Beneath the wind's grotesque screams, a savage groan emanated from the mountain's heart. The very ground quaked beneath Durven's rigid body, but he took no notice; his attention was centered on Maffe's exposed face. The dwarf's eyes were glued open, blackened and charred from whatever energy had been coursing through him, and his mouth was a bottomless black hole leering out from his beard. Everything was misshapen with the last moments of unimaginable pain. Durven's horrified gaze was riveted upon his friend's deathly gray face.

Despite his appearingly detached mentality, Durven's mind was working furiously. Maffe's death had jolted him out of the stupor that he had settled into because of Jovandur's close proximity, and he was now keenly aware of every blade of dusty grass, every grain in the stone beneath Sallmunik's shadowy feet. He knew the rage and sorrow at Maffe's death would come later--if he was to live that long--but Durven also knew that the moment to act was now, while his innate shock response to the situation was still fresh within. When his emotions wouldn't disrupt his course of action. There would be time for that back with the Centaurs, or within Ordrobis's impregnable walls. At the moment, he had to escape this place before something even more terrible happened... and something would, he knew.

Blancslieth, Durven repeated to himself, not truly registering the word. He pushed himself backwards so that he slid down the mountainside a few feet, feeling the dirt being swept from beneath his fingers by the wind, hearing a faint whisper of tender consolation being given to Maffe's still body. Durven's mind was as congested as the storm, and he paused for a moment as he forced himself to summarize what had just happened in a logical, unbiased procedure: Sallmunik, a demon of the Witch-tunnels, had cared for a Wraith of Shnak-Rae... What used to be a woman... and therefore ended its life out of a sickening devotion. And Maffe just happened to be caught between them, a tool. Oh, Maffe...

Durven shook his head, wrenching his muscles to movement. He spun himself so that he was facing out over the Ebony Sea, and then began skidding down the mountainside. Out of pity, his mind continued unheedingly, that the woman-turned-monster would not live until the universe's end, a creature of the wretched and bizarre. A kind gesture, I suppose, as one might kill a helpless, wounded animal out of pity... The gravel was unforgiving and tore at the soles of his boots, ground at his fingers, grated in the rushing onslaught of air and sparking thunder from the northwest. But now the chanting had reappeared on the wind, snakelike and menacing, floating down from the cobbled ledge as if unaffected by the breeze's rampant cries. Durven fought the urge to whip around and ensure that he was not being watched.

A rough patch of grass slid from beneath his palm as he continued downward, fighting to keep his thoughts rational and his heartbeat steady. But that demon hadn't just killed it out of dedication... No, his purpose simply served beneath a greater one. He harnessed the vast power of the black magic instilled in that Wraith's life to awaken something even more terrible. As if to punctuate his thought, the mountain trembled once more. Its growl creaked from the unfathomable depths of the darkest tunnels. What, by the gods, Durven demanded, feeling his icy breath catch in the wind, is this Blancslieth!?

And then, just as his feet went skidding off the shallow cliff face's lip in a shower of dust and pebbles, something clicked in Durven's mind. Perhaps it was the sudden rootlike bolt of lightning that tore through the clouds, illuminating the Ebony Sea as a vast graveyard of monstrous talons and ghoulish faces, or perhaps it was the cacophony of wind, thunder, and chanting suddenly breaking a barrier in his mind. Either way, he knew then what Blancslieth was, and his initial reaction was one of incredulity.

He scrambled backwards, heart rushing, pulse flickering wildly throughout his body. And then he paused. Blancslieth was killed, he told himself. Blancslieth was the name of a monster from long ago, meaning Mourndream in the common tongue. According to legend, it had proven the first beast to be slain by Rykos Monsterbane and had been the least of the monsters created by the Second King. However, it had nonetheless been something of extraordinary size and power, killing thousands and feasting on the remains of their decimated villages.

But Rykos killed it, Durven insisted to himself, flipping onto his stomach and beginning to gently ease himself down the cliff face with shaking hands. The wind brought water to his eyes, meshing everything into a single blur of abstract color, and it rang in his ears. He felt the earth shudder once more beneath him, and again the mountain groaned in agony. Didn't he?

The stone seemed rougher, more antagonistic, than it had when he had been ascending. Durven's hands managed to find their way into every crevice and get caught on every knife-edged stone that jutted between. He reeled back several times, primarily because of the newfound pain in his palms but also because of the presaging shudders that ingrained themselves in the mountain's faces. The wind and thunder could not outweigh the foreboding of the monstrosity that awaited in the roots of the Mountains of Dusk, nor could the onslaught of guttural words pouring into and racing along in the wind. The throbbing of blood in Durven's ears was the only thing that was comprehensible, and this drowned out almost all other sound. Though he berated himself thoroughly for cowardice--the way that his hands arose in spasmodic trembles, the way that his breathing was as pronounced as the wind, the way that his broken heart was sputtering like a fish--he knew that to do anything more than flee was foolhardy.

