His head swam momentarily as he looked over the mounds of scrolls and piles of books that surrounded him. This was definitely the right place and the right time to look for what he sought. Trying to collect his thoughts, he felt very overwhelmed by the load of history and information sitting here with him, and his mind became unfocused. Shaking his head to gain some clarity, he silently conceded the usefulness of a little rest. Yes, a brief moment of meditation before I continue... His head nodded and he slumped atop the table.

Marcus stepped along behind his mentor Gerard, staring with mouth agape at the waste and ruin the village had become. Bodies and carcasses were everywhere, some appearing more decayed than others, but most were quite dead. His steps halted as his eyes locked onto the form of a child, head tucked under its body at an impossible angle. Monsters! He quivered where he stood, unable to look away.

'Marcus! Come on, now!' The voice of his mentor snatched him out of his silent rage.

'Master, how could they?! That child...!' Marcus ran to his mentor, needing an answer for such travesty. Though naturally skilled in the healing arts, he had only been training with the Order for a year now, and he had only treated those who had become ill or were wounded accidentally while hunting or some such. Never had he been exposed to violence done with such purpose and efficiency.

'It is not something that we wish to see, lad. But it is something that we must meet face on. We do what we can to right the wrongs and heal the injuries suffered, but we cannot prevent the wrongs from being committed. Come, now. There is much to be done.' Gerard continued his march to where the other healers were gathering and arranging the packs and parcels they had brought.

Marcus had been told that the skills of the Healers would be sorely needed after the Paladins had won the battle here today. He had been unsure of what to expect, though he was very excited to actually be stepping outside the enclave grounds. The horrors that faced him here, however, were beyond anything he had ever dared to consider. The elven village was no longer recognizable as such. The bodies of elves, men, and horrid creatures dominated the scape. From the great pit fires, a foul stench of burning flesh hung heavy over the area, making vision and taking breath equally difficult. The few remaining survivors that he could see were being tended to where they lay or moved into the healer's tents if they were able. He swallowed hard before joining the others in the tents.

Marcus spent the remainder of the day with blood, sweat, dirt, and the groanings of the wounded. There were none of the enemy left, and Marcus learned that they had not been living beings but walking corpses, animated and commanded by a powerful sorcerer. That sorcerer had been killed by one of the brave Paladins, Gabriel. Poor Gabriel was now only a charred husk, consumed by some dread enchantment that seized him as he cut down the vile sorcerer. Among the survivors were a group of creatures that scarcely could be recognized as elves. Marcus had not been given leave to approach them, but he saw them from a distance and caught bits of conversations the elder healers had concerning them. They had apparently been Afflicted purposefully by the mad sorcerer for use in some dark design. More than this, Marcus was unable to discover, but he was not sure he wished to know.

The following days blurred together for Marcus, as he tended to the injuries of the warriors and overheard more about the elves. Of course, he knew of the great Plague that was ravaging so many cities, towns and villages, but he had not yet come into contact with one of its victims. These elves were wretched creatures, crippled and deformed by the Affliction they suffered. Marcus was shocked to finally observe one of them closely, and he became embarrassed when the elf noticed his blatant staring. He had not gone near their tent since.

The third day after his arrival, Marcus watched the Paladins who could still march return to Lockhorn Keep. Their leaving set an uneasy feeling in Marcus, but he could not explain exactly why. He did not have much time to dwell on it, because he was finally assigned to the elves' tent, and he was just as uneasy there. Tending to the poor elves chilled him, and he could not bring himself to speak to any of them. That day dragged on, until the sunset urged him back to his own tent, where he fell upon his mat eagerly.

A gut-wrenching scream tore the silence of the night, and Marcus bolted out of his tent. A wave of nausea overcame him as the stench of a thousand corpses washed over the camp. Other cries of anguish ripped through the air, and Marcus' blood went cold, though he could barely make out the forms stomping through the former elven village. Another attack! Fear gripped him firmly as he watched the abominations advance upon him. He had never been trained for war as a Paladin. He was a healer, not a destroyer. But even had he been prepared for combat, he doubted it would be much use to him here. Death gazed at him with callous grins and rotting teeth. Marcus could neither fight nor flee. A spear pierced his chest, and his breath left him. He only saw the horrid faces through a haze of red...

Khyrian thrashed about, gasping for breath, sending books and scrolls skittering across the table and onto the floor. Coming to himself, his vision focused on the study walls within the library. His sweat-soaked robe clung to him as his heartbeat gradually slowed to a merely frantic pace. I have been reading these histories too long he thought to himself. Looking at the enormous, leather-bound book before him, he sighed. But there is still much more to be learned.

Why was this found hidden beneath your mat? The pouch dangled from Khyrian's fingers, giving off a dry, decayed smell. The acolyte grinned impishly back at Khyrian.

