Widmund's life was in Ulmir's hands.

Frantically, the dwarf tried to conjure up another blast of stone, but the magic did not answer. His magical reserves were drained, and his body quaked at the very most basic of arcane gestures. No, magic would not be the answer; but even the split second spent in trying to bring forth the power of rock and stone was a split second wasted. Bjormir loomed ever closer to Widmund, and the armored man clearly had accepted his fate.

Ulmir started running forward, but he knew he wouldn't make it in time. He was spent physically as well, not just magically; he had been dealt one too many blows. Bellighul urged him to act, but Ulmir knew haste alone would not avail him. He had no weapon! He had no magic! He had nothing but his body in the deadly, trap-filled tomb!

Trap-filled tomb...

Ulmir's eyes snapped wide, then he narrowed his gaze. A small groove in the floor was ahead, the mark of a pressure plate, only several feet from Bjormir! A quick glance to the side revealed holes in the wall, possibly for arrows or poison or who knew what. it was Ulmir's best chance at saving Widmund's life.

The young dwarf rushed forth as far as he could before turning his run into a leap. As Bjormir's axe went up, Ulmir's body fell down, pressing his full weight and momentum down upon the hidden pressure plate. Rock slid down into rock, and something snapped beneath the floor, releasing a flurry of javelins.

Widmund was lucky; he was just an inch away from one of the launched projectiles. Ulmir was not so lucky, taking one particularly low shot straight in the stomach. But it was Bjormir who took the worst of it: three javelins struck the ancient dwarf with enough combined force to send the warrior toppling over, his bones shattering, the spectral aura around him fading into nothingness.

Ulmir heaved out ragged breaths on the floor of the tomb, his blood pooling around him. He smiled wanly up at Widmund.

"Victory is ours," the young prince rasped out with more power than anyone in his state should have. "My ancestor rests peacefully once again." Then Ulmir shuddered and slipped into unconsciousness.

Death does not come for Widmund on this day. Just as he watches his vanquisher raise the killing axe, three javelins pierce its hide from behind. Bjormir falls to the floor, where he gasps and struggles to breathe without lungs, clinging to a life he does not have. For the second time in history, Bjormir, prince of dwarves, lets out his final breath, and the misty half-flesh that made his spectral being dissipates into oblivion.

Widmund breathes in relief, for fate has shown him mercy where his enemy would not, and the spectral siege has been banished by Bellighul's blasphemous incantations - a necessary evil, to be certain. But he is quick to realize the cost.

"Ulmir!"

His mangled armor rattles as he rushes to Ulmir's side and listens to, what sounds very much like, his last words.

"Yes. Yes it is, my friend. We've won," Widmund speaks hurriedly as he sees the full extent of Ulmir's wound.

The javelin has punctured low in the dwarf's stomach, possibly rupturing intestine. Of course, this is in addition to the concussion he suffered earlier. Widmund possesses some medical knowledge, but no medical supplies. Gracious, he really must carry some in the future! Perhaps, if he deigns to, then he could convince Ulmir to do the same with armour - if he yet lives.

"Bellighul! Ulmir is injured! We must get him to safety!"

Behind the ziggurat-like tomb, there was a secret passage which was now alight with luminous runes. Bellighul's abhorrent incantations spread dark magic throughout the hall of reverence, highlighting that which was hidden. The Tomb King made his way towards his compatriots; battle harden they may be, the situation was dire. He looked to the boddy of Verolith, still beautiful in even in death and knew he had little time to mourn he passing. 

Ulmir's princely blood had run thick on the Mountain Brass and carven stone. 

"Indeed, there lies a passage, we must make haste." He announced. The pair was tired, injured and of need of rest but the hour was wrought with danger still. The danger of Ulmir dying amongst his forefathers. To die in this tomb would be a great honor for some; yet Ulmir would live to fight on, if Widmund and Bellighul were with haste. Before the Lord of Ghouls moved some feet away, he tore a robe from a fallen cultist and wrapped the torso of Ulmir tightly. He had limited medical experience, yet, was well versed in death and burial rites. 

A final summoning circle formed on the ground, the Undead Hulk rising in horrid form, though not to sow fear and carnage but to carry the body of Ulmir and Verloith as it stomped across the flawless floor towards the passageway. Their bodies nestled in malformation of skeletal arms. Bellighul pressed open the hidden passage, stone grinding against stone, the darkness hid various carving along the wall. More great battle scenes, which gave the air that even with the unholy reinvogoration of Bjormir's corpse; a battle was indeed a worthy end. 

