Mikhail spoke firmly yet compassionately, holding the dagger as if it were undeniable proof, "The dead returned to claim vengeance for their unjust murder. Whoever or whatever sent these assassins to their grave is driven by profound rage and conviction."

Varholm shivered visibly, overwhelmed by remorse and panic. "Elbron... It must be him...but how?"

Mikhail's gaze sharpened thoughtfully, recalling the disturbing detail he'd noticed during their earlier conversation, and in the confrontation that had just passed. "Their right eyes," he murmured aloud. "Each of the undead attackers had sustained severe damage to the right eye—even in death, this injury remained prominent. Fenric, did your assassins report exactly how they ended Elbron's life?"

Varholm's face paled further, recognition mingled with renewed horror. "They stabbed him through the eye," he whispered hoarsely, trembling now. "That was their signature, their proof that it was they who completed job... By the gods, Elbron himself has come back for revenge!"

Mikhail nodded gravely. "Death does not always quiet the soul, Fenric. Great injustice can compel spirits to return. What happened to Elbron was undeniably unjust, and now he seeks retribution against those who wronged him. We must understand the depth of his vengeance if we are to survive."

Varholm all but collapsed to a nearby chair, head in hands. "I never wanted anyone to die. It was supposed to be threats at most, only bribery really...never this."

Mikhail approached and gently placed a reassuring hand on Varholm's shoulder. "Your mistakes are not your destiny, Fenric— but redemption requires courage. Now, tell me everything you know about Elbron's demise. Every detail, no matter how insignificant, may determine whether we survive this night."

[GameMaster]

Varholm raised his eyes slowly, gathering what little composure remained. He took a shaky breath, visibly attempting to steady himself under Mikhail's calm, unwavering gaze. The candlelight flickered softly around them, illuminating their somber conversation amid the lingering chill.

"Elbron was defiant to the end," Varholm began quietly, his voice strained with regret. "He refused every offer we made—bribes, threats, sabotage. Nothing worked. Eventually, the White Skulls decided he had to be silenced permanently. I...I tried to dissuade them, but I was too cowardly to openly resist."

Mikhail listened intently, his thoughtful expression betraying neither judgment nor condemnation, only careful, strategic consideration.

"They sent their two best assassins," Varholm continued, hands trembling slightly. "I supplied the payment and the weapons, including paying for that terrible dagger... The assassins returned, claiming the task was complete— Elbron stabbed through the eye as their gruesome proof."

Mikhail nodded solemnly. "And yet now, the assassins themselves and even a leader of your organization are dead, each sharing Elbron's final wound. The symmetry is deliberate, Fenric— a message clear and unmistakable."

Varholm looked up sharply, dread evident in his eyes. "Then what hope do we have? If Elbron returned as some kind of undead avenger, how can we possibly survive him?"

Mikhail rose, pacing slowly as he considered their situation carefully. "We survived tonight because we anticipated and prepared for the immediate threat. Elbron, however powerful and driven by vengeance, is still bound by the rules of his condition— He is compelled toward those who wronged him. Therefore, our first move must be to distance you from your past associations."

"How?" Varholm asked desperately. "The White Skulls' reach is far, their memory long."

"Precisely why we must move swiftly," Mikhail asserted firmly. "We leave this compromised place immediately. You must openly renounce the White Skulls and their deeds, seeking sanctuary and forgiveness. Elbron's vengeance may be relentless, but it is directed by justice. Redemption, Fenric, is your strongest defense."

Varholm hesitated, visibly torn between fear and fragile hope. "And you believe it will be enough?"

Mikhail regarded him steadily, compassion and conviction intertwined within his gaze. "I believe it is the only true path forward. Our mistakes may define our past, Fenric— But our courage defines our present, and create our future. Gather your things quickly; we must move before Elbron finds us again."

Resolutely, Varholm stood, nodding as courage--finally-- ever so slowly replaced despair.