Half an hour after leaving the mausoleum Wurzag had gone beyond exhausted and crossed into realms of weariness never before explored by orcish kind. His muscles were numb with fatigue and he scarcely felt the freshening of the breeze as they crossed the border of Dori'ba and back in to the grasslands. He continued to jog, though the process of placing one foot in front of the other had become a mechanical action, and he still cradled Taryn in his arms, but they were going to have to do something for him and that something was going to have to be now. The young mage's life dangled by a thread, his febrile pulse barely detectable, and his pallour had continued to deteriorate.

The half-orc finally came to a halt in the lee of a hill where they were sheltered from the wind. He set his friend down gently, careful not to disturb his wounds further and then turned his attention to Thal and Akan. "We gots to do sumfing for him," Wurzag rumbled thickly, "'e ain't gonna last much longer like dis, 'e is bleedin' too much." He stooped and checked the dressings again which had quickly become saturated with gore, "an yez need to change 'is bandages again." A chill had begun to spread in the pit of his stomach, a real fear that this was one battle that he might not win and could not retreat from. It left him feeling a bitterness that he did not know how to heal.

Wurzag had searched through Taryn's collection of herbs and remedies in the hope of finding some Athelas to no avail. Clearly the mage had never visited the forest of the elves or had neglected to collect some if he had. Lacking the obvious choice Wurzag searched his memory for something, anything, that might help the young man to hold on. Lacking magical healing the green-skin's natural reaction was to turn to medicinal healing, lacking medicinal healing? He thought long and hard about the few times he had had to treat himself without access to anything beyond arms reach and finally came up with a solution. Taryn himself had done something similar during their battle with the bandits.

It would not be pretty, but it would do. All Wurzag could hope to do was numb the pain a little. He stood and looked at Thal, "build a fire," he said somberly, "an make it as 'ot as ye can, I'm gonna see if I can find somefing dat will 'elp 'im wiv da pain." Given his condition it was perfectly possible that Taryn would be completely oblivious to the anguish that would soon be inflicted upon him, but Wurzag did not want to take any chances. In his weakened state further shock was as likely to kill him as blood loss.

The half-orc ambled to the top of the hill and peered around. A copse of trees stood a short way away and he hoped that it would provide enough wood for a fire and harbour a couple of the herbs he knew would help. He waved to Thal, "over der looks gud," he said, and hoped that he was right.

(Sorry it took me so long)

Thal looked at Wurzag like he was crazy. "You're going to burn his wound closed? Have you ever gotten a third degree burn? Most unpleasant experience of my life. Of course, I also wasn't bleeding to death at the time..."

Thal grabbed Akan by the arm and dragged him over to build a fire where Wurzag had indicated. They began to build as big of a fire as they possibly could, piling dry sticks and dead leaves up.

"Erm, Akan... any idea how to actually light this thing?" Thal asked.

Akan looked at him out of the side of his eye, sighed, muttered something about a "helpless elf" and lit the fire by rubbing two sticks together.

"Alright Wurzag! We're all set here. Bring over the meat and we'll get cookin'" Thal called. He felt it was important to stay positive and light in this situation, but it was difficult, even for him. His friend's life was at stake, and that was pretty much all he could think about. He knew nothing Wurzag could find would do anything to help the pain of being cooked. Thal had once run through a fire, and it was the most painful experience of his life. He couldn't imagine being slow roasted over a flaming pile of sticks.

((And sorry it's so short. My inspiration is currently taking a vacation.

Taryn was drifting in and out of consciousness. He could actually feel his life slipping away from him, ebbing out of him with each weak beat of his heart. He wondered, in the mindless way of the delirious, whether he actually had any blood left in his body.

And yet he still lived.

"You are SO like Aneuryn...HE took forever to die as well!"

The lich's words came into Taryn's confused mind and he gave a weak smile. The DeVere streak of stubborn tenacity had bred true, it seemed. Even his mother, his beloved, dear mother, despite the terrible pain she had been in at the time of her death had still clung on, determined to remain with her beloved Anderon as long as possible.