He looked to Widmund, who fought valantly and spoke in a whisper to him. "Full honors...if this was the last battle of our Dwarven friend. I know of craftsmen who can build a worthy sarcophogus. The expense is not great to me; for I may lack in arcana, I do not lack in wealth."

The night was nigh, a great twilight entered the sky in hues of lavender and tangerine contrasting the shadows of jagged peaks; a light snow fell as they gazed into the landscape. His summon, standing high above them. In a lower section of the mountain beneath them, a campfire and a number of tents were a steep trek away. Knowing full well a monstrosity would not be welcome in most circles, he summon laid down the two and slowly crumbled back into it's plane of wickedness. 

"By Lunala, the wamth would do us all well...perhaps aid in our plight." Widmund was the stronger of the two and bore Ulmir down whilst Bellighul managed, falling into the knee deep snow but never to drop Verolith. Her silver hair cascading down his back as jagged rocks cut his hands as he tried to support himself. The darkness was swift, the firelight aided them even from afar as they moved as speedily as they could muster. 

The camp was that of Dark Elves, those who wandered in search of religion instead of adventure. Shamans and acolytes who sought the trials and dangers of the Crown of the World to explore that which lay within. As they approached, the trail behind them dotted with blood upon the snow, the Tomb King called out. 

("Hark, I am Bellighul of Zeinav, a sworn Mage-brother amongst the Dark Elves. This is Widmund, forty sixth Scholar of Battle. Our friend needs healing...and another rites to the next life.") Speaking in the tongue and dialect of those from the Pale City. 

A priestess called back, antlers formed a makeshift crown and furs guarding against the bite of the winter wind. ("Well met, the fire may warm you all but It is the will of the gods if your friend lives or dies.")

Bellighul, hoisting Verolith on his frame shoulder, eyes alight with a scarlet fury that quelled swiftly as he looked to his companion holding their battle brother. He knew rage would not fufill his goal this, reaching into his satchel, ashen hair masking his face as it rustled, he tossed a pouch across the camp towards the priestess. The contents spilling across the snow; golden coins reflecting the fire. 

("....but is it the will of gold?")
_________________

_______

The following day, the sun was high and offered little refuge was the blistering cold, the smell of stewed meat and root vegetables in the air as a hearty breakfast was prepared. The camp was beginning to tear down tents, save one. Emerging from it, the Priestess made her way towards the Lord of Ghouls, who stared off into the distance; he was sleepless and considered many things as he watched night slowly turn into day. The sky was clear, but his concious was muddied.

Her old form, lurching and withered, the near end in the long life of a Dark Elf spoke to him.

("Your friend's strength is returning, Light Magic has many wonders not offered by the Dark Arts. Perhaps, you shall do the world a service by pursuing more benevolent arcana.")

The Necromancer, face as a pallid as death and eyes darkened from lack of sleep and sadness spoke firmly. ("You speak of benevolence...yet it was coin that saved Ulmir's life not your Sun God nor your own kindliness. Your actions I appreciate, thank you but your philosophies are better off amongst your followers and fall on deaf ears. May the Dark Maiden find pity on you.")

She said nothing and returned to the others, snearing at the monotheistic Dark Lord; who sought refuge with no other than Lunala. 

While his comrades stirred awake, Bellighul had prepared a large number of rocks and placed the cold body of Verolith within, a chant echoed throughout the mountain, as he spoke loudly a number of elegies found throughout Dark Elf customs. His hand bore flames, using Chromatic Blast to allow a serpentine streak of fire to rise high behind him. Kneeling now, a small opening in the rocks, filled with all manner of fallen branches and sticks, he fired the blast; igniting the lumber admist his dark chanting. The openings between stone glowed a deep red, the wind stoking the flames within. 

He would wait for Widmund and Ulmir to move about before saying "Goodbyes are in order, I find our new company not to my liking and I long for warmer weather. If you find yourselves trading snow for sand, find me in Zeinav City...a great feast awaits you and hospitality for as long as you can drink."

A courtly bow, a motion of the hand to his forehead indicated a great reverence for his newfound friends. 

This was all that was offered as Bellighul as he declined any handshake or other custom; his black robes bellowed as he then made his way down the mountain alone. 

Dark dreams haunted Ulmir in the realm between life and death. He gazed into the shadows darker than night, shadows which rolled like a fog around him, which collected in a pool about his body, roiled by unseen figures stalking in the blackness. There was no sound but an unending howl, like the winds of the Frost Gale without mercy. There was no feeling but the cold of the murk clinging to him, dragging him toward its bottom. He fought against it, but struggled in vain. He was sinking. He was doomed. But Ulmir would not accept his fate without a fight.

