The Calling of Icecrown

It was in frozen Icecrown that the Lich King first commanded his armies of the damned. It was in that solid, desecrated glacier walled within solid saronite that no traveler or adventure without a death wish dare to tread, for no living mortal entered and was seen again. Whatever forces lied beyond the veil of death, it was in this Light-forsaken place that it had chosen to unleash its might, with Lady Sylvanas seemingly at the head. It was she who ripped apart the Helm of Domination and unleashed the Scourge from their bonds - if the rumors that leaked from the Ebon Blade were true. Sylvanas, who was once protector and idol to her people, even as the Banshee Queen, even as Warcheif during the Legions return, somehow she turned enemy of life and villain. It was she and her agents of dark, winged angels that had taken the pillars of leadership within the Alliance; Jaina Proudmoore, and King Anduin Wrynn. Faced with all this, Alia Atherton-Chess could only think of three questions; How, why, and was this always her plan?

The steady rhythmic beat of wings and howling wind filled in the rest. Rorik, her near-constant companion and friend, drake of the Red Dragonflight, his great leathery wings spread across the length of the sky, was doing the best he could to fly in the perpetual blizzard that made the rounds in Northrend. Behind them was Dalaran, moved once again by the Council of Six to respond to the Scourge invasions. Ahead was Icecrown, but not the same one from her memories. The sky above the main spire had been torn apart by potent magics. Not so much a peeling back of the veil but a shattering of reality. Pieces of what should have been an endless overcast sky just floated away into a maw of another orange sky. The faintest outline of another spire could be seen if she peered into the break long enough. 

It almost an exact mirror to Icecrowns.

“Staring into that hole in the sky isn’t going to answer your questions, Alia.” Rorik’s voice was nearly lost to her ears the minute it left his mouth. “We should be coming up on the Tournament Grounds now. Jon will be waiting for us there. Then we can figure out... that... thing.”

He had grown in the years; His eyes, once like gold honey, had turned into a darker amber. Long, sharp horns had just started to thrust from the back of his head, and his body had grown two-thirds what it had been before. He still carried the weight of too many Mana Buns in his youth, but it was a mass that was in the transition from early adolescent flab to the bulk of early adulthood. It was small comfort to see that his training with her brother-in-law Dane Griffonclaw was paying off. There was a confidence in him now that shone through, even with his jokester tendencies. 

“Any word on the King? Proudmoore... Any of them?” Alia shouted to be heard, resorting to bending her body so as to take up the least amount of space and be closer to his ear. 

Rorik just shook his head. Before they had left, Alia had taken the opportunity of neutral ground to speak with her long-time friend, mage ally, and occasional awkward contact Pixisticks, whose ability to hear other people’s business nearly rivaled her engineering and magical ingenuity. The situation wasn’t great Hordeside either; the same dark-figures that had taken Proudmoore and the King had stolen Thrall and Baine Bloodhoof as well. The newly formed Council was doing their best to keep it under wraps, but likewise in Stormwind, that became much harder when the Scourge started raiding rural towns, the Argent Crusade called for aid in Northrend, and the Ebon Blade arrived seeking out the most legendary heroes and asking for “private conversations”. 

People might be ignorant of certain truths, but they are certainly not that blind to miss that much sudden activity.

“Jon might know more, but…”

“...you doubt it.” She finished his thought. “Yeah, I know. Let’s find my husband.”

Rorik grunted and started to push himself harder. On and on they flew. The gray hills became impenetrable glacier. The air felt frozen in Alia’s lungs. The dead valley land was only broken by the imposing walls of saronite, a dark iron ore that she knew could drive the living mad from mere exposure. As they flew over the thickest part of the glacier, and the indistinct outline of the Tournament tents came into view, Rorik began his descent. The gusting wind might have been harder to take, but Rorik arched his neck to give her some protection. Alia dared lean to her left just enough to see something of the ground. What she noticed left her with more concern. Below them, the last remnants of Sindragosa’s brood had taken to the air, reinvigorated by the undead necromancers.

She pointed them out to Rorik, who started to bank right at once, hugging the cliffs that formed the base of the Storm Peaks, using the blizzard as cover until the land gave way to the open ocean. A sharp turn left, and with the wind suddenly at their backs, they raced through the heavens at a speed that nearly took the Magna’s breath away. The ground came to meet them quickly, and though the earth was left with talon marks afterward, they did manage to land just outside the Silver Covenant pavilion. Both drake and the woman were out of breath, but at least once more on the ground, the worse effects of the blizzard had subsided.