His dreams were filled with thoughts of being carried out of the mausoleum, away from Dori'ba - and the undead did not touch them. The shockwave that had radiated from the lich had - at least for now - stilled their never-ending hunger for fresh meat.

All was peaceful.

But this was not a dream. He was being carried.

Confused, in pain and no longer able to tell the difference between what was dream and what was not, Taryn cried, softly. Not the tears of a weak man, but the regretful tears of a man who did not want to die before his time. he knew that all the time he drew breath - painful as it may have been, he would live. Each breath he took filled him with anxiety.

Is this my last?

He drifted off into unconsciousness again.

When next he woke, he had been laid down on the ground. He could make out a huge hulking figure standing over him and he knew a moment's fear until his memory gently nudged the image of Wurzag forwards for identification.

With supreme effort, he turned his head. He could see Thal and Akan doing something and struggled to concentrate.

A funeral pyre, he determined - incorrectly, but he wasn't to know that - I've died. They're burning my body. That's really thoughtful of them. Much better than being eaten by the wolves.

Taryn closed his eyes again.

Then they opened.

I don't think you're still supposed to be breathing when you're dead.

His inner self would normally have been condescending with a statement like that, but on this occasion, Taryn could sense its uncertainty.

I don't want to die.

You won't. It's not your time. Not yet.

How do you know?

Oh, please.

I don't have the energy to argue. Go 'way and let me die in peace.

Go to sleep, Taryn.

The young mage dropped into a fitful sleep, oblivious now to everything going on around him. He was cold. So cold.

While elf and monk busied themselves with the construction of a fire Wurzag investigated the woodland. He was bone weary but forced himself to hurry as he inspected the brier and underbrush for signs of the herb he was seeking. After nearly ten minutes and with a growing sense of despair the green-skin stumbled upon a small patch of Gingko root. The oils it produced would numb the pain a little, perhaps enough to avoid sending the young man deeper into shock but it was only a few small sprigs and they were running out of time. Wurzag gathered up the plants and hurried back to Thal and Akan.

By the time he arrived the pair had a healthy, fledgling blaze. The half-orc set down his medicinal cargo and set to helping them stoke the fire. "Yeah," he replied to Thal, "I is gonna burn da wounds closed. It ain't gonna be pretty an it's gonna 'urt like 'e 'as never known but unless we do sumfing now 'e ain't gonna make it frough da night, let alone see da village." He glanced over at the wounded mage who was stirring fitfully in his pain induced delirium. "Keep feedin' it," Wurzag muttered to the pair, then he ambled over to his stricken friend.

"Sorry about dis fella," the green-skin grumbled. He slowly unwound the sodden make-shift bandage and with as much care as he was able tore open what remained of the young man's shirt. The garish wound beneath was dark with blood and a smaller puncture wound below his ribs continued to seep. Wurzag crushed a handful of Gingko leaves and applied the oils around the injuries as delicately as he was able. He held a second batch in reserve; Taryn would be grateful for it once the cauterising was done. What worried the half-orc most however was the stream of blood from his mouth. It meant that the young man was damaged somewhere inside, a wound that only magic or powerful medicine could heal.

They needed to get moving.

Wurzag turned and looked at the growing fire. It would have to do. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and looked with regret at the blade. This experience really wasn't going to do it any good at all. "Sorry 'bout dis," he muttered to his trusted weapon, then he thrust it into the inferno. It would take some time for the metal to heat enough to do the job so the green-skin turned his attention to his elven companion. Thal sported an impressive array of cuts and bruises and he looked almost as tired as the half-orc felt, how he managed to maintain his spry sarcasm given their situation he could only imagine. He was grateful for the light-hearted support however and admired the little man's fortitude.

"So 'ow you doin'?" He asked the pair as the fire crackled and the metal pinked. "Yez did aright in der, dunt fink I 'ave 'ad a chance to tell yez dat yet. Ye did gud, both of yez."

"We're doing fine, I think," Thal replied. "Aside from the minor gashes, flesh wounds, and near mutilations, we're perfectly okay."

Akan rolled his eyes. "He means that saving Taryn is more important than our wellbeing," he said. "And you didn't do half bad yourself, orc. Without you we would all be dead."

