[h3][img]https://40.media.tumblr.com/f7165d3f276e855d4e2eea7944baec02/tumblr_njopq5Cj9i1qg3ba9o1_100.png[/img][/h3][sub] featuring [color=gray]Bartleby de LaShtüp[/color][/sub]
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Amidst the fighting, the running, the screaming and the rescuing - in fact, underneath it all, hiding from it and watching through a crack from under his own coffers in his carriage was Wizzlebee. Indeed, he had hardly moved from his spot and was totally hidden from the hungry armies of undead. He knew the weaknesses of wights like no other, and it pained him to see so many fall to the wights as a result of his own inaction - but Wizzlebee was old! Yes, that was his excuse, far too old to defend himself against so many of these things. If one knew of what he's capable of, then they might ask, "Why not just take control of them?" Well...

He tried. From the safety of his hidey-hole, of course, but he tried. However, whoever was able to control so many undead (probably that Daraden guy) had great power. So much power, in fact, that their influence over one wight with his attention split between what was likely thousands gave way to a couple of conclusions: one being, Wizzlebee's necromancy was actually useless beyond simply turning the undead away - which is what he has been doing when a eight got too close for comfort, but didn’t often have to do, for he smelled so much like the dead that barely any of them noticed the gnome hiding - and two, that such ease of control over such large numbers must have meant that Daraden was a lich. Only one of the dead could have such precise understanding and control. 

The epiphany, needless to say, had terrifying implications.

On a pettier note, the old Scrooge made it difficult to use this as an opportunity to really study the undead, with what's left of their minds being controlled and their bloodthirsty rampage being quite the distraction, forcing you to focus on your own well-being. If he could glean anything from them, it's that the presence of aether in them was immense and concentrated. It supported that Daraden was a force to be reckoned with. It'd take nothing less than Ma'el's own fury; it seemed, to eliminate such an adversary.

With Wizzlebee was his own skeleton, risen it himself, he did! But this one was special, see. His father's soul, the great Bartleby, head of the long lost and noble LaShtüp family, bound to the rattling, bony body. Weaving aether and gnomish enchantment together, giving his long lost "pappy" another opportunity - if a bit of a short-sighted attempt, having risen him in a skeletal form. With Wizzlebee, Bartleby hid with him. Not because the wights threatened him, no, but they were quite scary.

...Also, the guard with the crossbow atop the beetle and the half Orc were quite eager to shoot or dice up anything that wasn't alive. Such was the way of things.

"The great alchemist and necromancer, mighty be his name, hiding away in his coach's dress box." Bartleby snipped flamboyantly.

"I'm not as young as I used to be!" Wizzlebee complained in his defense. "One, three fire balls and it'll be the end of me before you know it! Swarmed!"

"Now you're just selling yourself short!" Bartleby groaned. "[i]Get creative[/i], you dumb wizard!"

"Dumb?! Oh, I'll show you..." Wizzlebee grumbled. Creative. Yeah, okay, a couple of things came to mind.

The old gnome pushed open the lid to the box he hid in, only for his head to have risen above the edge of the box by an embarrassing few inches, a few miles short of impressive. With a couple of huffs, Wizzlebee climbed over the edge and onto his seat, viewing the field on which the knights, guards, and wights took battle. So many dead, but so few wights in comparison were slain. He made an exhausted sigh and closed his eyes, letting the magical energy that flowed through him concentrate in his hands. He lacked the firepower that any specialized wizard had over their respective elements. But what he [i]does[/i] have...

Sparks crackled between his fingers before they erupted into flames, and a ring of fire began swirling around him. One hand poised as if he were holding something, fingers flared outward.

...What he [i]did[/i] have was skill.

With his other hand, Wizzlebee merely pointed his finger. A highly pressurized gust of hydrogen, taken from the air, went through the ring of fire and instantly ignites as the bolt flew across the square and penetrated the skull of a wight. Wizzlebee’s pointing finger turned into a fist and widened it into an open palm. The fire ball rapidly expanded, causing a miniature explosion to occur from the pressure inside the wight skull. Its bones flew off in every direction, and they remained still where they had landed.

