Someone walks in.

This someone is gaunt and pale skinned with deep shadows surrounding their eyes. Raven hair falls just past their shoulders and upon their brow is a circlet bearing a half filled curve as insignia. They wear a black cloak adorned with a clasp of steel. Beneath the swirling cloak can be seen hints of a close dark leather outfit, adorned with some strange gray metal in which the swirls and eddies of forging seem to have left the uncanny impression of pained faces. A thin blade of the same metal is at their hip, and a staff of warped and twisted ebony is in their hand. Surrounding them at a distance of several paces is an aura of decay wherein the wood of the bar creaks in protest and some silverware on a nearby table tarnishes. From the doorway behind, the cawing of crows can be heard.

The overall effect is honestly quite a bit past ominous and well into melodrama.

The newcomer approaches the bar, taking a seat a few stools over from the current inhabitant.

The current inhabitant takes another slurp of glop. 

"That's a damn good ensemble you got there," he announces without turning his head. His voice is slightly deeper than average, but otherwise entirely human. He's likely speaking a language the newcomer doesn't recognize. This doesn't matter; Milliways does translation. "But don't you think it's a bit much? The aura of decay and all. I hope it doesn't mess with your food." He looks down at his own bowl. It doesn't appear messed with, so he shrugs and slurps another spoonful. 

"Regretfully," comes a voice that sounds as through it got stabbed at midnight and then lain for three days on bare gravel, and at the time of the unfortunate assassination had been clambering out of the sepulcher, "the aura is the one component of this ensemble which is not optional. Since I have an aura of doom, I find it helps not to mix messages."

The aura stops, apparently deliberately measured, close enough that the bald fellow could stick an arm into it, but not so close that a wayward elbow would wind up within. It makes for a near perfect circle centred on the newcomer, and despite there being no visible sign of it except where it produces changes in materials already present, there's something awful about the space. You'd never just not notice where the boundary was.

"How does one acquire food in this establishment? Have the servants taken ill?"

At "mix messages", Bald Crystal Guy snorts blue glop into his bowl and dissolves in laughter. It takes a little bit to subside. 

"Sorry, sorry," he chuckles. "Can't exactly blame you. To answer your question," he gestures expansively with the hand opposite the newcomer, indicating the bar. Close examination may reveal that the joints on the arm are covered in a very fine set of crystalline scales, allowing them to bend like armor. "This establishment is evidently called Milliways, the bar itself is sapient, and it will take pretty much any currency that exists and supply pretty much any imbibable substance in exchange. It can also supply menus, though I'd advise being specific about what interests you. This is only my second visit, but I haven't seen a servant yet." 

The ominous figure considers. "Strange magics. Perhaps script, to start-" and several pieces of paper with ornate writing on them are drawn forth and placed on the bar. They look like small contracts or deeds. "Three strips of jerky, a bowl of dried fruit, and a drink of ale or beer." As an afterthought, as though of long disused habit, they add "please."

Seeing the food arrive in a plainly magical fashion and change made of the script, the newcomer is pleased, and begins to eat- the preserved food undergoing no harm for being within the aura, proof against the obvious results of rot or neglect. 

"By what appellation are you called, stranger?"

"Blastralion Protos, Blastralion for short," he answers, pronouncing the name so as to rhyme with medallion. "Yourself?" 

A long sigh. "The Last Red Ring Before Eternal Lightlessness." There's a damned echo on the words, a quiet chorus of lost souls which intone the words alongside the newcomer. Meanwhile there's no sign of humour or pride in their face, just an expectation of either bemusement or terror from their audience.

"For the sake of brevity, you may call me Lightless. This is not my name, but for reasons relating to my aura of doom it would be best that my name were not spoken here."

He's ready for it this time, and there is no snorting of blue goop. "That sounds...deeply unfortunate. I'm sorry for whatever saddled you with that constraint, Lightless. I take it that speaking it once isn't a problem? Or is it only a problem if someone else speaks it? Does writing count? If my questions bother you, incidentally, feel free to change the subject. I confess to being intrigued." 