Akan and Thal continued to stoke the fire, keeping it burning so Wurzag could carterize Taryn's wounds.

"What are the chances that he's going to survive?" Thal asked. "That wound is pretty bad, not to mention the fact that he's already lost a lot of blood."

Thal's face was creased with worry and anxiety. If Taryn died, there would be much grieving among his companions, not to mention breaking the news to his family. It would also mean that the lich ultimately won, and Thal would simply not allow that.

((Sorry for the lateness and the shortness))

Wurzag grunted at the assertion that they would be dead without him. "We wud all be dead if it 'adn't been fer Taryn," he said with another concerned glance at his companion. They would not have been in the situation to begin with if it had not been for Taryn as well, but then they were friends, and friends helped each other even when it meant running into the undead haunted maw of hell. The half-orc wished, not for the first time, that he had been faster, that he had managed to breach the heart of the crypt ahead of the mage so that they might have faced the lich together. In that instance however Thal and Akan would have been vastly outnumbered and forced to fight alone against the deathless horde. None of the scenarios worked out any better.

Wurzag gave up his pointless retrospection and examined the softly glowing sword. It was almost hot enough to do the job, a few more minutes and he would have to do his best to seal Taryn's wounds. "I dunno," the green-skin muttered softly, "da roots shud 'elp 'im wiv da pain but it ain't gonna be pretty. It shud stop 'im bleedin' fer a bit but I dunt fink 'is body can put up wiv much more damage."

He had seen it before, warriors injured in battle by spell or fire carried to the field still alive only to die later when their spirits apparently gave up. It did on occasion work the other way as well. He had once witnessed a stable boy defend a horse from wolves armed with nothing more than a pitchfork. The lad had almost had his arm torn off but had remained alive and conscious long enough for an apothecary to arrive and save the limb. The human spirit was an incredible thing.

Wurzag hoped that Taryn had the soul of a fighter.

He sighed, his battered features underlit by the ruddy light of the fire. He was in no brilliant shape himself. One eye had swollen shut, the socket gummed with crusted blood and his shredded clothing was matted with filth and gore. A dozen wounds still glistened on his flesh and his muscles felt as though they had grown too large for his bones. Dark circles of exhaustion clearly ringed his good eye but he would carry the young mage for as long and as quickly as he was able, until he dropped if necessary.

"When dis is done," Wurzag growled, "we is gonna go, run all night if we 'ave to to get to dat 'ouse so yooz better be ready." He stood and tore several strips from what remained of his shirt and wrapped them in a swath around hand, then he grabbed the hilt of the blazing sword and lifted it from sparking embers. "Yooz two 'old 'im down, even if 'e is out cold I reckon dis is gonna wake 'im up." He waited until the young man was restrained and then knelt beside him. The rags around his hands were already beginning to smolder.

"Sorry about dis," he whispered to the young mage. Then he lowered the blade on to the wound.

OOC: Tincup, I just wanted to move this along, so just dive back in..whenever you can.

The second that the blade touched Taryn's wound, he snapped almost instantly out of the semi-conscious state that he was in and screamed with all the power left in his lungs - which given the circumstances was not that much. However, when all the sound had left him, he continued to scream silently, his green eyes wild, terrified and pain filled.

The smell of burning flesh was strong and filled the air with acrid unpleasantness - but it did the job of sealing closed the terrible wound that had exposed Taryn's gut to the world.

Under Thal and Akan's careful, strong grip, the young mage's body bucked and twisted, desperate to move, but they held him firm. He may have just defeated a foul being born of darkness, but he was no match for two strong men holding him down, particularly not in his weakened state.

He continued to thrash for a few seconds longer after the blade was removed from his stomach, his eyes remaining open, his body still sending forth silent screams of anguish until just as suddenly as he had come to consciousness, he ceased all movement and lay stock-still, his eyes still wide and staring, looking to all intents and purposes as though he were dead. Indeed, a check of his pulse indicated that the boy had, in fact, finally lost the tentative grip on life that had brought him this far.

Not yet.

I can't stand it any more. It hurts.

I know it does, Taryn, but you can't give up. Not now. There's more for you to do.

It hurts.