Durven dropped the remaining five feet to the ground, then collapsed when his foot rolled out from under him. He barely noticed, scuttling upright once more and mindlessly wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers. A quick glance upwards told him that he had left a very obvious and degrading trail of blood in his wake, but he considered it trivial. More pressing matters are at hand, he thought as the ground stretched beneath his feet with an ear-splitting shriek. He wobbled for a second, regaining his balance lest he go tumbling downhill to smash into a colony of insidious rocks, and then hurled himself forwards. Away from the rushing whispered chants, away from the sinister crimson demon, away from Maffe's lifeless body. The thunder mocked him, and the wind begged him to return to the Witch-folk's outcropping.

Have to get away! Durven's mind screamed at him, and he groaned compliantly, "Get away, away, away...!" His feet would barely stay beneath him as the earth roiled in tumult, and he repeatedly felt the twangs of pain shatter his legs as he twisted his ankles every direction imaginable. The wind smashed against him with renewed force every roll of thunder, and the resounding chants threatened to drag him down the mountainside by his outthrown arms. Instead of continuing along the ridge as he had previously done, Durven immediately cut diagonally across the hillside towards the hulking forms of the horses. The gravel grumbled beneath his skidding body as he fell-scrambled down the hill, clutching at all and any weeds or grasses that he could grasp. Overhead, the hazy morning sky had taken on the tint of twilight, and the clouds appeared to swirl unnaturally in massive, malicious patterns. This only added to Durven's terror.

The wind's remorseful bickering faded palpably as he stumbled the last few steps toward the whinnying horses, and he ignored the fact that they were violently spooked. Durven's eyes rolled almost as much as theirs did; if he could control his terror, surely they could as well. Tempest's flank was the singular warm thing in the biting animosity swirling throughout the Ebony Sea, and Durven collapsed against it as though drunk. His skeletal fingers fumbled with the straps to the cautionary lightweight packing that had been equipped beforehand, but Tempest snorted, tossed his head, stamped the ground. The beast's tether was sufficient for the moment, so perhaps the most difficult part would be actually saddling the stallion.

Vague shrieks of stone and terrain careened down the mountainside in Durven's wake, and with an unseeing glance upwards Durven determined that a gaping, widening gorge had laid the mountain's innards open to inspection. Massive chunks of rock tumbled down into the abyss, and howling screams echoed from the darkness; the wind had discovered the gash. Thunder resounded, dispelling yet more boulders to their doom, and they fell soundlessly inward. They were succeeded, however, by a melancholy, bone-jarring growl from the depths of the pit. Durven froze entirely, only one foot in the stirrup, his heart leaping into overdrive. Time itself seemed to halt in place; the wind fell, the thunder quieted, the chanting broke off mid-spell. Listening.

Another moaning growl that reached the depths of the soul. A monster, Durven realized with a pang of unfathomable dread, feeling the tide of sound sweep over him and then recede. They have truly resurrected Blancslieth.

The Ebony Sea surged beneath his feet, whipping everything back into focus. Tempest's tether snapped evenly in half, and the stallion uttered a brusque scream of terror before rearing backwards against the murky sky. Durven's hands smarted as he clutched the saddlehorn, and he swung himself clumsily into the seat as his mount heaved forward. There was a jolting thud as Tempest's hooves met the hillside, and then a series of awkward, dreadful leaps uphill until Durven could get him turned back around. Then the stallion galloped recklessly downwards, forsaking all thought of injury for the greater purpose of escaping, just as Durven had. Neither noticed the absence of the other two steeds, which had already broken free. There was only the maddening wind and thunder, the disparaging chants, and the unearthly growls from below. Only the escape.

As Tempest pounded across the jagged swells of the Ebony Sea, Durven's mind whirled. A monster of old, with enough power to collapse the Realms as easily as one might squash a beetle, was once again roaming the land of the living. How was it possible that Blancslieth lived again? Not even the mighty Second King of the Witch-folk, who had been the creator of all monsters, had been capable of resurrecting the dead. Such power is akin to giving life, re-creating it, Durven mused, jerking Tempest's reins to the left and feeling the stallion stumble in compliance. Whereas the Second King meshed and twisted life, this Third can re-gift it.

A gust of wind whipped around his face and into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Tempest whinnied through the wind and thunder as another distant, unearthly rumble echoed from the mountains. Durven blinked away the tears in his eyes, shaking his head violently and leaning forward. My lord must learn of this. And as Maffe was killed by those beasts, it is evidently up to me to tell him.