“Dumb wizard, my hind!” Wizzlebee declared indignantly. He did this to two more wights before he started catching their attention. Some of the wights peeled off from the assaulting force occupying Oscar and Karkadin. This was what Wizzlebee was worried about! The ring of fire from around the gnome dissipating, and making a motion like tugging a rope, water came from thin air – taken from the fog enveloping Maceron, and a small stream ran swiftly around Wizzlebee – another ring. Without the firepower a water mage might have, Wizzlebee resorted to manually accelerating the flow of the water around him, as though he were constantly dragging it. With each move of his hands, the water spun faster. When the first wight came into range, the current simply broke the bonds holding the bones together, and got swept up in his ring. In the water’s flow were bones of all sorts, unable to reassemble.

Two other wights stayed where they were, unable to cross the swiftly running water. Wizzlebee capitalized on their inaction by shooting the bone meshed water at them in a jet – the pressure was enough to break them apart and keep them from reassembling a few moments longer. The gnome raised his hands, and shards of earth, from the brick-layed streets slowly contained the broken wights in a prison too small for them to reassemble in and will remain until destroyed. Here, Wizzlebee began to pant.

“Oh... oh boy!” He whined. “Can’t... can’t keep up with all the young folk anymore.”

“Nonsense!” Called the voice from below. “You’re doing fine!”

“Can you even see?!”

“You know I’m [i]afraid[/i] of skeletons!”

Wizzlebee looked behind him incredulously. “What?! You...!”

The elderly gnome shook his head and set his focus back on the playing field. Well, he was getting tired, but there were so many wights left! What to do... golems wouldn’t permanently destroy them, if only enchantments could create golems that were made of anything that wasn’t a solid and... ah, wait... aether was a binding force. What did the book say?

[i]‘Aether is the force that binds all of the world together. To understand aether, you must understand the world it lives in – you must understand its container. Master the elemental magics.’[/i]

Well, the last bit was poppycock. He wondered if he was the first to circumvent the prerequisites for learning aether. Perhaps nobody thought to look at alchemy as an example or template for aether. Still, aether was a binding force. Able to tether supposedly intangible forces such as souls to itself to create spirits, and to tangible objects to create ensouled.

Wizzlebee took a long, deep breathe. More hordes of wights were approaching. Damn this day to the world’s end! A fireball erupted in both of Wizzlebee’s hands. They were slung in the direction of the wights charging towards him, and they predictably flared out in a very tame explosion, but the intended effect was to produce as much fire as he could. This was accomplished. In front of the fire that was burning the wights’ bones, Wizzlebee closed his eyes and began his familiar breathing exercises. With a substance such as fire, he’ll need as much help as he could get. He let the aether flow through his body and opened his eyes with a mystical pink mist just barely visible around them. From here, he could see and sense all the aether flowing around him. The wights were particularly blinding, with so much aether stuffed into every one of them. He could easily sap what he needed.

The old gnome moved his hands very cautiously and meticulously, not wanting to mess this up. Weaving and blending fire and aether together, letting the invisible energy wrap itself around the flames, giving it form.  The symmetry that both hands conducted created two human shaped funnels of fire. With a final flick of his wrists, a spark, an attempt at gnomish enchantment to give artificial “life” or independent action to the given forms.

Wizzlebee’s hands fell to his sides in exhaustion. Between wheezes, he said, “That... that is too—too much!”

Trying to balance so many actions at once was a strain on his stamina, especially when the ingredients involved were so physically complex. With the slightest glimmer of hope, he looked up to see if he had truly fumbled at his attempt, not expecting anything to come of it... but there stood two fiery funnels of man-shaped golems, ever-burning, apparently inextinguishable. They stood idely. Wizzlebee’s face turned into a tired, gleeful, and innocent smile as he pointed toward all the wights terrorizing Maceron and commanded their permanent deaths; and as ordered, the golems obediently shot fire from their own bodies in concentrated bolts, incinerating the oblivious undead – unable to detect the non-physical golems as semi-conscious beings – into ash.

Bartleby joined in his son’s relieved laughter. An unnerving cacophony of glee in the face of horror.