"My mistake. I agree to the deal," replies Blastralion, without further delay. "Bar seems reluctant to give me even nonmagical books beyond a certain level of advancement. But I think it would produce a book about magic only if that book existed already in some form that doesn't have magic on it. 

"We'll want to spend a few hours hashing out a plan, at minimum, I suspect. But you may not be as limited as you think. If your world is paused, your gods may be too. Is there a way to check?

"I queried Bar thoroughly about its security measures during my first visit. Bar described them as 'categorically guaranteed sufficient', and I am satisfied that this assessment was correct. Worst case scenario, the bar just kicks you out. Advantages to waiting: you get to learn more about Milliways and possibly come up with ways to exploit it. You get started learning my travel-magic. We have more time to plan and equip. Disadvantages: if Milliways hasn't paused your world's gods, they decide you're not killing enough things and throw a tantrum, Milliways security has to get involved and you probably get ejected back to your world. Also sooner or later we run out of money to get food from Bar. 

"I should also warn that it can be hard to rediscover Milliways after one leaves. Getting a door back is pretty much random. You'll be able to return to your world via my travel-magic once you've learned it, but that may take years. I haven't managed to target Milliways with it at all. 

"Given the size of the shadowland you're describing, it sounds like you may need to physically travel through the portal to the Netherling world to install it? It may be doable, it'd just be harder to arrange than if you can set it up remotely from the anchor-world's side. 

"On dimensions - the language we use has shifted over time as we learned more about traveling. I sometimes use 'universe' and 'dimension' interchangeably, but the technical difference is a 'dimension' or 'world' is a reality targetable by travel-magic, and it can contain many universes or sub-worlds that have other ways of traveling between them. Dimensions often have their own terms for the various sub-worlds they contain, including 'plane,' 'dimension,' 'universe,' or 'world,' which complicates terminology." 

"Pausing the Neverborn may not be enough depending on how proactive security is, though I suppose if I haven't been removed yet then I likely have time. All of the ways I have to check are ways that will alert them to what is going on or call down their wrath if they are paying attention. Let us plan; I will need to be located at the centre of the effect to create the shadowland. I will be distracted and not well able to defend myself, though any necromantic creations I make prior to beginning the ritual will be able to contribute. How well could you hold a point in their world, just past whatever doorway or gate connects the two places?"

"In the event I do not return to Creation for many mortal generations, I will feel no sorrow."

"Hmmm." This elicits a thoughtful pause. "Illania, what do you think?" he asks, looking off to the side to apparently empty space. "Can we spare Pan and Blaster for a few hours?" He cocks his head thoughtfully, adopting an expression of intent listening, for a long minute. Then he nods and returns his gaze to Lightless. "I cannot defend you in the Netherling world, but my alliance can. And a blow of this magnitude is well worth diverting resources from elsewhere.

"As for the battlefield, here is what you need to know." Blastralion explains that his current visit to Milliways has paused his anchor-world in the midst of a battle. The forces he's working with chose to hold Castle Aedific against the approaching Netherlings, and were in the process of losing rather badly. He draws a broad map of the terrain near the castle (mountain chokepoint here, supply lines here, vulnerable settlements here and here, suspected Netherling portal somewhere in this region...) and explains the necessary politics to convince the local forces that Lightless is on their side. "When we arrive, it'll quickly get hectic. I'll keep Netherlings off you while you concentrate. The most efficient use of broad-scale destruction magic is probably to aim near the gate where Netherlings are streaming in. There will also be a flock of flyers to deal with, if you have the range." He describes common variants of Netherlings to expect, from relatively weak but mobile four-winged bat-things to elephant-sized spindly bundles of serrated legs. 

"Assuming we repel the Netherlings, the local troops will need some time to regroup. I can give you some starting lessons in travel-magic in the meantime. But until we reach the portal, expect to be either marching or fighting most hours of the day.

"If your magic is enough to push the Netherlings back to their portal, I shall summon reinforcements to get us inside and to clear us a space in which to create the shadowland. 

"Incidentally, do you sleep?"

Lightless's comprehension of tactics is solid, if unimaginative. There are odd assumptions present that an experienced commander would notice- a tendency to focus on one or two key pieces of a battle, ignoring the rank and file. A tactical bias towards sacrificing allies with cold calculus, if not indifference. From the descriptions of the undead that can be created, it's not hard to guess why.

"I can sleep. It's useful to do, on occasion, as the Neverborn sometimes choose to communicate through nightmares and do not enjoy being ignored. Alternately, they just enjoy the opportunity."

