She knew she was in trouble when she saw the tracks dipping down towards the loamy earth at the edge of the marsh.

Typically, muddy soil made it easier to track quarry. But Grace knew this area well enough to know that the marsh ahead was thick with weeds and strewn with great puddles and sink-holes. The tracks would be damn near impossible to track - even if it hadn't been well after sun-down.

She was getting tired of cursing her condition for its draw-backs. Limited to travel only by night was simply one of many awful things she'd had to deal with since she'd woken from what should have been her final rest. As she searched the ground for more hints of the three she was tracking, she ran her tongue over another set of new features - a set of needle-like teeth. They'd emerged the night before, as she woke to the horribly familiar thirst that plagued her. She tried to quell the feeling, transform it into a renewed determination, with the promise that when she found the travelers she was tracking, she would satisfy the craving, no matter how foul.

The thought of what was coming - of what she had already done to sustain herself - made her sneer in disgust, but she put the thought from her mind. There was nothing left for her now but the hunt. And if this disease were to claim her mind and her soul, she would take as many of the loathsome beings responsible with her.

A few bent twigs and pressed marsh grasses took her only so far. Her night vision was greyed and unhelpful at long range - and clouds obscured the moon.

She growled her frustration and gripped the pommel of her blade. There was nothing else to do. She'd have to rely on one more of her unholy abilities.

Closing her eyes, Grace breathed deep into lungs that no longer needed air, and called on one of the few powers she'd discovered since she woke. When she opened her eyes, the night had grown darker around her, and pinpoints of red appeared before her. Some were nearby, more splotches than points, but they were too small - likely fish or mudcrabs. A nightbug flew by, its torch alight, tiny red speck leaving a trail of life as it flew.

For a horrifying moment, Grace considered grabbing the tiny thing from the air and draining it of its tiny life. She shook off the compulsion and turned her attention back to her task. Once she found her quarry, these awful thoughts and compulsions would be gone - for a little while.

There. A cluster of red. Stronger life signatures, and more than one.

As Grace made her way through the marsh, she felt the pinch in her veins and a dryness in her mouth. It consumed her essence to use this power. Not much, but enough to put stress on an already strained system. She grit her needle-like teeth and bit into her tongue, drawing a bead of blood. Her own wasn't nearly as satisfying as that of living beings, but it might take the edge off enough for her to focus.

The red lights grew larger as she approached. Too many to be her three. She realized just as the first building that came into view what she had found. The small hamlet of Morthal.

Pox and rot it, she thought. She couldn't go into a town. Not now. The risk was too high. Going in as she looked, she was sure to be identified. But worse was what would happen if she was. If the people turned hostile, there was a chance her blood urge would take over. She might....

She shut her eyes tight and ceased the spell. The red spots vanished. She wouldn't risk that. Not ever. She may no longer be human, but she would always be a Vigilant. She would not allow innocents to come to harm from any abomination - not even herself.

So, keeping her distance, Grace began to circle the village, hoping to catch a sign of the three necromancers she had followed here, praying to whatever god might still be listening that they meant no one here any harm. Just passing through. And when they passed back out....

Grace drew her blade.

She would be waiting.

On a typical night, the tavern was bustling with drunken patrons. Rambunctious cackling littered the air as they tried to forget their day lives in an alcoholic bliss. Each customer filled the voids in their hearts with gambling, fighting, flirting, or a toxic combination of all three. It disgusted Mathik and drove him further into the isolated corner he claimed for himself. This night, however, was rather quiet.

A near empty tankard of ale sat forgotten on the table before him and stacks of books cluttered the tables on either side. Mathik rubbed his exhausted eyes and watched a lonely man fall from the tavern's bar as liquor induced sleep took him. A guttural chuckle escaped the necromancer's throat. The people of Morthal never failed to live up to their pitiful reputation.

With a sigh, Mathik leaned back and swung his muddy boot-clad feet up onto the table. He didn't care if he was taking up too much space, nor did he care if he was being rude. And even if he could find the energy in his cold heart to care, he knew no one in this damned town would dare sit near him. Anyone else may have found that fact disheartening, but Mathik took it as a blessing. He was better off without others to poke their moron noses into his business.