The moans from the mountain--or was it Mourndream?--washed over him once more, and Durven twisted around to glance at the mountainside. His breath was snatched by the wind, and his heartbeat hiccupped. The monster had emerged from the mountainside partially, and though it was dark enough below the restless cloud cover that the beast was nothing more than an unfathomable shadow, the blackness was pierced by ragged needles of lightning. Great masses of gray, matted fur erupted from the mountainside; colossal pieces of earth were sent hurling into the sky. The world trembled whenever a boulder crashed into the ground, and Tempest's stride shuddered. Durven had just a moment when he glimpsed the gnarled heads of the fabled Mourndream--wolf, raven, and snake--before his view was obscured by one of the raining slabs of mountain.

Even in the howling wind, his eyes widened in horror, and he muttered a weak "Damn," before kicking Tempest's flanks and throwing himself forward. "GO, TEMPEST!" he screamed at his horse, feeling the looming shadow of the stone above. They could easily be crushed in a matter of seconds. The horse's breaths rasped as his black eyes rolled, and Durven could feel his frame contract and expand beneath his legs. Tempest was straining. Durven's attention swung skywards, and his heart sank.

Mourndream's echoing growl hailed the first debris. The stone seemed silent in the onslaught of thunder and wind, but the shudders in Durven's skeleton compensated for it. Just ahead of them and to the right, a boulder the size of his head smashed into the ground. Another larger piece rained down to the left. And another grinding crash just behind them, flinging out stinging pebbles that lodged into the back of Durven's neck; he was whimpering now. Again he glanced up, yelped, and spurred Tempest into even greater speeds. You're going to die, his hysterical mind informed him. They didn't mention anything like this in your initiation, did they?

A fist-sized stone clipped Durven on the shoulder, and his arm spasmed with pain. Another thudded into his back, thankfully missing his spine. Below him, Tempest's gait faltered as a rock smashed into the stallion's rump. A grating, thunderous howl split the world behind them as the main body of the mountain's flesh was triturated by the Ebony Sea. Durven resigned to helplessness as the rest of the sky crashed down around them.

He buried his head in his arm, smashing his eyes tightly closed and clinging to Tempest's back for all he was worth. He could feel the stallion sporadically skid to near-halts as debris enveloped them from the front, vacillate between left or right, and then simply surge forward when another shriek of stone came from behind. He could hear the destructive screeching of rock, the undertones of oscillating wind, and then the vague cry of thunder and rumble of monster overshadowing it all. Durven rolled his shoulders once, and the shards of pain in his back caused him to gasp. It was a wonder that Tempest had gotten him this far. He would have to thank the steed in whatever afterlife there was.

Durven felt a sudden twinge of regret regarding his atheism.

One last convulsion in the horse beneath him, and the only sounds came from behind. Durven tentatively raised his head, blinking in the semi-darkness that was made dimmer by the dust seething in the air. The sky was unimpaired and stable once more. He turned and saw massive gray boulders cratering the glassy Ebony Sea, and more were raining down, but none of them appeared to be endangering him and Tempest. In the distance, Mourndream's scaly, feathery, and furry heads were tossing lethargically from side to side, dispelling the mountains' blood to the racing wind and black drapes above. Flashes of lightning revealed golden, gleaming eyes set deep into the monster's skulls, but none of them were centered on the Ebony Sea.

Durven directed his attention forward again, quaking and nearly incapacitated. He could feel Tempest's limbs shaking as well. For the first time, he looked down at the terrain on which the horse was cantering; it was potted with rough holes and grasping ledges. A sense of awe began nudging its way through the terrified drumming of his heart. He was alive. Even with the death of Maffe and the resurrection of Mourndream and the shattered mountainside. The statistics were too complex and escaped him at the moment, but he knew that the fact that he was riding away with his horse was nothing short of a miracle.

Perhaps some god is watching and knows the hopelessness of my situation, some god that despises the Witch-folk and loves the Realms, Durven thought with a delirious laugh. The Elves believe in the Void; is it Matter, then? And then the Dwarves have their goddess of darkness... Is it Tenebruum? That sounds right. Tenebruum's bane, then, whoever that is. Or the Gnomes' hundreds of gods of light, to hell with their names. And then our theologians and their unwavering belief in the King's god. Who knows how many...

He stopped himself when he realized that he was deviating from the project at hand. With one last glance over his shoulder at the chaos behind him, Durven shuddered and spurred Tempest forward, though the horse was exhausted enough to ignore his attempt. As he shifted again to reinforce his demand, Durven realized that his pants were embarrassingly damp. After a moment as he stared downwards, a bubbling laugh rose in his throat. What did it matter.

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