“Still need to work on the landing Rori,” Alia said, clambering off his back to use his scaled frame as a brace while she caught her breath. “Don’t you fly with Dane at all?”

“No, Dane doesn’t let me take him up.” Came the reply just as breathlessly.

“Now I see why.” She laughed, and he sheepishly joined along.

The guards were on them shortly, doing the usual checks and asking the usual questions to which Alia expertly handled. Rorik, meanwhile, had caught a glimpse of a shadow moving out of the pavilion meant for the Horde and was struck numb with the feeling of multiple eyes turning to look at him.

---

Danneth Denholm had never been to Icecrown before now, having been raised into undeath years after the Lich King's defeat, but he had seen its spires in the eyes of the Scarlet Crusade and others among the living that had hunted him and his flock, the members of his parish who were doomed to an existence in undeath; cold, unfeeling monoliths of hatred that sought not just to conquer, but to destroy everything that did not conform. Even now, as he shuffled his broken, hunched carcass of a body down the stairs, he could feel the eyes of the living watching, following him. They saw the exposed bone and tattered flesh and turned away repulsed. If not, they stared in disgust at his prosthetic jaw, made of roughly forged iron for reinforcement, or gawked in surprise that he still had as much of his oily, slicked-back hair as he did. Didn't they have something better to do?

They are no better than rats! They should be dealt with as such! Show them...Show them the truth! 

Many voices like silk slithered into his mind, a soup of chaos that spoke in fragments barely suited to form a cohesive whole. The cacophony of Shadows was as vocal as ever, despite the recent defeat of the final Old One. The whispers did not end with his defeat. If anything, Danneth sometimes wondered if the magnitude of the Three - N'Zoth, C'Thun, and Yogg-Saron - had quieted the others in some manner, and without their existence, those once muffled were beginning to intensify. His tomes held no answer to this quandary, and his observations of the Ren'dori offered no illumination either. A question for another time.

"I will think it over." He muttered under his breath, "But my sister has requested a report, and I promised that I would deliver it."

She is short-sighted! She chases a dream that will end in a nightmare! Cast her aside and take what is yours!

"There is a nobility and simplicity in the service of others, and I proud to help my sister."

Liar... Liar... LIAR!

The old priest clenched his fist and beat his chest, hissing in pain as a pure Light radiated from his chest and burned his flesh. The agony was total and blinding, but it ended as quickly as it came. The darkness retreated, the whispers returning to the formless chaos for a time being. "Quiet. I will ask for counsel when I seek it." He leaned on his staff for support, standing there in a cold he did not feel until he felt his strength returning. Ahead of him was a short tunnel that connected the pavilions with the training grounds for the Tournament, lit by torchlight that barely survived the wind whipping around it. From an outsider's view, the old man stepped into the tunnel, bracing against his staff, but within the flicker of the torchlight, he simply vanished, never to reappear on the other side.

The truth was that he had melded into shadows, allowing the darkness to envelop him and carry him to his destination. When he reappeared just several miles away, rising out of the shadow of a hill, all that laid ahead of him was the Conflagration, one of the walled courtyards outside of the Citadel of Icecrown, known for its Frostbrood wyrm guarded walls that were ablaze in blue, corrupting flame. The blizzard had finished running its course for now. The broken siege equipment; the battering ram and catapults that had granted the past champions access before, were strewn across the barren soil, being picked apart for metal scraps by geists. The cawing of carrions echoed above him, and a moment later the snow made a subtle crunch behind him. Then came the drawing of an arrow on a bowstring.

"How long do you think it would take for the witch to realize you're gone?" The voice was feminine but carried a bitterness like fine red wine turned into vinegar. 

Danneth smiled, genuinely thinking in over for a moment, "I would say about sixteen hours, with another three to find my body with your arrows pierced through my hollow skull, assuming you try to hide your deeds and this blizzard holds. Of course, I'm more interested in how you plan to escape her after you've done the deed - You'll be lucky if my sister got a hold of you first."

"What if I threw myself on a pyre?"