It's not your time.

How do you know?

I just...know. When are you going to learn that? Breathe again, boy.

I...don't want to.

BREATHE!

Outside the confines of his fading imagination, the mage took in a long breath of air, a laboured, struggling sound and then he let it out again.

And again.

The world he knew slowed to a crawl as he fought against that infernal inner self who had pestered him for so many years but who was now desperate to keep him alive. The time between him letting out his apparent last breath and taking another struggling breath of life was, externally, miniscule - but to him, it felt like an entire life time.

He breathed.

"I...want to go home," he rasped out, reaching up to grip at Wurzag's shoulder. Then his head lolled back to the ground and once again, he lost consciousness. His pulse was weak and feeble - but still the boy lived.

Tenacity was clearly one of his strengths.

Wurzag held the heated blade to the mage's terrible injury for as long as he dare, gritting his teeth against the awful cry of anguish that escaped his friends ravaged throat. Though the young man struggled against the pain however, Thal and Akan held him firm. Once he was sure that he had done all he could he dropped the weapon and hastily popped the last of the Gingko root in to his mouth, chewed it to a paste and swiftly applied it to the livid burns on his companions flesh. The herb would numb the pain a little, perhaps enough to make it tolerable, but in his shocked and delirious state it was unlikely that Taryn would register anything beyond what his tortured nerves told him.

Confident he had done all he could, Wurzag sat back and stared at his stricken friend and almost swallowed his own tongue in fear when the mage apparently stopped breathing. "Dun't you give up now damnit!" The green-skin cursed, "I ain't dragged your battered arse all the way out 'ere to 'ave you die on me now!"

He crawled to his companion's side, oblivious to the internal struggle that raged inside the young man's unconscious mind and stared down at the pale, bloodied face. "Wake up!" Wurzag roared in a confusion of fear and anger, "wake up now or I'm gonna kick yer 'ead in!" At that moment, to his very great relief Taryn gasped and sucked in a great lungful of air, followed by another, and then another. The half-orc sat back hard and sighed, the tension flowing from him like water. When the young mage's husky voice croaked that he wanted to go home Wurzag couldn't have agreed more. Even with the bleeding halted his body was grievously injured and he could nothing for the internal wounds that would continue to sap his strength.

With a sigh of regret he emptied a little of their remaining water on to his smouldering sword and winced as the metal hissed in protest. The rapid cooling could warp the blade, make it brittle and if it broke he would never forgive himself. He wearily slid the weapon back in to its scabbard on his back, and as gently as he could scooped Taryn in to his arms. He turned to Thal and Akan with an apologetic expression.

"Look fellas," he rumbled, "I dunt fink 'e is gonna last much longer so I am gonna get runnin'. No offence or nuffin but I reckon I can probbly keep it goin' for longer than yooz, so you catch me up at da farm, I'm plannin' on 'avin' a bit of a kip der myself."

It was fairly obvious that Wurzag was almost at the end of his strength.

"Don't 'ang about 'ere too long, I dunno 'ow long dem undeads is gonna stay quiet an I dunt wanna 'ave to come back 'ere lookin' for ya." He gave the pair a curt nod. "Stay safe." Then he jogged down the hill and out on to the plains. He would jog all night if he had too, until his boots wore thin and his legs collapsed beneath him.

Given the current predicament it was not too unlikely that would happen.

There are occasions when things happen without any real explanation. They might be things that are not welcome, or, as in this instance, they might be things that could be considered little short of a miracle.

At the moment that Taryn's mace struck the lich lord Suraklin, a shock-wave had rippled out, robbing the undead minions of the life force which animated them. But the shock-wave had been more than that. It had been a subtle shift in the working of the universe, the sort of shift that occurs on a regular basis, but which most people are too preoccupied with to notice. People are too busy dealing with the important things of life like, well, like living itself to notice. Sometimes they might get a sense that something, somewhere has changed, but due to the fact that there's no explanation, they never give it a second thought.

Taryn's sister, Leandra, however, noticed.

