Descent into Madness

“Shall we slay the Council tonight?” Ouchilicious asked, peering around the corner with her frosty eyes.  “They’ll keep,” our leader replied with a shake of his massive, ursine head.  Even in bear form, with his mouth perpetually agape, he was a portrait of Tauren stoicism.

*   *  *

"Don't let the infernal wailing fool you," Keaton growled, addressing the twenty-four of us but staring fiercely at the duplicitous Sara.  "'She' is imprisoned here for a reason."

The druid's temporarily feline eyes narrowed to mere slits as he studied his prey.  Beneath his tawny pelt, his muscles trembled in anticipation of the battle to come.  In a matter of moments, we knew — with the world-weary certainty of veterans — our leader would throw his iron self-control to the stale wind of the Old God's prison chamber.  His barely contained energy would explode into rage, and he would lead us once more unto greatness ... or death.

"She will likely summon minions to her protection," he continued, tail lashing.  "We must use them against her."

"We know," I whispered in Tauraje, so softly that only he could hear.  "We know."

He glanced at me, and his amber eyes flickered in the leonine equivalent of smile: feral fervor and lazy affection, all at once.

I tightened my grip on my mace, my Guiding Star, and fixed my gaze firmly ahead.

"Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" came a voice from our left, light and almost cheerful.  Lupius was nothing if not an optimist.  "I have a good feeling about this one."

"Just watch your pet."  Another voice, this one low and rough — like silk on gravel.  It could only be Korev.  "I don't trust that Light-damned cat."

"Are you allowed to take the Light's name in vain?"  The query came from a Sin'dorei rogue I tended to think of as Mazzranache.  'Stepsindark' was a vain and curiously charismatic creature — far too preoccupied with preening to skulk in the shadows with the rest of his ilk.  "Surely it's against some stuffy paladin code ..."

I snorted.  "Of course he is.  His kind doesn't worship the Light; they merely enslaved it for a time."

Keaton's snarl cut through the anxious chatter.  "Let's go."

And because I know my mate — and was listening for it — the last thing I heard before all hell broke loose was the faintest ghost of a prayer.  Not to the Earthmother, but to Elune.

(To be continued.  Maybe.)