"Hm. That would certainly make it harder for my sister, but I imagine the Mistress would have something to... ah, remedy the problem." He turned around to face the woman. Standing tall like all Sin'dorei should, she could have been mistaken for one of the Farstriders. Her armor was an intricate weaving of metal, bone, and leather. The plating splinted from her shoulders down to her feet, overlapping each other to provide maximum protection without infringing too much on her mobility. The bones were from multiple great beasts (and perhaps a demon or two) that had dared to cross her path. The red chain-scale hood was lined with thick fur, likely a dire wolf, and the cloak was similarly made with beaver skin for shielding against the elements. The prowess as well as the position of power that master huntress of this would have held was clear for all to see. The problem was her eyes; blood-red eyes that overflowed with unabated hatred from their almond-shaped sockets under the low hood, framed by free-flowing raven black hair. Her deathly pale skin was almost gray, given the light, and her ears were torn in places where earrings might have belonged. This was no Farstrider, but a fallen ranger; A Dark Ranger.

"It might be worth it, just to see her chase her tail like the bitch she is." The woman relaxed the bowstring but did not de-notch the dark shafted arrow with the red fletching. 

"It might, but the Imp's wrath would not be. It is good to see you, Lyanna."

"I thought we agreed not to lie to each other." She took her place next to the undead priest overlooking the land. 

"We did, and I have yet to break that oath..." He groaned as he stretched his bones to stand up straight, "Tell me what has happened here."

"The undead run free in Icecrown. Cultists of the Damned have come out of their foxholes in droves to summon more."

"I thought the Lich King was destroyed years ago?" Danneth asked.

The reply came quietly, "...I thought so too... The truth is far worse. After we cast down Arthas, they took Bolvar Fordragon and put the helm on his head. It seems that there must always be a Lich King to control the dead. Whatever the case, this isn't his doing. There's a... mindlessness to their movements. No purpose or control. It is almost like-"

"-The tether is gone." Danneth finished her thought grimly. If anyone would pick up on this new crazed behavior, it would be Lyanna. A Ranger-Captain in life, she had fought the Scourge when they destroyed her home of Quel'Thalas and had followed the Horde's expedition forces to Northrend to seek vengeance for her homeland. "So there is no longer a Lich King?"

The ranger nodded.

"Interesting... very interesting. Is there anything else?" He turned to face her.

"Yes, actually. Blightcaller has been found... at his family home in the Plaguelands, just... waiting."

Nathanos Blightcaller. The Banshee Queen's champion. He had disappeared after that fateful honor duel or mak'gora as the orcs call it, between Sylvanas and the High Overlord Varok Saurfang, along with a handful of her most loyal followers. For him to just be... found so easily after the months of both Alliance and Horde tirelessly searching for her was unsettling to Danneth. 

"He was the only human to be trained in the way of your people."

Lyanna nodded again, "By Sylvanas herself, in fact. He was always a ruffian. Followed the Banshee like a lost dog. Father loathed him - part of the reason I never accepted the honor of Ranger Lord. He was barely tolerable in life. In death he was insufferable."

Danneth smiled, amused at the prospect of his impending death. "He won't have to wait long then. They will dispatch him soon enough, even if they have to throw an entire army at him to do it."

"No doubt. But I wonder if that is not the idea. If the rumors are true..."

"It may be exactly what she wants... Likely so. In any case, it is not for us to concern ourselves with."

"So that is it? I am just to stare at ghouls until one of the frost wyrms pluck me off the ground?" She asked him as the pair retreated from the edge and began to make their way back to the shadows where the priest had come from. 

"If you wanted to use your skills to cull their numbers, I doubt that there would be any issue raised." Danneth brought his hands together, and the space around them began to darken with the void. A tear in space began to ripple in front of him, before bursting open to an empty blackness, the fringes of which glowed with dark power.

"I'm so close to finding him, and when I do, I will come for you, then your sister, and then for the Imp. You know that Danneth."

Her words made him pause. The tear held in place mid-air.

She claims to see, yet is still so blind. Blind to the truth! The whispers beckoned him for his attention at the back of his mind.

"You will likely die trying." He responded finally.

"You've said that before, and yet I lived another three years after you warned me with one of your visions."

Blind, blind! So blind to the truth of it all!

Danneth recalled the event well; Being a student of the shadows meant countless nights of peering into the void, looking for answers to events unfolding around him. For the Void does not deal in absolute truths like the Light likes to. The Light can not fully see the extent of destiny but tries to control what it sees regardless. The Void, however, understands the half-truths for what they are and sees them all as the truth until proven absolutely otherwise. Least, this is how Danneth felt when on one such night he was revealed a vision of blood and horror. Of death and ruin and the end of all those involved in the tangled spider web of his sister's work. There were many potential starts to this calamity, but the Void held only one in precedent. In this reality, an agent within the organization his sister served in would be captured, and reveal to their enemies enough information that, in the right person's hands, starting the first domino in the chain that would lead to decimation. 