Even as far away as the Pallerion homestead was, she had just known at the moment the shock-wave hit that it had something to do with her brother. Perhaps it was because since he had told her what he was going to do she had done nothing but think of him, concentrating her thoughts on wishing that he would hurry home. Perhaps it was nothing more than coincidence. Perhaps it was the very deep, very affectionate sibling bond they shared. Perhaps it was the universe working its mysterious magic.

Whatever it was, she had begged and pleaded with her father and her husband to go out towards Dori'ba and bring him home. At first, Anderon had dismissed his daughter's near-hysteria as hormonal silliness and had tried to settle her down. But she would not let it rest and after she had nearly collapsed in hysterical sobbing, he had given in.

Anderon had told his son-in-law to remain behind with Leandra. She was very near her time of delivery and he did not wish to leave her alone.

He'd taken a second horse with him although he had been almost certain that there was no point to it. He was therefore somewhat alarmed when ten miles out of Dori'ba, the running figure of the half-orc came into sight.

Damn it, what was his name?

As the half-orc came closer, Anderon became aware that he carried a figure in his arms. A few feet still closer and Anderon's heart began to thump painfully in his chest as he recognised the limp, bloodied form.

Wurzag, that was it.

Anderon hailed the half-orc as he reined in the horse. "Wurzag!"

Taryn had remained deeply unconscious following Wurzag's treatment of the terrible wound in his abdomen, but now, his father's voice touched that consciousness and gently coaxed it back to the surface. His eyes fluttered open, if only briefly and fixed on his father as the half-orc carried him ever closer.

"Dad?" he whispered, softly.

Anderon's eyes filled with tears as he looked at the badly injured half-orc and then down at the battered and broken body of his eldest child, his boy.

"It's alright, son," he said, sliding off the horse and crossing to take the young mage out of Wurzag's arms. "It's alright. I've got you now."

"I knew you'd come." For the first time since he'd been a child, Taryn was held in his father's strong arms and feeling the warmth and strength and above all else, the love, closed his eyes again.

Anderon was stunned beyond belief at the sight of the two and just how appallingly injured both of them were. He got Taryn up into the saddle of the horse, leaning against the animal's neck until he could be steadied and swung himself easily in behind his son. He put a protective arm around him.

"In the name of the Goddess, Wurzag, what happened? Tell me as we ride."

Later, if asked to recall his journey across the grasslands with his wounded companion in his arms, Wurzag would patiently explain how one can never truly appreciate endurance or exhaustion until one has experienced it in its truest form. He would talk at length about the grueling run, how his muscles howled in protest and how the miles drew out like a blade. He would tell it as if it were a journey of bonding, of friendship built upon mutual suffering and a desperate need to survive.

The truth was, Wurzag remembers little of those long, fateful hours.

He ran until he was passed his endurance, until the world narrowed to a thin strip of hazy ground, the regular jolt of motion and the rasping of his breath through his raw throat. There comes a time when only fierce, single minded determination will keep a man standing, drive him forward against every biological need to rest. A brittle point where success and failure are measured. The dying young man in his arms pushed him beyond that time, forced him to go on, to put on foot in front of the other until flesh and bone gave way.

So it was that when the thunder of a horses hooves disturbed the serenity, Wurzag was oblivious to Anderon's approach. At that moment an army could have marched on him, a mob of bandits or Raku himself could have descended from the black tower and the half-orc would never have known until the killing blow fell. Even then it was doubtful that anything other than relief would have filled the green-skin as he breathed his last. Fortunately for him no such foe presented itself and Wurzag jogged on ignorant of the aid that had arrived. It wasn't until Taryn addressed his father that something vaguely resembling awareness returned to the beleaguered half-orc.

Wurzag staggered to a halt and stared unseeing as his friend was lifted from his arms into his parent's protective grasp. The man spoke as if from afar, the words jumbled and nonsensical, but as reality swam in and out of focus the green-skin was finally able to recognise the weathered features of Anderon Pallerion. The half-orc's jaw worked uselessly as he fumbled to articulate the urgency that still throbbed through his veins but his throat was raw from running and his lips cracked and sore from long hours without water.