There was a strange gleam that filled Ulmir's eyes, dim though it was in the eternal night. A pale hand reached out from the shadows before him, thin and frail. Its skin was stretched over bone and gleamed with a pale light. It was the hand of death.

Perhaps it was wise to scorn such a hand. To parlay with such omens was to mark one's self among the ill-fated. But Ulmir felt - no, knew, as one often did in dreams - that the hand was being offered to help him. It was a second chance, an opportunity to rise out from that which held him back.

Ulmir did not scorn the hand offered to him. He accepted it, and the weight that bound him slipped away.

---

The prince jolted up from his bedding in a cold sweat, gasping for air. The smell of incense was in the air around him, and a horned creature loomed overhead. Soon, though, his vision came into focus, and he saw it was no creature, but a dark elf wearing a crown of antlers.

"By Solaria's light, you return," whispered the withered old woman above Ulmir. "You were close to death's door. I see you return with full strength."

Ulmir said nothing, but he was certain it was not Solaria that rescued him.

The dwarven prince was caught up to speed about what happened since he fell, and so he rose from his place to find his compatriots. It was not an easy task, for his whole body was weak and sore, but he walked on his own nevertheless. The cold air of the Frost Gale filled his lungs as he stepped out from the tent, and he spied his allies standing near the edge of the camp. Bellighul shared some firm words with the old priestess before approaching Ulmir and Widmund both.

"It is the time for farewells, yes," mused Ulmir, leaning on his hammer like a walking stick. "Still," he mused, brushing his hand through his dark beard, "I doubt it shall be the last we see of each other. Strange days lie ahead of Charon, I think, and we shall have need of each other soon. I am certain of it."

The dwarf reached down into the pouch at his side and removed the gleaming amulet Bjormir once more, staring at the strange and beautiful thing. He looked to his allies, then spoke a little more quietly.

"A road to the Sol Stone lies before us. I shall gather what I can to prepare for such a trek. Something tells me this was but the first of many trials.

"I cannot offer you solace in any city, at least not yet," the dwarf continued morosely, looking back down to his amulet. "But were it not for the both of you, my life would have been forfeit. I shall one day stand by my brother's side in the Pale Mountain. When that day comes, I shall see to it that you both are honored for your deeds. This I swear."

Bellighul turned to leave. Ulmir watched him go, then turned toward Widmund with a ponderous gaze. He said nothing further, though, and only held his hand out to the battle scholar.

It's been a dull, yet tense stay at the camp for Widmund. He's had little to do but fruitlessly attempt upkeep of his mangled armour, and little to focus his thoughts on but the concern that Ulmir might not awaken. And this is to say nothing of the biting cold, abated only by a meagre flame. He does not speak the language of these folks, which would make chatter a difficult prospect if they seemed interested in speaking at all. They do not, not to the scholarly Widmund.

When he sees Ulmir step out from the tent, Widmund immediately stands, dropping his cuirass to the ground. It doesn't matter anymore; it's thoroughly broken. He says nothing, but his relief is palpable, even through his abyssal visor.

Farewells are spoken, promises of morrows over are made. But where does this leave Widmund, exactly? 'Back to the usual,' he supposes. He isn't precisely sure how he's going to get back to Sol City. Another adventure. Yes, Widmund can feel the wind whistling through the gaps in his armour, the bite of the cold pressuring him onward; another adventure.

It's then that Widmund sees Ulmir's extended hand. A gesture of trust, this much is clear, but what is its true intention? The scholar hesitates.

"Ulmir, if this is a gesture of alliance, or of further companionship, I cannot accept. I have my obligations to the Omnes Doctrina. I would wish you luck if there such a thing, but instead I shall wish that you possess the strength to face the trials ahead." He puts a gloved fist to his chest in respect. "But if it is a gesture of friendship, that much I can promise. And should you ever find yourself in Sol City again, or should we meet on the road by chance, I would relish the chance to spar again." He shakes Ulmir's hand with a strong grip, significant of a stronger bond.

Widmund looks to the south, as the sun reflects from the white snow to cast a silver light over all things. In the distance, Capitol Landing is only barely visible. Widmund lets in a long breath, holds it... and breathes out.

"I am glad I was able to keep my promise to you. I suppose I haven't lost my touch!" He laughs in jove, though there remains a solemnity. "...Well, I suppose it's high time to part. Farewell, Ulmir."

With many a cantankerous clank and rickety rattle, he shifts through the snow, a sorry sight when one remembers how beautiful his armaments had once been. In fact, it's this very thought that crosses his mind, pausing him just before he descends.

"Actually..." he turns to face the dwarf, "do you know of any armour smiths here in Frost Gale?"