It was well after the tavern's energy had begun to lull that the newcomer entered the common space. The door of the tavern creaked open to admit a robed figure who pulled back his hood to reveal close-cropped dark hair and a Breton visage.

With very little preamble, the man made for the barkeep, who watched him warily as she dried a tankard.

He spoke in hushed voices to her, and while she didn't reply, she glanced over at the reclining mage in the corner. The black-haired man followed her gaze and, without another word to her, strode deliberately towards Mathik, a self-congratulating look in his ice-colored eyes.

The Breton man halted before Mathik, smirk pulling at his clipped beard.

"You are the mage responsible for this village's protection, are you not?"

The words 'village' and 'protection' dripped with distaste.

"Who's asking?" Mathik's unamused expression remained as he examined the man who approached him. His dark eyes met the stranger's frosted ones with distaste. The tightly knit frown resting on his lips looked too natural on his ashen face.

The robed man smiled at Mathik.

"I come to you on the behalf of my master," he said, voice softer. "With a proposition."

The sight of that smile made Mathik's gut swell with resentment. His frown deepened into nearly a sneer.

"Go tell your master that I'm not interested." His voice was laced with venom. He leaned forward and collected his tankard. As he gulped down the rest of his ale, Mathik turned his attention away and proceeded to ignore the man's presence.

It was a beat or two before the man moved pointedly into Mathik's space, leaning down over the table, braced by his fingertips, that same self-satisfied smirk on his face, the glint of something sharper beneath.

"I think you're going to want to hear what I have to say," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Rodore."

The carefully crafted wall between past a present within Mathik's mind cracked at the mere mention of that name. His eyes narrowed on the stranger invading his person space.

"You should be wary. A name carries a lot of weight," Mathik said in a matching whisper. "Perhaps we should speak elsewhere."

The man didn't bother to glance around at who might have overheard them. He grinned wider at Mathik and extended a hand to the door as if to say, 'After you.'

The night outside was cold and close with low mists in the tall grasses. A few feet disturbed the earth and air on their ways to their homes, but at this time of night, most had gone home or sought out their solitary stations for the evening, either at the tavern or on the streets. Two guards took their posts at either end of the single road that stretched the length of the small village, lanterns burning low so as to keep their night vision fresh.

The Breton man lead Mathik away from the inn at an angle, avoiding both guards as they made slowly, without fuss, into the brush and up and over a hill.

The quickest way out of sight of the village.

"You know," the man said conversationally. "For all the trouble you've taken to hide yourself away here, you weren't all that hard to find."

"Your Master seems to have known just where to look. In my opinion, hiding in plain sight has its benefits." Mathik shrugged apathetically. He looked cautiously over the landscape for anything amiss. The night was as quiet and still as a corpse that had thus far avoided a necromancer's touch. Satisfied that this strange man may be just as dull as Mathik had thought, a smile tickled the corners of his lips.

"If you'll follow me, I've got somewhere away from prying eyes and ears that we can speak."

The man paused to turn back to Mathik. In the distant light of the village, his expression looked half way between amused and irritated.

"Of course," he said after a beat. "Lead the way."

---

Grace had circumnavigated the village twice, keeping a keen eye out for any undue movement. The hill she now crouched atop awarded her a clear view of the front porch of the inn. She watched her quarry leave in the company of someone new. The other two were nowhere to be seen.

She considered calling again on that vision, but quickly dismissed it. She was running low on energy already, and tempting fate was something she rather liked to avoid when it came to her ill-got abilities. They would reveal themselves in due time, no doubt.

Luck, at least, was on her side. The pair moved away from the village but kept well within her sight. She watched patiently as they paused, then kept moving. She couldn't hear at this distance, but what they said hardly mattered. This could lead to nothing but evil, and she had to put a stop to it, whatever it was.

Then she could drink.

She gave her head a swift shake. At the very least she'd be rid of thoughts like that for a while, once this night was over.

