[ WP ] `` STAND AND FIGHT , COWARD ! ! '' Hollered the corrupted knight . -- `` You threw everything you had at me ... And I am Still standing.. '' retorted the sorcerer , before grimacing to narrow his vision upon the 'knight ' .

*Gods below, but only barely. * 
 
 Anavarid began whispering new Words, shaping them with his hands even as he formed them with his mouth and breath. Skeins of power crackled along the shadowaxis, punching through the membranes that separated the mortal world from the darker realms beyond and behind. The Gift of his gods came easily now; but that wasn ’ t a good thing. It came *too* easily, flowing almost unhindered, water through a sieve. He had called on the Gift too much in his desperation, the power tearing great rents through a barrier in which even tiny punctures had to be handled with utmost care. He had gone too far. 
 
 He felt *them, * now, felt them gathering on the other side, feeling their contours as a sort of negative space where the Gift separated and rejoined around them. The watchers ’ malevolence vibrated through the forest. It shivered along the tree branches; it pried into the terrified minds of the animals like roots through the earth, leaving them quaking but otherwise motionless in pools of their own urine. All living things felt it, an instinct - or something more fundamental - left over from the dawn days, when the shadowaxis passed through all realms unencumbered. Death was coming. Death and worse. 
 
 *But victory at least, * Anavarid thought bitterly as he stood, stilling his mind, and crushing the panic that struggled to rise in his own mind as well. The Gift swelled in his breast, and his wounds knit, leaving him momentarily light-headed. This was probably the last of the Gift he could draw on without destroying the barrier entirely, and even now, part of his attention had to be diverted to keeping it intact. He was the only force, now, keeping the watchers on the other side. If he fell in battle, the veil would tear. Whatever Clost had become would be nothing in the face of what would come next. The watchers would take the whole forest, at least, and the cities at its edges. They would leave nothing alive, and what they took would be carried on black rivers to places beyond even death. 
 
 *A high price. Too high, this time. * He couldn ’ t let that happen. And he couldn ’ t let the knight escape. 
 
 Clost stepped towards him, neither hurried nor cautious, seeming the only living thing unaware or uncaring of the monsters that stood on the threshold of their world. He used his spear like a walking stick as he advanced, the steel-encased butt driving into the loamy moss with each step, leaving a dotted trail of waste and decay. It was a magical weapon, crafted for Clost by Anavarid and the Council during better days, and was now as poisoned as he was. 
 
 He stopped a few paces from Anavarid, and leaned heavily on his spear. His armor still shone as brightly as ever, though to Anavarid ’ s eyes the warded emblems over its surface flickered sickly. Clost ’ s veins were dark beneath his skin, and pulsed thickly to a rhythm too slow for a heartbeat. 
 
 “ I expected more from you, Var, ” Clost said, shaking his head. “ Not all this running around and flailing about. I could have given you a dignified death, but now look at you. ” The knight was visibly exhausted himself, beads of brown sweat slicking his forehead. 
 
 “ Look at *us, * my friend, ” Anavarid replied wearily. A breeze washed through the forest, fluttering his tattered robes around his legs. “ We ’ ve both had better days. Is that new wellspring of power running low? ” 
 
 Clost spat. “ I have enough left to finish what I ’ ve started. ” 
 
 “ I expect you do. ” Clost had slaughtered dozens of Council sorcerers before Anavarid had executed the translocation. The powers Clost had gained had left even the most powerful mages in the world impotent to stop him. Anavarid ’ s own Gift probably eclipsed that of any sorcerer from the past century or more, and even he could only delay Clost. For a time. Anavarid couldn ’ t win. 
 
 So that was it, then. 
 
 “ Whatever was done to you, ” Anavarid said, “ whatever you ’ ve become. I forgive you, and love you, my old friend. I want you to know that. ” 
 
 Clost leveled his spear, its enchanted blade spilling wisps of light. “ Nothing was done to me, save that my eyes were opened. ” 
 
 Anavarid only had the barest warning, a slight turn of the instep that he had seen a thousand times while sparring with his friend in their youth. 
 
 The sorcerer began his exhale as Clost attacked, the corrupted knight still moving with the impossible speed and astonishing grace that had distinguished him in his youthful campaigns with the Council. As the enchanted blade entered Anavarid ’ s chest, the Gift snaked along the shadowaxis, shaped by Anavarid ’ s hands and choked final words. But instead of drawing power out, Anavarid pushed it back *in*, and himself and the knight along with it. The frayed veil resisted for an instant, and then they erupted past its boundary. The last of the Gift drained, and the veil trembled, but it held. It held. 
 
 “ What did you do? Var, what did you *do?! ” * Clost was demanding, but Anavarid could barely hear him. He was dying. 
 
 They came, then. They stood around him and Clost, watching. Anavarid couldn ’ t see them, but he could feel them. He did nothing to try and quell his panic this time, and wouldn ’ t have been able to if he wanted. They were too strong on this side. 
 
 Clost was screaming. Anavarid felt his body expire, and his soul began its slide into the black river. But he knew he was not headed to his rest. 
 
 Death. And Worse. For them both.