I have learned the Rite of Contact, brother. Think of it! Now my learning can continue even without the direct instruction of Merekan. He will be surprised with my accomplishments and pleased with my rapid advancement. He has always told me that I possess great potential, and now it is being proved true! Derrin looked near to bursting in his excitement. Khyrian stared at his young friend, disbelieving. Derrin's relationship with Merekan made Khyrian uneasy. Besides the fact that Merekan was instructing Derrin in alternate arts of healing shunned by the Order, there was nothing specific that Khyrian could put to the man that would cause his hackles to raise as they did. But they did. Merekan just seemed... sinister. Khyrian felt nothing but distaste whenever he was in the presence of the old man.

Am I supposed to be congratulating you? Why would you think I could celebrate this with you? It only means that you have been listening to that... that necromancer rather than taking advice from a trusted friend. And it means also that you are that much closer to leaving the enclave. Khyrian looked to the ground as he made this last statement. He knew, just as Derrin did, that a healer's life wouldn't suit Derrin as it did Khyrian. But he had been accepted by the Arms Master to begin his training as squire to a paladin, and those were rare enough these days. Choosing neither of these, and taking his learning from Merekan, would put Derrin very far away from where Khyrian would be.

Derrin's head dropped as his friend confronted him with these words. At first, sadness fell across his face. But without warning, a snarl overtook Derrin's features, and he lashed out with words of his own.

You claim to care so much about my well being, but you are just a puppet here at the enclave. And you wish me to stay here to be a puppet under you! Don't present me with this pathetic facade of concern. You hold on to the same selfishness which you accuse me of serving!

Derrin burst out of the room, knocking a rather surprised Khyrian onto the floor as he did so.

The impact with the floor stunned him no more than the sudden outburst from his friend. He had known that Derrin wouldn't enjoy having to hear another lecture from him about staying clear of Merekan and his bizzare practices, but he was quite unprepared for the reaction he had just received. Not completely, though. Merekan seemed to have a strong influence on Derrin's behavior, and it was not for the better. Derrin was prone to bouts of depression now and then. He had also become much more argumentative, heatedly debating both for and against the very philosophies of the Order. Sweeping changes in mood were quite normal for Derrin since he had been in contact with Merekan.

Khyrian stood up and scanned the hallways for any sign of where Derrin might have gone, but he found none. Shaking his head, he picked up the small pouch and walked the corridors to his own quarters.

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Khyrian screamed hoarsely as he vainly struggled to free himself from the iron grip of the fiend behind him.

Hold him still, minion! We do not yet wish him dead. Merekan held outstretched before him a hideously pale blade. It was crafted completely of a whole, the hilt flowing into the blade itself, which was as smooth as marble. The weapon possessed a keenly sharp point. With only a sneer on his lips as he whispered a fell incantation, Merekan cruelly thrust that point deep into Khyrian's ribs. The healer's eyes widened at the shock of the pain, but he could no longer scream. He felt the weak beating of his heart against the cold smoothness of the bone blade. Meeting Derrin's gaze, Khyrian's eyes pleaded with his former friend.

Derrin looked nearly as terrified as Khyrian felt, though he was safe from the grasp of the daemon and the bite of the blade. He himself was a participant in the dark ritual. It was he who was meant to use the strength of Khyrian's soul to feed and become something darker and more powerful. He had indeed learned much, and here he was to come into his power.

But the promise of it, having enticed him so far, was a hollow thing when he realized the depths to which he had sunk as he looked on the helpless and hopeless frame of his former friend.

Khyrian swooned from the wound he received, and he faintly recognized the figure standing over him.

Derrin... he managed to whisper.

Strike now! the hissing voice of Merekan snaked through the air.

Derrin lifted his own bone blade high above his head, the point facing downward to Khyrian's chest. A piercing yell escaped from him as he lunged backward, thrusting behind him and impaling Merekan on the pale blade. Khyrian slumped to the floor, no longer supported by the vice-like claws of the daemon. Snarls of fury and pain surrounded him, though he could not discern their source.

Suddenly, he was roughly dragged from the circle of power and led across the room into darkness. Unable to resist, he was carried for what seemed an eternity through dank corridors and up spiraling stairways. The wound in his chest tugged at him, calling him to places far from where he was, but he held on through the agony. Tumbling finally through a doorway into the open night, he heard a familiar voice speak to him.

I must bring you back where I can help you. You were supposed to... you were to be a vessel for me. I cannot - the words were cut off without warning, and Khyrian neither heard nor saw more that night.

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Khyrian started awake from his dreams. As consciousness became more solid, he looked about the small room he occupied in the Empath Abbey. A wave of nausea overcame him, and he wretched onto the floor next to his bed. He threw his healer's robe over the mess in disgust, wondering if someone would be by to clean it up soon. He did not know how long he had been here, but he did not want to stay. The trek into Deceit had been fruitful, if traumatic, and his hope had been renewed that the things which had eluded him for so long may yet be within reach. He needed to find Azeron.