While it is usually unwise to try and subvert fate, the eldest Denholm thought that if there was ever a time to chance such a thing, it would be to prevent this vision from coming to pass. He had a name, after all.

Lyanna Ravenwing, Ranger-Captain in the Farstriders. In the weave that relationships often form, Lyanna had found herself connected to many nobility and other various posts of all levels within Silvermoon through her friends, many affiliated with the Farstriders themselves, and also enjoyed many allies beyond the golden city’s walls. Her own skill with a short-blade and bow aside, her family had long cultivated a subspecies of storm crows brought from the mainland of Kalimdor when the High Elves were first cast out from Kaldorei society. Over centuries of bathing in the light of the Sunwell, these ‘Dread Ravens’ were larger, fiercer, and more intelligent than the average carrion bird. Three such birds were her constant companions in life and proved as trustworthy scouts given her responsibilities of tracking down and arresting runaway traitors, pirates, and others of that ilk who had caused the Throne too much trouble. And one such trouble-maker was Vivian Heartsorrow, a pirate captain who liked to run with other, more famous criminals, and who had been smuggling very special cargo to and from the Eastern Kingdoms on behalf of his sister. Ravenwing and the Captain quickly formed a rivalry for the ages, and it was no secret the measures the Ranger would go to to see Heartsorrow behind bars. Or better yet, hanged until very much dead.

It had taken time, and many concessions some would call treasonous on his part, but eventually, Danneth was able to get an audience with Lyanna, and in the dark of night he delivered his message of warning before the antagonism between the two women could fulfill the Void's vision. She listened, though was skeptical until an encounter Danneth had outlined in detail during their conversation had gone exactly as he had predicted, word for word. His gambit paid off, and indeed everyone continued to live their normal lives afterward. For a little while, at least.

"I... I did not foresee your death, Ranger. I would have warned you if I had." He stated, aware of the lie, and cut her off before she could speak, "Do not cast your anger onto me. I am not the one who murdered you, nor did I have a hand in your return. You know that."

The silence was just as deafening as the rage the emanated from her being. The grip of her gauntlet around her bow tightened. They held each other's gaze, a challenge to trade more than words. Neither moved, till, with a turn of her heel, Lyanna turned her back on him and marched away.

She will learn, learn, learn the truth soon enough. Soon... soon...

"Good luck on your hunt," Danneth murmured, offering a short, shallow bow to the departing huntress, and stepped through the portal.

---

“YOU SENT CHESS WHERE?!” Alia shrieked, rattling the wood floor around her and startling Rorik.

The soldier, clad in the white plate and tabard of the Argent Crusade, took a step away from the mage, “He’s gone into the Conflagration-”

“-and you just let him go without any back-up?”

“Alia, let the man speak! Jon can take care of himself.” Rorik rested a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but he was shrugged off. His hand rushed to her arm, gripping it to hold her back from the poor fool in front of them as she fought him to give the man a piece of her mind.

“...Not without back-up, ma’am. He’s been sent with some of our best to reinforce a forward post and investigate the rumors of these new winged creatures.”

Alia took a deep breath, pushing the flurry of thoughts out of her mind. She wasn't surprised that Jon had gone ahead without her - His skills were in scouting and assassination. Working in the shadows and clearing the way for the more formal troops was his role, and he was damn good at it. She was proud of her husband for it, yet, she was not naive to the situation this presented; The last time Jon was in Northrend "fighting the good fight" against the undead, Theramore had just been wiped from the face of Kalimdor. He had given himself almost fully to the Shadows and was taking assignments that, in Alia's view, could only be labeled as suicidal. Now Lady Proudmoore, someone who carried great weight in Jon's life (for good reason) had been snatched away to Light-knew where, and the woman who set Teldrassil ablaze was responsible. Alia's rush to be by Jon's side was not mere fulfillment of her wedding vows; she worried about what result this concoction of past and present would wrought. She would drag her husband back to Stormwind as a polymorphed sheep if she thought it would keep him from leaping headfirst into the conflict before they had gathered any actionable information as to Jaina and the other's whereabouts.