Once she was sure she wouldn't be noticed, Grace stalked forward through the marsh grasses, testing her blade in its sheath. The newcomer was a variable she hadn't counted on, but if she moved quickly, he might be spared by whatever horror the villains had in store for him. If not... she wouldn't have to worry about witnesses, she supposed.

Her heart thumped with a dull pain. They'd been sharper before. She knew she should probably be worried about that, how little those thoughts bothered her anymore, but she couldn't muster the attention.

After, she thought. After I've had my fill.

It had been a long time since anyone had asked Mathik to dance. He was worried he had forgotten the steps, something that could be quite detrimental to his well being, but here he was falling into the rhythm as if it were his own heartbeat. People were predictable after all, and they certainly didn't change. So long as he was careful with his silver tongue and watched for any knives aimed for his back, he was confident that he could handle this.

Listen to the man's foolish words, probe for answers, and put him out of his misery. It was a simple routine, really. Mathik expected the clean up to be easy.

Ahead, the dark mouth of a cave yawned in the dim moonlight peeking through thin curtains of clouds. Mathik felt a cloak of comfort fall around his shoulders as they approached the safety of familiar territory. There was no other living being in sight, just the way he liked to keep it. Mathik turned to look at his temporary companion and began to slow to a stop.

"You wanted my ear so desperately and now you have it. Speak," Mathik said coldly. His arms crossed impatiently as he waited for the man to say something worthwhile.

In the tavern and on the way here, their height differences hadn't been terribly pronounced. Standing here, with the cave mouth looming behind him, it was clear that Mathik towered over the Breton man. His cold command gave the fellow pause, but only briefly before the self-assured smirk was back. He linked his hands casually behind his back and let his eyes wander the moon-lit marsh.

"I bring you a message from my master," he said, words slow and deliberate, as though he held a treat just out of reach of a begging dog. "An invitation, really. One I'm sure a man of your... talents... wouldn't want to pass up."

He gave himself time to pace a couple of steps, keeping his distance from Mathik, then looked up at him.

"Surely you have heard of the Wolf Queen Potema?"

"Any self-respecting scholar has heard of her," Mathik said. His tone and expression made it clear that he wasn't impressed by the drop of such a name. Mathik's eyes traced the man's every movement as if he was studying a venomous snake preparing to strike.

Even so, a small bud of curiosity was beginning to blossom within the depths of his mind.

"But you are more than just a scholar, aren't you, Rodore?"

The man couldn't keep the smirk off of his face at the name.

"You know more than just her name."

He looked up now, stopped avoiding Mathik's piercing gaze.

"You know of the efforts that have been made in the past to revive her."

The suggestion was a test. To most, the efforts were unknown, and to a few small circles, barely more than rumor. It was impossible to resurrect the Wolf Queen, it was said. You cannot fully resurrect a spirit without all of its remains. Not even a soul so powerful as Potema. Her killers had seen to that when they scattered her pieces. Many had heard tales of recovered bones or artifacts related to the most powerful necromancer in the past 500 years, but even they held only so much power.

"How would you like to be part of the team that finally brings the Queen back to her throne?"

Mathik's laugh, a sound that refused to be contained, echoed into the hungry cavern behind him. He shook his head and looked at the man in disbelief. "You're as foolish as you look, aren't you? Whatever it is your Master thinks they've found, tell them to quit while they're ahead and give up on Potema."

Mathik's laugh left a crack in the Breton's cool exterior.

"It is you who are the fool," he said. "If you think I came all the way here to pull your sorry self out of the gutter for something as trivial as delusions of grandeur."

He recovered himself and dropped the sneer.

"They've all been doubtful of my master," he said, voice softer now, more confident. "All of them have seen the err of their ways sooner or later."

Mathik watched with amusement as the man floundered like a child throwing a tantrum, then regained his composure. What a delicate patience indeed.

"You're being purposefully vague." Mathik sighed as his own patience threatened to wane. "If you'd like any chance of gaining my cooperation, you'll have to be more specific."

The Breton man looked down and chuckled.

"Specific," he mused.

"The old woman made the same request, when we approached her. For someone so frail-looking, she was quite sharp, you know."