Lightless sketches a few lines on the rough map they've been using. "Is the gate itself fragile? Do I need to worry about destruction spells interacting with it?"

It is not hard for Lightless to notice that Blastralion's strategic objectives include keeping as many of the rank-and-file alive as possible, but he's not afraid to lose them in pursuit of said objectives. 

"I was mostly curious about whether you could avoid sleep," Blastralion explains. "The two of us can travel faster than an army, if so. The gate design varies depending on who sets it up, but it is typically anchored to a substrate of some kind," he sketches an example; it looks like a semicircular frame made of large, interlinked bones, "and the substrate is about as durable as a small, sturdy house. I was planning to have my forces hit it with hammers or fling rocks at it; siege equipment would have done the trick eventually if they survived long enough to build and operate them." 

To a talented enough necromancer, a living soldier is really just an inconveniently opinionated sack of bones for making better soldiers. Lightless has the tact not to say this to Blastralion's face. Yet.

"I can go without sleep for most of a week with no side effects. I am not yet convinced to reveal all my strengths and weaknesses to you. One strength I will state is that unless your houses are sturdy indeed, that gate could easily be destroyed by accidental battle sorcery, especially if it doesn't need to be reduced to ash but could be scratched and scored sufficiently."

Blastralion has presumably already guessed the opinions Lightless has on the matter of saving lives, given the necromancer's earlier comments. 

"Scratching and scoring alone won't do it, crumbling would. Please constrain your battle sorcery accordingly. When we find ourselves close enough to the portal for the constraint to become relevant, alert me and I will summon more precisely-targeted help. I don't begrudge you your secrets," he adds, "but please bear in mind that withholding tactically relevant information may incline me to behave similarly while teaching travel-magic." 

"Battle is so seldom polite enough to be constrained. I will make the effort however. Tell me, is the gateway vulnerable to mental strain or psychological attacks?" Lightless considers the map before them, with its small carved netherlings like pieces upon a game board. "For that matter, are the netherlings? An aura which saps the will to live is among the effects in my arsenal, and it tends to be helpful when attempting not to damage valuable artifacts. That particular sorcery tends quite strongly towards affecting both allies and enemies, which has not historically been an issue but might in this instance."

"If you wish for me to list all the ways I can and cannot kill, we shall be here for perhaps a mortal generation. Two, if I come up with new ideas while speaking. I am creative- describe the constraint that sleep puts upon our tactical situation, and I may be able to resolve it. For instance, I might sometimes sleep, but can be carried in a palanquin by things which do not. The more pressing problem will be that, while sleeping, the Neverborn are liable to vent their impatience in the form of random destruction on the nearby area. Also, battle mages with chronic nightmares are dangerous in their own right if awoken in haste. I can put this off for a week, longer if I do the sort of things which put the Neverborn in a good mood."

"No, the portal has no mind. Netherling susceptibility to mental attack will vary, but it would be quite effective against many of the numerous-but-weak varieties. There are vicious hunter-types that I suspect might resist much more strongly, and some rarer variants would be outright immune. At least a few of those will probably guard the portal, but again, when we get near it, I can bring in help. You may consider me immune to will-sapping effects, but my local allies are not. 

"The Netherling variety means you will probably need to get creative in order to take out all of them." Blastralion points to various locations on the map, and summarizes his thoughts. Repel initial invasion, use the corpses from that failed invasion to mount a stronger defense, march east towards the suspected portal, scout and locate it, summon help, counter-invade Netherling world, create shadowland, escape through portal, destroy portal. "It would normally be several weeks' march to the portal location. Travel-without-sleep shortens that time. So does having an army that doesn't need supply lines. Netherling opposition lengthens it, though, and could make the war drag on for months. The Netherlings are numerous enough that I don't expect you will run out of god-fodder for a long while. On the other hand, this means regular combat and corresponding attrition rates. I suspect our best strategy will be to keep the local armies as reserves and reinforcements. I can handle any whining about animating the dead by reminding them that their priorities are not losing their entire world, but marching alongside undead and a possibly-indiscriminate slaughter factory would also be terrible for their morale. 

"How fast can you raise an army, given hundreds of corpses? Thousands? At what range would keeping the portal safe begin to constrain you? The locals have paces as a unit of measure, it's about yea long" he holds his arms out in a wide gesture. "Hundreds of those, thousands, shorter, farther?" 