"That sequence of syllables, or any representation referencing them, being used to refer to me causes some issue. Any way of singling out the specific individual who once used that title and who became the entity you see before you causes worse problems. Acknowledging that name as referring to me is worst, and gets worse each time the reference happens. This can be best modeled as being based on intent, and trying to get around it except by some means more esoteric than the process or entity which caused this can comprehend just makes them mad."

"If you happen to have an appetite for indiscriminate destruction, then their wrath could be vented, but I prefer discriminate destruction myself."

"That seems like an oddly specific curse," muses Blastralion. "Your phrasing also suggests there was some kind of...transition? From being merely a title to something else, and from person to...entity? Indirect references won't trigger it, as long as the actual words aren't spoken aloud? That part's just so I don't have to worry about my phrasing, by the way. And that still doesn't tell me why you said it the first time, if it's so dangerous. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the indulgence of your answering, but 'I can't really say' seems a reasonable response in your case." 

Lightless laughs, starting out as a chuckle but soon joined by that unearthly accompaniment. "I can speak freely of the general case. There is a transition. From common mortal to something both more and. . . less, in some respects. The greatest part of the sacrifice is that the mortal is no more, in saying that the mortal is no longer me. As long as you do not know who that mortal might have been, there's little danger of an accidental reference, and if you by misfortune stumble onto that identity I will simply lie to you and the worst of the effect will be averted." Shadowed eyes look over Blastralion. "There are more than one of what I am, but the odds against attaining this state are unlikely."

"Hmmm. How much of the mortal's goals, motivations, and personality are preserved by the change? To what degree is it a willing one? Does it involve a bargain with the entity who is so preoccupied with identities? And forgive me if I misunderstand, but it still seems like in uttering the phrase when I asked for a name, you definitely acknowledged it as referring to you. Why didn't that cause problems?" 

"To my knowledge, all of the goals, motivations, and personality are preserved. Some are refined or altered by the clairity found on the other side- improved cognition or prowess are extremely common, and newfound power has a way of changing a person. Some would say this means the change makes us monsters. I prefer to think that most would be monsters, if they thought themselves invincible."

"My new title may be freely used. It is references to the identity I previously held that is verboten."

"The bargain is simple. Death reaches out. How do you answer?"

"I've known folks to debate whether killing someone but transferring their memories and personality to a new container is really killing them," comments Blastralion, finishing his glop and facing Lightless. "Doesn't seem like much of a loss to me, but opinions vary greatly and I'm something of a special case anyway. I've also known a lot of folks who thought they were invincible."  He smiles. His crystalline face has remarkable range of motion. "They all turned out to be wrong, but you never know. Still, thank you for clarifying." 

If he looks, now that Blastralion has turned, Lightless can see that the crystalline man is wearing short leather trousers under the cloak, in much better condition than the cloak itself. There's presumably a hole in back for the tail. His chest is bare and smooth, with the appearance of human musculature carved in that strange crystal, but no nipples. 

Blastralion continues, "That's not really a bargain, though, is it? Not a whole one, anyway. How does the process depend on what one answers?" 

Lightless shrugs, continuing to eat his meal with precise yet unrefined movements. "I was being somewhat concise to the point of poetry. The core of the bargain is, if you agree to serve death, then you will never die." The resulting grin would be called terrifying and gleeful by turns. "Death is nonspecific, and there are some edge cases where interpretation may fall in your favour. Not anything regarding your past self, but fortunately I found that one of the benefits." The last of the dried fruit vanishes into pocket. "In any case, I believe it is the same container even."

"'Death is nonspecific', huh?" muses Blastralion. If he notices the grin, he shows no sign of it. "In what regard is Death nonspecific? Is Death a coherent entity where you're from? What does its service entail? If it involves killing things and you have, I don't know, a quota or something, I could cheerfully point you in the direction of many things that need to die. It comes with some risk, but immortality renders most of that risk moot."  