He fished something from his pocket that clicked and clacked together as he lifted it into the air - a bone necklace that looked familiar to Mathik.

"She probably didn't even need that old leg bone she used as a crutch. She was still rather unhappy about us taking it from her."

Recognition struck. The bone necklace had belonged to Saiah - an old witch in the southwest who worked with the Forsworn. She had walked with a bent back, leaning upon an old femur bone. It was known only to those that crossed her that the bone was in fact a powerful staff - a focus for her magic. It was known to fewer still that the bone had in fact once belonged to the Wolf Queen herself. Saiah had never revealed where she'd gotten it, but she kept it close among her few, meager possessions.

Another of which was the necklace the Breton man held in his hand.

"Among other things."

Mathik felt worry worm its way into his chest. The need to know what happened to the old witch tried to slip off his tongue, but he caught it. Carefully and quickly he worked to squash the worry before it grew. He would not- could not allow himself to be concerned with others, especially those he'd been long without.

Upon another sight of the necklace within the stranger's hand, the worry mixed with animosity and birthed a new beast. This one did not wish to be quieted.

"So you took it from her by force," Mathik mused. The mild displeasure was clear in his voice. "What became of her?"

As cold as Mathik had become, he couldn't forget the aid Saiah had once offered him. She was wise, that was for certain, and Mathik was fortunate that she'd been willing to pass some of that wisdom to him. That generosity she had shown him warranted minimal concern at the least.

Besides, beyond whatever Mathik felt he owed Saiah, this fool before him claimed possession of her belongings. If he was an honest man- Mathik would have doubted this if he were in any other situation- that meant he had a powerful staff within his control. Worse, the staff was necessary to raise Potema and the mere thought of it made this Breton fellow appear less and less foolish. Mathik did not like that. He would have preferred fools to remain fools.

"She was extended an invitation to join us," said the Breton man, satisfied he had Mathik's attention. "To take part in my master's plan. She was... difficult."

He gripped the necklace and it rattled.

"You're not going to be like her... are you, Rodore?"

Mathik considered the man's question for a long moment. The cold night air was biting at his cheeks, but he hardly noticed.

"You have other pieces of her remains?" Though he posed this as a question, he did not wait for the answer. "Just who is your master to take on a task such as this?"

(Reading can seriously damage your ignorance.)

"My master is very powerful," the Breton man said, almost to himself.

"More than that you will find out if you agree to add your power to our cause. So, what do you say, Rodore? Will you join us? Or--" he threw the necklace at Mathik's feet "--will you be like the old woman?"

Mathik met the man's eyes for the last time, allowing the tension in the air between them grow.

"I think," he spoke slowly as he knelt to pick up the necklace. "Your master will have to find another man to prey upon." In a short, swift movement, he dug a finger into the moist soil and completed the rune he had left there.

The Breton man had only the barest moment to realize his mistake and gasp his surprise before the rune below him glowed a bright blue and ice spikes erupted from the earth, tossing him into the air and back. There was a single, strangled cry from him before he fell prone and lay still.

The ice cracked and hissed in the moist air, then began to fade as the power of Mathik's trap drained away, spell spent. The man on the ground did not move.

Then, from all around him, the sound of movement. Disturbed water and reeds, the creak of old bones, and the dry rattle of dead lungs. A familiar sound to Mathik, who had used the hidden dead in these parts to his own ends in the past, but wholly unexpected, as it was not he who resurrected them.

Six, seven, eight bodies of varying decay rose up around Mathik, their energies owed to the power of several more robed figures who stepped into view just out of range of any close-range spells. Mathik had nowhere to run - except into the dead-end cave at his back.

Suddenly, arcane energies swirled around the Breton man on the ground, lifting him to his feet and setting him down. He took in a long breath, absorbing the remaining energies back into himself, and opened his eyes. They flashed bright for a moment, and he smiled at Mathik.

"So be it."

They advanced.

The gravity of the situation tightened Mathik's throat, and he took a shaky step backwards towards his cavern. The realization that he'd been wrong about the Breton man weighed heavy in his stomach. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. The searing heat of adrenaline flooding his veins begged him to turn and flee.