Lightless considers Blastralion's arms for a moment. "Assuming there is no wyld here- spaces of lawless creative energy, dominated by the fae, tends to make estimations of distance unreliable- the mystical arts I generally employ affect perhaps a hundred paces at a time, varying by as much as half as much in either direction. I can strike at larger areas, perhaps as much as two order of magnitudes more, but cannot be more accurate without naming individual targets. The variance is proportional."

"Starting from corpses, operating by myself? There are many variables. A night's careful work might bring me a handful of capable automotons. Taking harmful risks with my own body, a dozen servants with magic of their own could be created from the unwilling ghosts of a haunted place. With undead assistants and the right tools, as well as a prodigious amount of flesh, a year might create some gigantic leviathan of necrotic power. If directed to a crowded city or tight future battlefield which I could then light on fire, every soul within could be a short-lived and uncontrolled reverent wishing indiscriminate destruction. Properly warded and dedicated, any hospital or triage unit you allow me access to will reawaken their failures under my command. There are tradeoffs to be made between power, control, and number- though I will say that it is usually easier to begin with the living than with a corpse already cold."

"I will presume you dislike the obvious solutions to morale that have a moral cost. The dead can dig latrines and haul supplies, if that helps."

"I am a discriminating slaughter factory," Lightless says primly, "and those too sheepish to see the value in my arts do tend to be attractive examples."

Blastralion hasn't seen anything like a wyld in this world, and says so. Even inaccurate bombardment at ten thousand paces intrigues him and he spends some time marking regions that have sight lines that long, possibly to use as strongpoints while fighting towards the portal. Tall hills, mountain peaks, towers and wide plains. 

He does not expect anywhere to be haunted, but - "there is a variant of Netherling we commonly call a catalich. They are mostly incorporeal and can possess - or 'catalyze' - someone along a sliding scale of willingness. Willing possession comes with drastically increased power and rapid loss of control to the catalich. Unwilling comes with a modest power boost and subtle mindfuckery. The latter usually takes the form of diminished emotional control and subtle nudges to cause harm. They can be ejected from the unwillingly-catalyzed with sufficient concentration, but one has to notice the mindfuckery first, and they are good at denial. Their power boost comes at the price of physical health or magical power, a portion of which they steal permanently, so they are generally only used by the insane and desperate. Immortality doesn't protect against them, it merely puts a very low lower bound on how badly they can ruin a host. Your magic might be able to co-opt them to use against their own troops, but they are creatures, not ghosts. They are weak and vulnerable without a host and take a few hours to inhabit one. Magic can kill them, and bright enough light. They are attracted to magically powerful people and -" he pauses "- auras of doom. There's a good chance they will try to catalyze you. For obvious reasons, I emphatically do not recommend it. The power they steal is gone for good." 

He predicts there are a lot of tight battlefields in the future. "Or just - large swarms visible from a great distance. You'll get a bulk discount on Netherling flesh, lucky you." Undead laborers will indeed help, and he adjusts logistics plans accordingly. 

On the slaughter: "I was referring to your batshit insane gods working through you," clarifies Blastralion dryly. "I am sure you are quite discriminating." 

"For the moment, I have no tasks which require ill advised deals with the devil in order to achieve." There's a pause. "Correction; any more such deals."

Lightless then outlines the variety of dead and undead that can be created, with notes on managing them and how quickly they break down. Not ideal manservants, most of them will tend to break things or cause destruction if not given clear instructions to the contrary. More problems with relying on Neverborn as the origin of your magic.

With that exchange, the main plans seem to have been laid for the campaign. Onward, into new worlds?

Onward indeed. All that remains is to open a door. 

As the conversation concludes, Blastralion's form begins to subtly shift. The core of his body shrinks slightly, the extra mass flowing smoothly to cover vitals, the scintillating exterior forming a shape more reminiscent of armor than flesh. Squat pyramidal spikes form at the knees, elbows, and heel. At the joints, in lieu of a fixed exoskeleton, fine overlapping scales take shape. The transformation is complete in a matter of minutes and does not seem to interfere with talking or listening. The new armor, unconstrained by crafting limits, is smooth and rounded in most places, to deflect blows. Each and every ounce serves a defensive or offensive purpose - or, in some cases, both. 