She let out a sharp breath slowly before she spoke, now with a clearer mind, "Where is this forward outpost?" 

The soldier stammered out directions, and a moment later Alia and Rori were flying through the air once more, this time in the direction of the forward outpost. Rorik had an easier time with the wind at his back but had to be careful, for the greater mobility applied to all the dragons in the air, living or dead. Below them, the dead had swelled in number - the Cult of the Damned worked fast.

"There he is!" Alia exclaimed, pointing a familiar white-haired rouge out to Rorik.

The fellow widely known as Jonathan Chess spotted the familiar form of his "little brother" Rorik, with a not-unfamiliar passenger astride his broad draconic shoulders.  He rushed to the spot where he thought Rorik would land before shifting back to his human form.

This landing was smoother than before, landing away from the camp to create space between the fragile cloth tents still being set-up and air being pushed aside from Rorik's wind wings.

"Delivery for you sir! The rarest, newest, cheese all the way from Dalaran. They're calling it...Muenster Magna!" Rorik cried out to his 'older brother', depositing Alia carefully on the ground before taking his mortal form. Snowflakes clung to his red hair like mold spots on an apple, and the drake showed as much fondness for the look as the idea.

Alia ignored him and made her way over to Jon with a more relaxed smile on her face. The previous ferocity had disappeared the moment she locked eyes with him.

"Be very careful, Rori... Muenster Magna melts at relatively low temperatures, and nobody likes melted cheese without toasted bread and some kind of sandwich meats."  Jon responded as he strode swiftly, purposely, to his beloved mage-wife, embracing her lithe form. "Except me, that is... I love making Muenster Magna melt in my arms at any time, under any conditions."

"You say that now..."

"Hush you. Go help the others set, oh great Sass Master." Alia jerked her thumb over to a group of soldiers trying to set up a bonfire in preparation for the blizzard winds that were sure to return. She then turned her attention back to Jon, her fingers tracing the bird-like design on his chest-piece with her fingers, "And you, Mr. Chess, aren't entirely in the clear either..." She smiled despite herself when he held her tighter.

"I do not understand what you are so upset about, Beloved," said Jon, grinning.  "But no matter - whatever the offense, I will be happy to pay whatever penalty you demand.  How may I assuage your feelings, Mrs. Chess?"

Rorik had flown off to impress the others with his dragon-ness, and once out of earshot, Alia spoke candidly.

"Well...I'm not going to lie and say that the giant tear in the reality looming above our heads doesn't put me on edge, but I'm more worried about you. How are you doing? And be honest now -  I'll know if your lying."

They both knew that if Jon truly wanted to hide his thoughts from Alia, he could better than anyone else, but Alia trusted him to only use that power for the direst of circumstances. The roar of a fire being sprung to life by the breath of the red dragon elicited cheers from the soldiers behind them.

Jon's smile drained from his face as he lowered his words so that only Alia could hear them, and she braced herself for his words, "This is like Theramore all over again, my love. Jaina and Theramore was the reason why Master Trias reached out to a sneaky street rat and took him out of the alleyways to train him, to give him purpose and a challenge that he needed. I know that some might say 'out of the frying pan and into the fire', but Jaina's need for information and a weapon who could strike from the Shadows probably saved my life; I needed to be useful, to make a difference doing the only things I knew how to do. Being honed by Ravenhodt kept me alive, and gave me a family among Theramore... a dysfunctional family, perhaps, but no family is perfect."

Never is... Alia ran a hand through the short, soft hairs in the back of his neck.

"When the Horde...destroyed that family, when I felt everything had been stripped from me.. that was when the Rook was born in truth, and I waded through death here in Icecrown, a scout by day and an assassin by night.  I became one of their favorite tools, because I took assignments that nobody else would, because I felt I was already a corpse, fit only to create more corpses of the Horde while destroying as much of the Scourge as possible. In some ways, it only became worse when I found out that Jaina had survived, and had no use for me... it never occurred to me that she was even more damaged than I was."

Alia understood that all too well, but didn't dwell on it for too long.