"Gudda," he eventually managed to croak, "gudda go." He flapped an arm uselessly in the direction of the farm and the village. "Gudda ged n'pofcery." A tiny part of his brain muttered that he was not conveying the urgency of the situation, but the cotton-wool fuzz that swaddled his mental faculties gently stifled it with waves of fatigue.

"Gudda go now."

He staggered toward the extra horse which shied away from the scent of green-skin with offended snort. Wurzag grabbed at the reins, missed, tried again and succeeded in snagging the riding apparatus. Then he dragged the animal's face down so that it was level with his own battered visage and stared at it through exhaustion glazed eyes. "Luk 'ere," he muttered, "yooz ... yooz gonna tak me to d'village or," his voice cracked and he gave a dry cough, "or I gonna eat yez." The horse shook its equine head and snorted in disdain but some faint shred of menace that lingered in the bloodied half-orc convinced it that if it wanted to continue its cushy life at the farm it had better do as it was told. Wurzag nodded curtly and attempted to mount the beast, staggered and fell.

It would have been easy to stay on the grass and let the waves of fatigue break over him, to let all the worry leach away into the comforting embrace of sleep, but he had not run so far and so hard only to fall at the last hurdle. With a heroic effort he stumbled to his feet and managed to hurl himself bodily into the saddle where he sat slumped over the creature's neck. "Tak 'im back to da farm," he mumbled into the horses mane, "gonna get n'pofcery." Then he kicked the horse in the flanks with as much strength as he could muster and drove it hard toward the village.

The ten mile ride back to the little village passed as much of a blur as the rest of the journey. By the time the horse galloped its way through the hastily repaired gates in to the heart of the hamlet the only thing keeping him conscious was the regular, painful jolt of the saddle and the occasional slap of horse flesh as his face struck the beast's neck. The realisation that he had arrived rekindled the sense of urgency that had hounded him all the way from Do'riba and he fell from the saddle, rolled across the dirt and crossed the centre of the village on all fours before managing to drag himself erect beside the door of the old apothecary. With a groan he punched the wooden portal which rattled in its frame. Then he thumped it again and again with as much strength as he could muster until the reedy, angry curses from beyond penetrated his addled mind.

The door flew open and a red-faced, cross looking gentleman stood huffing within. "What the hell do you think you're - " he started to fume before identifying his raucous caller. Wurzag glared at the man through glazed eyes, hands opening and closing reflexively and he managed an inarticulate snarl. The healer paled visibly.

"Taryn," the half-orc finally managed to growl.

The apothecary's expression shifted again to one of puzzlement. "Young Taryn," he said in bafflement, "my meddlesome great nephew? Is this one of his practical jokes? If it is I shall see to it that Anderon takes his belt to that lad's backside because - " He was cut off by the half-orc seizing him roughly by the collar and dragging him half way from the floor. He barely avoided choking by standing on tip-toe and stared into Wurzag's exhaustion addled gaze with fear-riveted attention. "Taryn," he rasped again, "need medcine." Wurzag shook his head, "need medcine bad, dyin'."

At the mention of dying the little old man struggled free of the green-skin's grasp and rushed back in to the house. He emerged seconds later with a bulging leather bag that presumably held the tools of his craft, hurtled around the side of the cottage and returned with a ill-tempered looking pony. "Well let's go then you big lug, there isn't a moment to waste!" He galloped off in the direction of the farm without waiting to see if Wurzag followed.

Relief washed over Wurzag. Relief that aid was on its way to his wounded friend and relief that it was almost time to rest. He stumbled back to where his horse stood cropping the grass and flung himself back on to the animal for the final, torturous leg of the journey. Fortunately, the Pallerion farm was close by. Wurzag hoped that Anderon had made it back safely, hoped that Taryn had survived the journey and hoped that the little apothecary could do him some good.

Hope was what kept him going as the horse cantered into the cobbled yard in front of the farm house, and hope that carried him the last few yards to the door. He didn't have the strength to knock, barely possessed the stamina to push the portal open and step into the warm light within. It wrapped him in comforting, gossamer folds that smoothed the fatigue from his muscles and promised all the rest he could desire.

"'Ope ye dunt mind," he muttered to the room, "but'm jus gonna 'ave a nap."

Then his legs buckled beneath him and he passed out.