His preparations done, Blastralion leads Lightless to the exit. With a final warning to the necromancer - "things will get very chaotic, very quickly" - he draws his sword and opens the door - 

- instantly flooding the room with the screams of the dying and the clamor of battle. Depending on Lightless' experience, he may recognize: human shouts of command, fear, and agony; decidedly inhuman shrieks and howls; the sound of snapping bones; the clang of metal on metal; and a few more esoteric sounds, like that of exposed, hardened bone dragging across a stone floor. 

On the other side of the door is a dimly-lit corridor, perhaps two paces wide, stretching to the left and right of the doorway. Blastralion turns right, breaking from a measured walk into a dead sprint with unlikely precision. Towards the end of the corridor, a creature like an extremely muscular, wingless bat is busy mauling what might, at one point, have been an armored man. The bat-thing is hunched over its victim, but could easily be nine feet tall if it cared to rise. Blastralion doesn't give it the chance; he decapitates it with almost casual ease. He then proceeds to carve his way through several smaller aberrations in rapid succession, barely slowing, until he meets another bat-thing as it is climbing through the twisted bars of a ruined portcullis. This one, he tackles bodily, sword-point-first, sending the pair of them back through the twisted metal, one chunk of which rips a bloody gash along the bat-thing's side. 

Just like that, the path to the overrun courtyard - and presumably the gatehouse beyond, though Lightless cannot see it from here - is clear of obstacles. Aside from some very fresh corpses, that is. 

Lightless drifts through the door like a stormcloud, promising anything ranging from ruining a picnic to the obliteration of one's home in the crack of a lightning bolt. The aura of doom which Blastralion might have had a moment to grow used to expands to fill the space that Lightless occupies, and the black-clad necromancer's footsteps sound on the stone of the corridor setting the tempo to a funeral dirge. Somehow, just as light filters through the dark shroud about them to become dimmer and dreary, the distant exclamations of pain and percussion of damaged architecture is warped to provide a somber orchestration to the beat.

The aura of doom appears to come with literal background music. In minor key, because of course it is.

Lightless crouches by the first corpse, shaking their head at the mess Blastralion made of the musculature and spinal column. Doom gathers about their fingers, which trace with a strange kind of intimacy across the bat-thing's chest and stomach. "What's left of you. . ." Rubbing coil of rangy muscle between thumb and forefinger and pressing it down against bone in a post-mortem massage, the necromancer talks to the body as though it has answers. "More than mere body. Where do you get your strength? When did you die, and who gathered your souls from you?" More investigation happens, allowing Blastralion to roam further into the fray.

Then maniacal laughter rings out across the battlefield. "I see! The spirit never left at all!" Soon after, thumps can be heard from the room makeshift laboratory, the a wet ripping sound. Then a high, painful keening as though the bat thing is crying out but never losing breath, just crying into the winds for a long, long sustained note.

When Blastralion next sees Lightless, the bat-thing is standing next to the necromancer with slumped shoulders, head reattached but with a hollow sunken eyes and an emaciated belly under ribs which show through. Meanwhile, Lightless's sleeves are rolled up, showing whorls of black across the backs of bare arms, growing denser as they approach the wrist until the hands themselves are pitch black. There's also blood leaking from a circle on the necromancer's forehead, and perceptive onlookers might notice that Lightless now seems to be sporting thin fangs and a smear of blood marking their lips.

"Success." Saying this is needless, but Lightless shows a grim satisfaction. The aura of doom hasn't let up, and in fact seems to have intensified, discernible from the hallway outside the room as one approaches. Any individual effect might be frightening, but in combination there is again that feeling of it being just a bit too much.

Alas, those capable of appreciating the spectacle are otherwise occupied. 

Lightless' work is briefly disturbed by a trio of flying spherical creatures with four wings and very large mouths. They are fast and agile, but not particularly resilient. 

There is fighting in the courtyard beyond the portcullis, with aberrations streaming through a demolished wooden gate, fanning out once they enter the courtyard. Blastralion and perhaps a dozen swordsmen form a semicircle near the portcullis, fending off Netherlings as they approach. 

It's a clear, moonlit night, and the soft light adds an eerie glow to Lightless and his new minion when they arrive. Several hundred of the quad-wings blanket the night sky, and their flickering shadows play across the ground and combatants. 

There are a lot of bodies. 