"Where I come from. . ." The grin loses the gleeful angle, becoming macabre. "Where I come from, the gods rose against their makers- the primordials- but found themselves bound by oaths and prophecy. They gave their powers to mortals, choosing those who achieved mighty deeds or excelled in rare virtues. You might think that attempting to achieve immortality would be worthy of such an honour. You'd think wrong. I was not one of those." The cadence of Lightless's speech takes on that of someone who has recited a story many times, if only in their aggrieved internal monologues. "After the gods' victory, their defeated and abased opponents were bound themselves- and like the gods, found the loophole to exploit. They chose champions who had also failed, who also raged at what the gods chose to withhold. You might think that a ruined body, burned by caustic reagents and toxic inhalations of incense, who had failed, had in fact shortened their lifespan by decades, would be considered. I was not." Now the edge of a grin quirks into an expression of dark humour, a bitter sarcasm. "The slain primordials did not truly die. Something that titanic, that fundamental to the world, that important on a cosmic scale- it doesn't die even when you kill it. They drive through their own private haunts, touching on the world above only to spread the gift of death that treats them so differently. They choose the dead. They especially choose the stupidly, pointlessly dead." The capital letter on the final word can be heard audibly. Something in the enunciation. "I am an Abyssal Exalt, of the Daybreak caste, chosen champion of the Deathlords beyond names and beyond Creation. I am walking proof that the gods beneficence is not as strong as their desire for dramatic irony." 

"The deathlords want their chosen to spread death. Kill things. Preferably people, preferably lots of things, preferably the most full of life, preferably in ways that cascade and go on to cause more death. The linchpin of a defense force keeping monsters at bay, the first to fall from a new plague, the speakers and singers who keep hope alive in their audiences. Ultimately it doesn't matter too much to them, because if they don't feel you're doing enough or if you offend them, they reach through you and kill whatever is around you or whatever you care most about. In exchange, you life forever or until something very specific and usually very powerful rips you into tiny pieces, and you gain unnatural skill and characteristics."

"So I make a habit not to care about anyone, and I ply the trade of an itinerant abortician. It's a hobby."

"If you have something in particular you'd like killed for your own amusement I can see what I could do, but killing a warlord or even the sort singular serial killer doesn't usually put me in the black."

"Hmm," nods Blastralion, having listened with rapt attention. "So if I understand you correctly, the gods of your world uplifted some mortals they judged worthy so they could beat the primordials who made them. This war happened during your mortal lifetime. Being the usual kind of hideously indifferent to mortal tragedy, these gods didn't bother handing out immortality when they won. The not-really-dead primordials decided that your attempt to conquer mortality meant you died ironically enough to suit their tastes as a champion, and the gods - I'm not sure if you're making a distinction between the gods' sense of irony and the primordials', here, but the victorious gods specifically - either approved or couldn't do anything about it. 

"The primordials are also called Deathlords, now, and you're using the terms interchangeably?

"In a rather ironic twist of your own making, you came up with a masterful exploitation of loopholes yourself by choosing a trade and way of life that technically meets the broad criteria assigned to you." A grin accompanies this, more fierce than dark but no less savage. 

"None of what I've heard thus far rules out my own proposal, though it's less "warlord" and more "army" and I don't know your limits, combat-wise... How aware are the Deathlords of your day-to-day interactions? Can they hear conversations? How do they measure your...quota? Specifically, how do they gauge the knock-on effects? And might any of this change if it took place in another universe?" 

Lightless waves a hand. "To a scholar of the occult and divine where I come from, a primordial, a yozi, a god, an incarna, a neverborn, a deathlord, and a least god are all important distinctions. At a layman's level, they all mostly mean 'powerful magic thing that will either ignore you or use you as a tool.' The first war happened long before I was born, but something in the nature of the choosing means that more mortals ascend as the previous Exalted die- I believe this was a way around any individual exalt dying and the gods being ordered not to create any more."

"I am not utterly incompetent with a sword, though it is not an area of focus for me. Given a moment's preparation, I can turn most of an auditorium to gore and mangled limbs with sorcery. The source of my power is aware of my actions, but is also stark raving mad. They can reach me in Creation, the Underworld, and Hell, but I do not know to what extent these are separate universes." Lightless shrugs. "The worst that would happen is they would kill more things if they thought I was killing things wrong."