Like a flock of crows, Mathik's thoughts fluttered through his mind all at once. They cried, announcing the air of imminent death. It had been too long since he faced foes such as this. He was too out of practice. He had made a mistake. This was the fate he deserved. It was over.

But it wasn't, and the mere presence of that kind of thought, despite how quickly it had faded, was appalling. Mathik reigned in his biological reaction to the threat, and dug his heels down into the damp soil of the marshland. Irritated with his own momentary weakness, he glared from foe to foe as he attempted to understand his current standing.

Although they weren't moving quickly, the space between them was dwindling. The Breton bastard was nearest to Mathik, with undead staggering several feet behind and robed figures keeping their distance as they emerged from the shadows. Due to the slight curve the group was forming as they approached, their intentions were apparent. They would cage him in like an animal, giving him no where to run except into the cold cradle of death's arms.

With that visualization in mind, a cynical smirk took residence upon Mathik's lips. All fear and hesitance dulled, making way for the thrill of new toys to play with. It didn't matter who their master was, Mathik decided, these poor fools would pay for daring to tread on his territory.

Taking note of the three closest shambling corpses, he let his eyes slide shut. He concentrated on the air around him and reached forward with hands of spirit. Long, greedy fingers curled and uncurled as they made their way, hungry to burrow into the rotting flesh of the risen dead. The resistance of his fellow necromancers' power stung his skin. In seconds, the sensation grew into burning as if his skin was catching fire. This pain, however, only fueled Mathik's annoyance, allowing him to endure long enough to grasp the threads tying these decomposing tools to the necromancers' beyond.

Mathik wrenched the threads in half and opened his eyes as his own essence pierced and flowed into the dead flesh. As if they were extensions of himself, he could feel the grinding of their bones and the fight of uncooperative muscles. He felt the soggy ground beneath their feet and the tear of flesh made fragile from their eternally moist graves. A bitter breeze brought a wave of ominous mist across the battle field and he could feel its kiss on their skin, too. His new creatures stood and awaited his command patiently.

Like string to a puppet, Mathik tugged on them this way and that. He pulled their legs, pushed their arms, and turned their heads in unnatural ways as if to mock those who previously controlled them. His smile grew as he urged these creatures to face their comrades, forming a meager flesh barrier to protect himself. This wouldn't be enough to turn the tides of this battle, Mathik knew, but it would be enough to buy him a little time. Enough time, hopefully, to come up with a better plan.

As he picked his brain for this better plan, Mathik chanced a glance in the Breton stranger's direction.

Undisturbed by Mathik's wrested control of three of their shamblers, many more of the undead horrors and their robed masters closed in on Mathik. As one of the identified mages realized what had been done - what had been taken from him - he let out a pained noise of surprise.

The Breton man hadn't moved. He had been watching with a self-satisfied smile as his fellows advanced. The magic that had resurrected him was a delightful stage trick - it had the usual effect of either sending their quarry into an incensed panic or outraged attack. Though they were of an ilk in practice, the necromantic power he commanded, to resurrect himself with soul intact, without the aid of another summoner, was night impossible.

Not for my master, he would tell them when they asked how he'd done it.

Mathik posed no such question. A disappointment, but what about him hadn't been since they had arrived?

When the Breton man turned at the sound of the alarmed mage, he took in the sight of the contorting shamblers and then Mathik's motions. His lip curled.

It seemed he wasn't the only one able to command impossible magics.

Teeth bared, the Breton man lifted his hands, seeing that he would need to step in and take control before this got out of hand. Gathering energies in both hand, he drove concentrated heat into the space between himself and the repossessed shamblers, spraying them with a heavy gout of flame.

"Don't just stand there!" he shrieked to his stunned followers. "Get him!"

Jarred from their surprise at Mathik's move, the other necromancers advanced, moving past the Breton man and closing in on Mathik. A few of them tangled with the still-burning corpses at Mathik's command, but the rest began to surround him, the mages keeping their distance as they formed a ring.

Four undead leaped for Mathik, swiping at him, while the Breton man glared.