[u][i]Atticus-Entrance to the Great Hall[/i][/u]

Atticus grunted as he pulled Reginald from the great hall and into the entryway. He released one of his hands from the werewolf’s shoulder to take the wad of strange cloth that Siya held out before him. The fabric was rough, but somehow also slick and wet feeling, like the skin of a snake. Knowing that it was valuable, but unable to think upon the import of the object at the moment, Atticus draped it over one shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said to Siya, punctuating the word with another grunt of exertion.

 Atticus looked over his own shoulder to see Veti, still clutching Aislinn closely to her chest, move towards the doorway that led to the stairwell. He saw Archibald Bain and Thad accompanying her as she disappeared into the darkness. Veti’s long stride and muscular form was moving quickly, even with the burdensome body of Hoyle’s sister. Atticus and the others with him were falling behind.

Atticus swore. The building shook with ever increasing ferocity, and the direness of Reginald’s wound was confirmed by Semyon’s inspection. Their only chance was to reach the shade gates, and to do it without delay. 

“We can’t stop Semyon,” he called to the Wight, “and Siya, please do what you can. Whatever you have to do, Reginald [i]cannot[/i] die. Not like this. Anything any of you can do, we can’t lose him.”

As he finished speaking, Atticus gave a mighty heave, and pulled Reginald up and around until the werewolf’s body was lying across his broad, red back. Using some infernal source of strength he did not fully comprehend, Atticus pressed forward towards the stairwell, trying desperately to catch back up to Veti, Thad, Bain and Aislinn. Using his wings to balance, he bounded down the steps as fast as his legs would carry him. 

Of those that followed in his wake, Atticus could not account for them. The strain upon his body was massive, and it took every ounce of focus he possessed to simply keep his muscles from buckling under the bulk of the injured Reginald Hoyle. In a fog he descended ever downward, spiraling along the steps with each passing floor a blur. 

When at last they reached the basement, Atticus nearly collapsed. His wings drug upon the stone of the floor like wilted flower petals, and Reginald rolled from his back with a groan of pain. In the low light of the basement, Atticus could just make out the ghostly figures of the shades drifting amongst them. Bain, Veti, and Thad were just ahead, moving towards an open gate. Bain was calling out to the creature that had created the portal, but of what he said, Atticus could not hear.

The incubus turned and gripped Reginald about the shoulders, his large hands barely able to hold on after his exhausting descent.

“Help me,” he said to those with him, “we’ve got to get to that gate.”

---

[u][i]Zakhar-The Basement[/i][/u]

The white-wolf watched from the shroud of the Wraithcloth, his focus a hum of electric noise between his ears. Before him, the crimson-haired wolf clutched Aislinn Hoyle to her chest, shielding the elder wolf’s body as the little band advanced towards the now opened shade gate. 

It was time to strike.

Zakhar moved from his position beside the gate, his strides long, silent, and powerful. The Cossack was drawn back across his body, poised to strike with its deadly silver-plated blade. As he moved forward, the taste of the coming kill fresh upon his lips, Zakhar’s eyes widened in sudden surprise. 

With astounding deftness, Zakhar shifted his momentum downwards, skidding along the stone floor as a ball of fire and glass exploded above him. His arms instinctively raised to shield his head, just as the shrapnel from the warlock’s attack thundered into his flesh. Zakhar roared with pain, and the Wraithcloth cloak that shrouded him was torn to shreds as it took the brunt of the power from the magical assault. 

Now plainly visible, and in extreme pain, only Zakhar’s relentless training and martial prowess allowed him to continue forward. Coming up from his crouch, Zakhar leapt towards his target, the force of his movement spraying his own blood across the room as he moved. Bringing the sword up as he skidded beneath the figure of Aislinn and the werewolf that bore her in her arms, Zakhar stabbed with all the strength he possessed. 

The blade of the Cossack slid with a sickening ease into the Hoyle sister’s back, and Zakhar could feel her spine severing as it moved ever upward, and into the chest of the crimson wolf.

Time slowed, and in that moment Zakhar had a vision of clarity unlike any he had ever experienced. He felt Aislinn’s lifeforce drain from her body. He saw the eyes of the crimson wolf, the heretic, the cur recoil in shock and pain. He felt pleasure.

Overcome with his emotion, the assassin reached up to pluck the pouch from about Aislinn’s waist, and as he did he brought his wolfen lips to the ear of the crimson wolf. 

“The kiss of Luna*,” he whispered to her, his voice dripping malice, “is the most fitting of deaths for those whose very blood betrays their right to exist.”

Zakhar pulled his sword free and bounded backwards. In his hand he clutched the pouch, and inside the pouch was the [i]Solas na gealaí[/i]—the tooth of Fenris—and the key to the god-wolf’s ultimate release.

With a final snap of his jaws, Zakhar spun upon his heels, and leapt headlong into the open shade gate.

[center]* * * * * * * * *[/center]

*-[i]Luna is an old Alchemy term for silver. Veti would know this, and understand Zakhar's meaning.[/i]