"That sounds promising. As much as can be expected, anyway." Blastralion folds his hands in front of himself and his carven face adopts a thoughtful expression. "To explain, I suppose I must first describe my own capabilities. I and many of my allies possess a form of magic which lets us travel between universes. To visit a particular universe, we must identify a target universe and 'anchor' to it. As a general rule, anchoring converts any accompanying magic to match the...physical rules...of the destination universe. If no such conversion is possible, such as when anchoring to a world which contains no magic at all, then non-travel forms of magic cease to function while anchored there. Usefully, and sometimes annoyingly, our method of travel also tweaks skills and experiences to be relevant to the destination universe. As an example, some universes I have visited possess advanced nonmagical weaponry. Traveling to such a world would convert my skill in swordsmanship to a skill with those advanced weapons. Since I am currently anchored to a world with less advanced mundane craftsmanship, I know that advanced weapons exist but not how to make or use them." 

"Whatever world I'm in, I retain a few core skills and abilities. Among these are the ability to anchor-and-travel elsewhere, the durable and versatile crystalline form I wear, and the accumulated combat experience of centuries spent fighting various threats. I come from a species that takes great joy in combat, and I am no exception. The majority of us choose to leverage our combination of power, prowess, and patience for grueling training to helpful ends, typically by locating worlds in danger of hostile invasion and thoroughly crushing said invasion." There's that savage smile again, perhaps tinged with a touch of wistfulness. 

"It may sound difficult for a roving band of warriors to find easily-justifiable targets. But it turns out, the cluster of universes reachable by anchor-and-travel magic include a lot of variety. And somewhere in the multiverse, there's usually some form of demonic invasion or hideously oppressive regime to be fought. 

"My allies and I recently encountered a collection of species we dub 'Netherlings', which range in power from 'small biting insect' to 'eldritch star-eating monstrosity.' The few things they seem to have in common are a shared origin universe and a desire to violently expand into others, killing, torturing, enslaving, or eating the inhabitants as suits their fancy. They have a form of anchor-and-travel magic of their own, a portal-based one, but it is enormously energy-intensive to open a portal. The more powerful the entity who wishes to travel, the more energy it takes to send them, and any given entity usually cannot muster anywhere near the power required to move themselves across universes. So their invasions tend to be numerous weaker Netherlings sponsored by one or more powerful Netherlings who hope their minions can establish a foothold on their behalf - by butchering the locals, of course. 

"Naturally, we are at war. 

"My alliance includes beings who can deal with star-eating monstrosities, but their time is valuable in proportion to their strength. It is important for us to resolve any given incursion with the absolute minimum expenditure of resources, for the Netherlings outnumber us on a vast scale. We have largely succeeded in thwarting their expansions thus far, through a combination of better coordination, elite training, brilliant strategic leadership, tragic sacrifice, and sheer blatant cheating with exploitable magic and advanced weaponry. 

"My current assignment in this multiversal war has placed me in an odd and awkward position. My usual approach is to anchor-and-travel to an imperiled world, learn how to best use their local magical and martial advantages, and cajole or coerce their leaders into cooperating to destroy the Netherlings' portal.

"Unfortunately, the universe where I'm currently anchored seems to be lacking in exploitable magic. I'm having to fight off armies of monsters with little more than archers and men-at-arms for support. I was beginning to fear that I would have to either call in reinforcements from elsewhere or abandon this world entirely - and then I opened a door to an interdimensional bar." He gestures expansively to encompass the current locale. "Milliways seems to operate on different rules than anchoring does. If your magic carries over into my anchored world, then any help you can offer would go a long way. I can guarantee you the time to work, if needed. We can do quite a bit with magic of the 'erase an auditorium' variety, and we may even be able to close the Netherling portal. That would set them back tremendously, and it's likely that whomever sponsored this little invasion would give it up as a bad job. I could handle cleanup from there. 

"For quota-meeting purposes, the Netherlings tend to outnumber their victims significantly, and many of them are demonstrably people. Unsalvageably evil people, mind, but people nonetheless." 

"I have never tried sorcery outside of the worlds which are the result of Primordials, but I hear that it works within the deepest wylds. All of my other powers are fueled by the Exaltation itself, a third soul grafted on to my own. If those other powers work, then I am a passable combatant who might expect to learn the height of mortal prowess in weeks or months of practice."

