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\\Raksha, please feel free to fill in as you see fit 
Two figures cast their shadowy silhouettes outside the gates of the Necropolis - one, Alyrian, warlock and unwilling vessel to his own mother, Phaedriel; the other, Lady Tamryn Jorandur, champion of Torm. They faced each other as enemies, one empowered by her holy deity, the other charged with supernatural magic.
"...the weapon cannot be destroyed, and it is a threat to you in the hands of any Tormite. You had better hope that your Banite friends work swiftly."
" ... you gravely underestimate me, dearest Tamryn. I will not be so easily defeated. As I have told your dear friend Hano - raise that sword against me, and I will ensure there is nothing left of dear heart's mind to take back this body!"
"And that, Phaedriel is an empty threat. Alyrian would doubtless welcome oblivion in return for the demolition of all your schemes, and an eternity sent back into the Hells to scream and writhe." But Tamryn can not hide her troubled expression.
" ... and now you overestimate him."
"Do I? Or do I, perhaps retain some small fragment of a promise made long long ago?"
Alyrian's smile is cold, cruel - wicked to the core. "He's screaming your name right now. Screaming, and screaming ... and screaming."
"Do you wish to hear it?"
" ... I have no reason to believe that you are being honest, creature! Alyrian is a puppet for you - you could place lies in his mouth with ease. Hano has told me much."
But Alyrian's voice changes anyway - into a terrible cry. " --MARA! TAMARA, PLEASE! P-PLEASE HELP ... HELP M-MEE!!"
Tamryn's shoulders tense, as she steadies herself with resolve. " ... Right ...right, then. Phaedriel, prepare to defend yourself." Her eyes glow with a holy radiance for just a moment.
"NO! PLEASE, N-- " But Alyrian's voice is rapidly changing once again, into delighted laughter. " -- hahaha ... HAHAHAHA!! You would challenge me?! I WILL DESTROY YOU!"
Tamryn cries "TORM!" as she charges unerringly, never flinching into battle.
Two figures cast their shadowy silhouettes outside the gates of the Necropolis - one, Alyrian, warlock and unwilling vessel to his own mother, Phaedriel; the other, Lady Tamryn Jorandur, champion of Torm. They faced each other as enemies, one empowered by her holy deity, the other charged with supernatural magic.
"...the weapon cannot be destroyed, and it is a threat to you in the hands of any Tormite. You had better hope that your Banite friends work swiftly."
" ... you gravely underestimate me, dearest Tamryn. I will not be so easily defeated. As I have told your dear friend Hano - raise that sword against me, and I will ensure there is nothing left of dear heart's mind to take back this body!"
"And that, Phaedriel is an empty threat. Alyrian would doubtless welcome oblivion in return for the demolition of all your schemes, and an eternity sent back into the Hells to scream and writhe." But Tamryn can not hide her troubled expression.
" ... and now you overestimate him."
"Do I? Or do I, perhaps retain some small fragment of a promise made long long ago?"
Alyrian's smile is cold, cruel - wicked to the core. "He's screaming your name right now. Screaming, and screaming ... and screaming."
"Do you wish to hear it?"
" ... I have no reason to believe that you are being honest, creature! Alyrian is a puppet for you - you could place lies in his mouth with ease. Hano has told me much."
But Alyrian's voice changes anyway - into a terrible cry. " --MARA! TAMARA, PLEASE! P-PLEASE HELP ... HELP M-MEE!!"
Tamryn's shoulders tense, as she steadies herself with resolve. " ... Right ...right, then. Phaedriel, prepare to defend yourself." Her eyes glow with a holy radiance for just a moment.
"NO! PLEASE, N-- " But Alyrian's voice is rapidly changing once again, into delighted laughter. " -- hahaha ... HAHAHAHA!! You would challenge me?! I WILL DESTROY YOU!"
Tamryn cries "TORM!" as she charges unerringly, never flinching into battle.
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