Even immortal killing machines have blind spots, and Lightless is somewhat accustomed to one of two flavours of interruption- either the kind that screams and runs away when they see someone sporting an aura of doom that pronounced, or would-be protagonists who call out something about needing to fight for the heart of all mankind. Over the years, the cunning stratagem of just attacking has ceased to be in in the forefront of a mind more concerned with navigating exactly how much to annoy a dead titan or how many vertebrae is too many to fuse together in your undead giant centipede. Lightless has a sword, and does know how to use it, but wouldn't be classified as an unusually noteworthy artist with the blade unless you knew how fast that comfortable mediocrity had been trained. Lightless is a peerless necromancer, but necromancy takes much longer than a bite. Either solution would probably work, but would no doubt grant the spheres several healthy mouthfuls. Unfortunately for the bat things, the first mouthful breaks teeth on the black armour beneath the cloak. Then Lightless falls on them, and if they're smart enough to guess at mass and weight they might just be smart enough to realize there's something really wrong with how heavy that armour is.

What follows is not dignified, but rolling back and forth as though trying to put out a fire, occasionally swiping out with a sword, does result in a gore smeared wreck of a few netherlings.

Lightless does not volunteer an explanation unless it's necessary. 

Dignified or not, it works. The quad-wings are lighter than their size would suggest; their round bodies deflate slightly when punctured. They do not appear smart enough to let go when they bite armor instead of skin, let alone to deduce anything therefrom. They quickly fall. 

Outside, the densest concentration of monsters is currently at the gate, on the opposite side of the courtyard. Blastralion and the swordsmen fend off the majority of the attacking monsters, though a decent tactician could tell their net is imperfect and smaller Netherlings may slip through, on noticing Lightless. 

To a trained eye, Blastralion does not fight like a master swordsman. Nor does he fight like a mage, necromancer, or a monologuing empowered protagonist. But observing him in combat is like, after studying the swimming habits of humans, ducks, and dogs, now seeing a fish for the first time. He breathes battle. The smaller Netherlings do not slip by him. 

Blastralion would make for a fascinating undead minion. Is that prowess part of the spirit, a fiery burning passion for the art of fighting? Are those muscles firing stronger and faster than they should, and if so how could their degeneration and decay be held at bay once reanimated?

Questions for later. Lightless plans to live for a very, very long time after all.

The abyssal arsenal is low on effects which only kill half of a battlefield. Hopefully Blastralion was right about the weak wills of the Netherlings, and the stronger wills of the fighters. A low dirge echos across the courtyard, reflecting from each wall and parapet. Not unearthly but somehow too earthy, a song sung from six feet underground with all the despair of someone who just awoke to find they'd been buried alive. To those who hear it, hopelessness fills their hearts. Everything is gray, nothing matters. It's too much trouble. There is no reward. This won't get better. Just lie down, close your eyes, and wait for the end.

The tide pouring through the gate slows noticeably, Netherlings staggering sluggishly under the weight of despair. Something skitters over the wall and disappears into the shadows; if Lightless has senses beyond the ordinary, he may notice it approaching. It doesn't last long, however; Blastralion pins it to the stone wall ten paces from Lightless with a hurled spear. Its shape is akin to a many-legged eyeball, and the shadows that cloaked it fade as it dies. 

Over the course of the next minute, hundreds of four-winged spheres drift downward from the sky, helpless and easy targets for sword-work. 

The human soliders slow down too, however. Most manage to stay on their feet. Blastralion orders swordsmen to fan out in trios, and haul each other up if the aura overcomes one of them. 

The tide is turning. Slowly, soldiers begin to retake the walls. 

Lightless continues to sing the wordless tune, uniting everyone, netherling and human, in thoughts of the futility of everything they could do and everything they have done. Negative thoughts chain into each other, and each repetition reinforces every link in that chain. The world is broken, your friends don't care about you, every breath is work. Pointless. 

At some point if Blastralion looks back at the place where Lightless oversees the conflict, he'll see shadows looming larger than they aught, darkness enshrouding the figure of this strange ally, and behind them-

-the darkness weaves itself into whorls and knots, a vaguely circular woven pattern. Look too long, blink too quickly or not enough, and an afterimage of a skeletal hand rises towards the sky such that Lightless is in its palm. Glance away, glance back, and it's gone again. 

Hypothetically, what if Blastralion never glances away from Lightless? 

The defenders advance, systematically finishing off the Netherlings who fall and killing or driving back their unsupported brethren. It is usually, but not always, the smaller Netherlings that collapse first. A few lumbering brutes keel over nigh immediately, and some swift, skittering, stubborn things make it past the front lines to harass the skirmishers behind. Eventually, though, the last of the Netherlings on the walls die, and archers begin targeting the horde outside. 