"If sorcery does work however, then I have a better question. Has anyone ever tried to turn a Netherling into any sort of undead or necrotech? If that works, then I can start changing the numbers in your favour. The largest thing ever reanimated by the Abyssal arts stood tall enough to touch the clouds, and that was built out of lots and lots of humans. It would be an interesting artistic challenge to work with raw materials that started as large as Juggernaught, and see what I might combine them into. Outside of the Underworld I may not naturally regenerate motes- the unit of measure for my magic- but the wonderful thing about life is, wherever it exists I can usually make it bleed, and blood will do as well."

"If you really dislike these netherlings, then I might actually suggest I attempt to create a portal to the underworld on their side of the portal. Don't do that anywhere you don't want death and the Neverborn to spread to however."

Lightless leans back in the chair, considering Blastralion. "I'm merely bored however, not an altruist. I gather your association does this for the joy of a good deed done for others? I would be curious to learn your magic on many worlds, if you would be willing to trade lessons."

"A third soul? What's the second?" asks Blastralion. "As for necromancy, no, I'm not aware of it ever working on Netherlings, but my experiences there are limited. They have a strange sort of feature where their body and soul are the same. Kill them and they tend to disspate rather than decompose. Only some of them bleed, but the ones that do ought to serve your purposes, motes or no motes. Necromancy may be worth trying. Perhaps you could get temporary forces, hold them together somehow. I certainly haven't tried it myself, necromancy is rarely an option for me in any world and never was my strength. 

"The Netherlings are powerful in their home. I fully expect they would defeat even an invasion by undying eldritch gods with self-replicating death magic. I've seen many universes, and not one of them could match the Netherlings alone, not if all their factions worked in tandem. The Netherling universe is simply that massive, the abilities that varied, the power cap that high. There'd be an answer somewhere among the various Netherling powers in their universe. But I see no drawbacks to inconveniencing them this way; in the worst case it takes them time and resources to fight back. It certainly won't make our fight any harder. And if they wanted to launch a counter-invasion, that too would take a massive investment of resources to even attempt. It's hard to fight gods in their own domain. 

"My association, as you call it, can be neatly summarized by 'if we don't, who will?' The Netherlings are a grave threat to all universes, or at least all they can reach, which is many. If we didn't fight them they'd eventually kill us all. Myself and my kin sooner, because we have a history of opposing similar attempts at multiversal conquest. Retiring quietly isn't really an option even if we wanted to. But yes, altruism was part of what motivated the initial decision. Our founder saw wrongs inflicted, and possessed the will and the power to end it. For what it's worth, I agree. 

"Aside from all that, I personally relish the challenge. But most of my species is just sort of insane that way. The less combative of my alliance are just trying to keep their homes from being overrun, or else are very, very altruistic. Most are composed of allies we've made in the course of rescuing various universes from invasions and apocalypses, and who we've taught to travel and fight. 

"I can teach my travel-magic, if that's what you ask. It takes years of study, the energy cost can be prohibitive, and it can be frustratingly obtuse at times, but I get the sense this would not stop you. I would consider it a reasonable trade for help fighting the Netherlings in my current anchor-world and a portal to the Underworld in theirs. It just so happens that Milliways can pause time in both our respective universes while we prepare, so there is little urgency there. 

"If you find yourself...unsatisfied with your status as a servant, I can also potentially offer resources capable of removing that status entirely, coupled with alternate ways of getting what you want that don't involve or require servitude of any kind. But such a solution would likely take decades to become available in full; our best options are currently tied up in the war. Still, mastering my form of travel-magic could help." 

"Oh, many of my species relish challenges for the sake of them. I just tend to think they're idiots. An existential threat to everything is the sort of problem that I'm inclined to act to fight, though hardly without arranging for as much extra benefit as I can from the effort. There was perhaps a time when I acted as the hero, but I eventually found more enjoyable pastimes."

