Cured, but not content

After great labors and trials, the pieces of the ritual had finally been brought together and Baal'morda's power over his victims was broken, the link severed, their suffering ended. Not that the fiend had been idle. Waves of abominations struck against those present at the ceremony, but the defenders bravely held out against the attack so that the ritual might not be interrupted. And they were successful. To their overwhelming joy, the Afflicted were released! Baal'morda's threats seemed to be in vain.

Khyrian paused in his pacing and slumped down on the bed with his head in his hands. Where did Myra fit into all this? What does Mord'sythe have in mind for her? Khyrian could not believe that the thoroughly corrupted Scion could have any measure of remorse. There was no redemption for the man, if man still he was. Khyrian would never trust him, never believe any sort of change could take him so.

But there it was... the Silver Ginseng. The fourth and final component needed to perform the Ritual of Sundering that freed the Afflicted. And Trenton...no, Mord'sythe had given it to them freely. He openly admitted his deeds, his very nature, and he claimed regret for what he had done, what he had so long been a part of. Could it be possible? Khyrian could not, would not, believe it. That sneering smile, that wicked laugh had haunted him far too long for him to consider the possibility. But they had gotten the Silver Ginseng from him, and without it, the ritual would have failed, and Baal'morda would still own their lives. And Mord'sythe would still have his claim on their souls, for he too had fed upon the Afflicted, channeling their lifeforce to his dark master. But he had given them the means to thwart the Lord of the Dead, to thwart himself. It baffled Khyrian.

Myra... Khyrian did not know what to make of her. He was repulsed that she would willingly have anything to do with Mord'sythe, and Khyrian made no effort to veil his disgust from her. She had been willingly marked by Mord'sythe for an unknown, but certainly sinister, purpose, yet she appeared earnestly troubled by it. Perhaps Khyrian had been too harsh with her, but his caution where the damnable Mord'sythe was concerned did not lend him a great deal of compassion.

Again tonight, vile forces were brought to bear against the Glade where the ritual had taken place. Even as his undead minions were struck down, the Lord of the Dead taunted Khyrian with his laughter, assuring that he would yet eat his bones and feast on his soul.

Khyrian wondered how long the residents of Tel'Ruid would be able to stand against such attacks. He did not know the extent of the Dark Lord's influence in the upper realm, but he guess that his full strength had not yet been exerted. And as long as he remained in his lair, deep within the bowels of Hythloth, the threat would remain.

But the archfiend did not act solely for revenge. No, there was fear. So long had he fed from the souls of the Afflicted that this stroke wounded him, weakened him. He was more vulnerable now than he had been in hundreds of years. Khyrian did not want to see this opportunity wasted. There were plans to be made.