In the courtyard itself, the defenders have almost regained control of the gate when the effects of the dirge start catching up to them. They start to drop in greater numbers, sinking to their knees and staring numbly into space, or outright toppling over. The Netherlings who remain, resistant to Lightless for one reason or another, notice the flagging human defenses and start to push back. 

Something smashes aside the remnants of the wooden gate. A towering, emaciated figure with far too many joints on its four limbs lopes into view. Blastralion charges it, and it responds with lighting-swift slashes of its forelimbs that score the ground all around him as he dodges. He's fast, superhumanly so, but not by much. It's much faster. A glancing blow catches Blastralion on the side and flings him, spinning, across the courtyard, scattering bits of crystalline armor like dust in the moonlight. 

Blastralion bounces once, and is on his feet again. "Time to change tactics," he bites out, eyes intent on the rapidly approaching fiend. "Else we must fall back." 

Given what's going on, Blastralion probably should pay attention to the battle.

The song stops, and Lightless stands with one foot on the railing of the balcony. A black cape flaps in the wind, and the moon happens to be directly behind that dark figure, creating an ominous silhouette. The public grandstanding seems either accidental or pointless, though something about it revitalizes a tired looking Lightless somewhat. Once more the abyssal begins casting their strange necromancies, and a dozen heartbeats later the ground beneath them cracks. Out of the myriad gaps claw skeletal hands, which should have no reason to exist there, and which grasp at each combatant to pull them down and hold them fast against the earth. The hands aren't hard to avoid individually, but there are hundreds upon hundreds, and there's no rhyme or reason to their placement to predict where might be safe. 

"If my efforts change to destruction, you will lose soldiers to my spells. It will not be a gentle death."

If Blastralion is willing to accept casualties however, Lightless isn't exactly bothered by this. Actually, thin wisps of something, twists of light or implausible heat hazes, seem to be streaming from some of the unlucky dying to gather in the penumbra that surrounds the necromancer.

Already pale as bone, Lightless's hands grow angular and hard, and with a twist they seem to shake out of their skin entirely to flex beneath the swirling shadows. When Lightless plunges the bare fingerbones into the stone, ivory shards erupt from the ground everywhere the grasping hands had been before. These shards are larger, sharper, straight angles of something stronger than bone and with wicked edges. Anyone unable to escape the area beforehand is now perforated several times over, the spikes close enough that there's barely a foot's width between each. All angled different directions, all as wide as a palm at the base, all several meters long, and all ending in a terminally sharp point. 

For a heartbeat the onrushing foes cannot stop themselves in time, and anyone trying to stop themselves on the wall of spikes finds themselves enmeshed. The pale thorns gleam, hungry.

With the tide of death inflicted, the ripple of power flowing towards Lightless becomes easier and easier to see. One fallen soldier nearby Blastralion breaths his last breath, and Blastralion can see the soldier's face like fog in that breath as it gets sucked into the aura of darkness around this new ally.

The spikes stem the torrent of monsters rushing through the gate. Some are pushed onto the wicked points by their eager brethren. Some soldiers pull back, screaming, but the swiftly-advancing and more numerous Netherlings bear the brunt. 

If Blastralion spares a glance for the dying, it's not obvious to Lightless. His focus is on the charging monstrosity ahead. The many-jointed thing hits a maze of spikes, several stabbing through its flesh, but its limbs are spindly and barely bleed. Its strength can only be magical, as it proceeds to snap a half-dozen spikes cleanly off, barely slowing. 

But slow it does, and Blastralion doesn't waste this opening. He is in amongst the spikes immediately, hugging them closely to throw off the larger beast. His simian tail darts out to steady his balance, and wraps around the base of a spike as he leans free to strike. His blade manages only shallow cuts on the monster's sinewy flesh, but it begins to slow nonetheless. Its limbs bend in impossible directions, crackling and popping madly, in an attempt to reach Blastralion, but he evades. 

After a minute of frantic combat amongst the needles, the many-jointed thing makes a sluggish mistake. It leans forward, balancing mainly on a forelimb. Blastralion pounces, leaping from the spike-field to vault atop its back, and slams its head into an ivory spire. Even in death, it thrashes madly, shattering two more spikes as Blastralion dives clear. 

As the fight rages, friend and foe alike begin to take more notice of Lightless. Human defenders back away in fear, and those Netherlings who possess a spark of intelligence slow their advance, uncertain. The courtyard is clearing, save for a shadowy form oozing between the ivory spikes. The tide is turning - but in whose favor, it may be hard to tell.