Lightless's eyes catch momentarily, cold calculations apparent in slight shifts in stance and expression. "You say this place pauses time? What are the mechanics of this? I entered while you stood here, so the possibility exists of action outside this place. Is it truly paused, or simply slowed to an incredible degree? The bar can summon food for coinage, does it have a limited supply?" Bony fingers grip the countertop in anticipation. "I remind you that I am immortal, and also inform you that the two primary constraints on my magic are time and death. I accept your bargain, my aid in defending your current anchor-world for the period of no more than ten years, in exchange for learning your travel magic as well as all you know about this Milliways place."

"No altering the deal in the process of accepting it," chuckles Blastralion. "And I can't actually tell you everything I know about Milliways, on account of a promise to Bar. What I can tell you is that you can find out all you want to know before you leave this room, merely by asking Bar. Bar will helpfully answer questions, though you need to ask them rather thoroughly.

"Time spent in Milliways prepping does not count as part of the ten years - clock starts when we first visit my anchor-world. And you made no mention of the portal to the Underworld, I'd like to confirm that's part of the deal. I'll absolve you of that if it proves impossible to do or vastly more dangerous than just fighting Netherlings; I doubt it will. Though if you're unkillable as well as unaging, that makes the danger mostly irrelevant. 

"Bar, do you ever run out of food?"

A napkin appears, tastefully embroidered with the word No. 

"See? Helpful. Time pausing: based on what Bar has told me, and on some experiments of my own, time doesn't pass in your universe while the door's closed. You can spend as long as you like in Milliways; when you next open that door," he nods to the entrance, "you'll be back in your own world with zero seconds having passed. I checked, and it's frozen, not slowed. According to Bar, time passes in universes that don't currently have locals in Milliways, but asynchronously. Could be a hundred years in one, twelve seconds in another. 

"Also, fair warning," here he grimaces, "the magic that causes seemingly random people to get doors to Milliways is not under Bar's control, and it interacts a little weirdly with my travel-magic. I haven't been able to get Bar to give me books on anything more advanced than medieval metallurgy, even though in theory it can also sell anything ever written anywhere. Maybe you'd have better luck, not being anchored yourself. Bar can also supply clothes and nonmagical objects, rent out rooms, and guarantee the security of its guests inside Milliways, and there's a nice greenspace outside. 

"Incidentally, I'm not sure if your death-quota counts as a nutritional need, but if it does, it wouldn't surprise me if Bar has a drink for it. Bar is ridiculously good at its job." 

Blastralion notes the question Lightless hasn't answered, but doesn't probe further. 

Lightless waves a hand. "No slight of hand was intended, merely a counteroffer. If Bar will answer questions, then I retract that piece." A small shroud of dark smoke pools in the hand, now upturned. "The deliberate creation of a shadowland- a place halfway between the underworld and someplace else- is a complex process, but if you can supply me with sufficient lives and sufficient time, it is a reliable process. A few hours and a few dozen souls, and you'll have a portal to the underworld that will be miles wide. From there, it will spread as things die within it or near its edges. A shadowland would allow transportation from wherever it was opened to the underworld of my- you called them dimensions? To my dimension then. I am not particularly worried about things invading the underworld, as it is innately incredibly hostile to life. I agree to your bargain as you stated it, with the understanding of what resources I would need."

"It provides books you say?" Here a gleam appears in those dead, shadowed eyes. "Hrm. Bar, provide me with a copy of the Broken Winged Crane." 

Nothing happens.

"Damnation. Perhaps that tome is considered magical. Blastralion, is there a distinction between a book which is magic and a book which is about magic? I am promised I shall not die from the forces of the Deathlords, which is not quite absolute invulnerability. If you sawed me in half, for example, it would mostly serve to make it personal when I shambled after you upon some dread abomination I would use as a steed. Killing an abyssal is possible, but takes some doing. Tomes of necromancy which currently only exist in my rivals collections are not crucial to your deal, but many are trapped and the traps perhaps come along? Getting my hands on one or two volumes in particular would be a delight."

"Sadly, the deaths are not nutrition so much as they are propitiation. I am, however, willing to depart for your first battlefield at whatever time you desire- depending on how truly the bar wishes to protect the safety of those within it, and it's definition of 'person', it may be wise that I not remain here for long."

"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.