a formidable foe appears

Alive. Now, he must begin. He rises unsteadily.

He’s fallen a long way down. Far enough that the sounds of the city’s destruction fade into a gloomy subterranean silence, and far enough that the light from the surface above barely reaches him. Far enough that his grimspawn blood doesn’t sing with every death, leaving him viscerally aware of every soul snuffed out around him… there were so many of them, like a row of chapel candles ravaged by a gust of wind. And of these, Terendelev’s death had struck him the most.

He’d never felt anything like it, in all his years. The passing of such a powerful soul had all but knocked Nereo to his knees. Then came more deaths, and more, overlapping, and it all blended together to an overwhelming whole, as demons descended upon the city, cleaving through its populace without mercy.

Nereo rubs his brow. He’s no stranger to death. The Lady of Graves has been near to him all his life. But this! Even with all the awe and reverence he feels for death, he cannot paint the massacre in any light other than horrifying. And while this morning he could barely make sense of himself, wondering how he’d even come to be in Kenabres, now he can’t make sense of anything. Why did this happen?

And what is he supposed to do now?

Nereo listens to the darkness, but hears no answer to his questions. Down here it’s just him and his Shadow. So he stands, and he takes a step forward. Then another.

~

It is fortunate that he does not remain alone.

He is close to losing the battle against panic and despair when he sees a light up ahead, and hears hushed voices. For a moment he wonders if he is imagining them, but no. There! Two figures crouching together in the dark.

“… back seems to be in one piece, my head, too…”

“That’s all that matters. Now, we’re going to…”

Blinking through the gloom, he hurries forward. Even the solitary run towards light and company in such circumstances, and he is no exception, not even considering what he must look like emerging from the pitch black: a tall and hooved tiefling with only one eye. That he should run towards a knight in not-so-shining armor seems uncannily apt.

“Hey!”

The woman’s head snaps up at the sound of his approach, and her voice rings out in alarm. Despite this, she has a cadence that reminds him of the kindness of his tutors back at the temple, so many years ago. It’s enough to make him stop in his tracks. Nereo raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“Wait! I recognize you!” the knight says after a moment. She has a hand upon her weapon, and a keen gaze that scans him warily, resolving into calm. “You’re the one Terendelev healed today. The man we found outside the city!”

Outside the city? Yes, he must have been outside the city at some point today. But he cannot remember why, and that fact is enough to strike him with unease. The woman stares at him, awaiting a response.

“Yes…” Nereo says finally. “Or so I’m told. I’m very sorry, I don’t remember you. And I don’t remember being outside the city. But I remember Terendelev. I remember her healing me, before she…”

He stops abruptly, unsure how much he should say. Are they aware of Terendelev’s death? It happened so quickly, amidst so much chaos, and he’d only realized it himself because of his uncanny ability to sense a soul’s passing.

Beside the knight, a dark-haired woman grits her teeth. Her legs are caught under heavy rocks, the cant of her hips hinting at just how much pain she is swallowing. She draws a breath, and shakes her head, hard, before forcing out, “You can say it! I saw the whole thing. Terendelev… she’s dead…”

“Don’t… Anevia, we don’t know that for certain.”

“I saw it happen, Seelah! You did too, right?” she asks, casting a desperate glance at Nereo.

Nereo looks between the two women. He thinks of Kenabres, a city full of life, like a garden to be harvested. He nods, grimly.

“Yes. I saw.”

A shadow of grief passes over Seelah’s expression. Even Anevia must have been hanging on to some scrap of hope, but hearing his words, her breathing turns quick and ragged. A long moment passes where the weight of this knowledge presses heavily upon them. Maybe none of them had fully realized it until now.

But Terendelev will have mourners, later. They must turn to matters at hand.

“I don’t think any of us could have been prepared for that…” Anevia whispers.

“I don’t even want to think of it. But first things first. We need to get you out of there!” Seelah says, her voice somber yet steady, the kind of steady one gets from years of staving off crisis and despair.

It is enough to snap Nereo out of his reverie. He looks at Anevia again, then he runs a hand over the boulder that pins her in place. It is far too heavy to move like this.