"It was not until Trias asked me... ordered me... to be part of the work again as part of her delegation to Kul Tiras, that I truly felt... alive again, that there might be more to me than an envenomed knife it the dark, or a Shadow planting explosives to kill scores of Horde. Helping Jaina come back to herself... hearing the tears in her voice when she discovered that I had survived Theramore... for me, that was a time of healing that let me put the Rook away, put him to rest." Jon stood there, salty tears freezing on his cheeks as he wept without noticing.  "Now the Banshee Queen has abducted her, as stolen her away again.  I can't just sit around while other people rescue her; I need to do something to help. So while the Argent Crusade needs my daggers, my explosives, even just shoveling out the stables again... I can't not help.  The idea of going nuts again... "

Alia kissed his lips to hush the thought, then chased each salty intruder until they were banished from his face. "Oh, Jon...I...I would never let you go back down that path. You know that don't you?" She stepped back so he could look at her in her entirety, "I would hog-tie you and drag you back to the Tower as a sheep if I had to..."

They laughed quietly. After an unfortunate misunderstanding between the two, Alia had turned Jon into a sheep and cast him out of the Tower of Azora, where she used to live as part of a deal with the Kirin Tor. Ever since then, the two often used the incident as a playful threat against each other.

Jon turned and embraced Alia once more. "She gives me reason to fight, but you... you, my talented, clever, and oh-so-patient Lady of My Heart, you give me reason to come back... even from death itself. I love you mi-corazón."

"And I love you, my Shadow..." She pressed her lips against his temple, "Just promise me you won't go  until we have some idea of what we'll be facing." Jon sighed, and his wife quickly shushed him with a lithe finger to his lips before he could say anything. "I know I can't stop you from going. Even if I tried I know I couldn't. I just...I want to make sure it's a fight you can win first. That place..." She glanced up to the sky, broken as ever, "We weren't meant to go there...not alive anyway, and I have doubt that if we are not careful we won't be coming back. What goes to the Shadowlands-"

"Usually stays, yes." Jon finished. "Is that what they call it? The Shadowlands?"

Alia shrugged," I overheard a few of the Ebon Blade talking while waiting for a Crusader to talk to me. Apparently 'silence of the grave' doesn't apply to the already deceased."

"Given all the screams and gibbering to which the Scourge subject us, that should come as no surprise... and that damned loa Bwonsamdi is downright loquacious."

"You've had experience with a loa?" The Magna gasped, the light in her eyes reigniting.

Rori stepped up to the pair hurriedly, "I hate to interrupt your line of inquiry Alia, but we have a problem."

At the base of the structure, they had entrenched the forward outpost upon, an army of the dead was beginning to amass; ghouls half-clad in cloth shuffled onward in various stages of decay, ravenous geist's still in their hangman's rope clambered at the walls, and skeletons that shambled in broken armor were led by gaunt and withered necromancers. There was no distinct organization yet, though the arrival of the Cult of the Damned was sure to change that factor.

"Hun... do you have a feather?  Time for me to go to work..." said Jon, looking ready to hurl himself into the dark skies of Icecrown.

"I do believe you mean it is time for 'us' to go to work." Corrected Rorik.

Alia groaned, pulling a small, white, delicately light feather from a pouch on her belt, muttering a spell into it, and pressing it into Jon's hand. "I do, but I'm not going to let you do something so base. Rorik!" 

At once a large, red-scaled claw wrapped itself around each of the couple, and they were lifted off the ground by the red drake known to them as Rorikstrasz, his wings blowing away snow with their strength. He rose them high into the air, before letting the gravity pull the three down into a nosedive.

"Nothing like having our own home-made blizzard!  Rori, we'll deal with the ground game - you keep us clear above?" suggested Jon, who knew enough not to try and give a dragon orders.

He did not respond but continued to soar downward before the drake unfurled his wings and they were launched backward, slowing their fall till the ground rises to greet their feet, and the claws released them to meet them. The enchanted feather disappeared from Jon’s hand, and he felt his speed slow, and his feet gentle place themselves on the ground. Alia landed beside him, erecting a shimmering bubble around her person that pulsated arcane power,” He will. And the necromancers are mine.”

"Fair enough - I think my knives are thirsty anyway.  Not enough of these walking corpses to waste a F.R.I.E.D grenade anyways," Jon grinned, sprinting forward, both hands suddenly filled with envenomed throwing knives.

Her husband was always able to fill his hands with winged death at a moment's notice, something that always irked the Magna. She hate-hate-hated not knowing something when she became aware that there was something to know. "Someday I must make him show me how he does that!" Alia muttered, focusing on the battle charge as three missiles brimming with arcane power burst from her outstretched hand and hit their mark in a necromancer's chest, breaking his concentration and dissipating his spell. 

Together, the Chess family thrust themselves into the fray.