“I saw a wooden beam back in that direction,” he says. “We’ll use that as leverage. Give me a second.”

“Please hurry!” Seelah says.

Nereo does. He runs into the dark, now armed against it by purpose. Not trying to be in his body, not trying to be out of his body, but trying to be useful… that, he can manage.

The wooden beam is just where he saw it. He is able to drag it back with him, and with Seelah’s help they shift the boulder off of Anevia just long enough for her to drag herself out of the way, uttering a stream of expletives as she does. The boulder falls again, and not a moment too soon, with a resounding crunch.

“Your leg,” Nereo says.

“Heh… that bad, huh?”

Nobody answers. Anevia’s leg is clearly broken, resting at an unnatural angle.

Seelah draws her sword at once, but she makes no move to use it. Instead, she turns to hand him the scabbard. “Know how to make a splint?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Anevia’s eyes open wide, seeing their intention. She reaches down, tearing her leggings apart to reveal the injury.

The bone has pushed through the skin. Nereo notes that she is fortunate; she isn’t hemorrhaging, and the bone itself is staunching the wound well enough. His assessment then turns to Seelah, and he notices the emblems on her armor.

“You are a paladin,” he says.

“I am,” she replies. “By the grace of Iomedae.”

“Can you heal her?”

She shakes her head. “Not if it isn’t set, unfortunately. Would do more harm than good.”

“I can set it,” Nereo says without thinking. Then, hoping they do not press him for details, he admits, “I have some knowledge of the body.”

“You a doctor?” Anevia asks, raising a brow.

He offers her what he hopes is a comforting smile. “Mortician.”

“Mm.” Anevia pales a little.

“Well, raised by them, anyway. Pharasman clerics to be precise. I’ve… handled bodies. And I read a lot of books on anatomy growing up.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Do it,” Anevia says, to his surprise. “It’ll be easier to splint that way.”

Nereo blinks. It’s true enough. But he hadn’t expected such quick agreement.

“Alright.”

“You haven’t told us your name, friend,” Seelah observes. “Though by now you must know ours. I’m Seelah, and this is-”

“Anevia Tirabade, of the Eagle Watch. I was overseeing security at the festival square. You know, I do remember you…”

A prickle of anxiety inches up his back. “Nereo,” he fills in. He can’t remember the last time he talked so much.

“I remember you, Nereo. Good to formally make your acquaintance.” Anevia laughs. “I guess we should know each other’s names before doing any boning, huh?”

“You’re terrible,” Seelah scolds, but her face carries a smile as she produces several strips of leather to hold the splint in place. She has, Nereo realizes, used the leather straps from her armor to this end, casting aside a pauldron and bracers for it.

“Put those in my pack. I’ll carry them,” he offers. She hands them over gratefully.

“Thank you. Anevia, need something to bite down on?”

“Just… grab my hand, maybe?”

Anevia smiles, but it fades as quickly as the light down here. She has torn the fabric from her leggings into tidy strips. Seelah lays out the leather cord she’s salvaged and the empty sword scabbard, all ready to be assembled into a splint. With perfect paladin grace, she takes Anevia’s hand and offers her an encouraging smile.

As for Nereo, it has been a long time since he has considered the marrow and bindings of a healthy skeleton.

He is not worried. He knows he can do this, and do it well; for it is necromancy that he intends to rely on for this task. Forbidden magic, to be sure, but barring the presence of any undead Seelah should not be able to sense it. He crouches over Anevia’s injured leg, calling up a power that comes as easy to him as breathing. He relies on the darkness that surrounds them to hide the motions of his hands.

“On three?” Seelah offers, but…

Anevia lets out a guttural cry. Her hand squeezes Seelah’s tightly.

Nereo lets out a steady breath. “There,” he says gently, with a bloom of an uncanny emotion: pride.

“Holy…” Anevia releases a deep breath. “That definitely feels better. And hey! It’s pointing in the right direction!”

“It’s still broken, mind. But with the splint, and a heal spell to stop the bleeding, you’ll be able to walk.” He blinks at Seelah. “What?” he asks. “Nobody told me we were counting.”

Seelah, who had been staring at him open-mouthed, just lets out a confounded noise that resolves into laughter.