28th of Midyear, 4E 211
Ten years after the events of Skyrim.

Closing time. In any other business, it's a turn of a key and a sigh of relief. When you run a bar in Tamriel, it's more of an abstract theory.

Take a shady tavern in the middle of Glenpoint, for example. The kind of place that can call itself "The Stunted Scamp" and get away with it. A one-story wooden shack squeezed between a blacksmith's shop and an abandoned bookstore, so the only way you wind up there is if you've been a regular for years or you got kicked out of all the other bars.

Master of this domain is a lanky young bartender, raven-like in his perch behind the counter, following each and every patron with hollow, dark eyes. It's half an hour past closing time, and anybody with a hint of sobriety has left. Those that stay could be a problem, and on this particular Sundas night, two orcs and an bosmer prosttute occupied a single table closest to him. Many would rather see dremora in their business.

The orcs were on their fourth bottle of Firebrand Wine, not a drop of which they shared with the girl. For the last hour she sat there next to the two green brutes with an impatient scowl on her face. The bartender had to pity her. At best, she had an even worse fate in store from the orcs tonight. A girl with wheat-blonde hair and a thimble-point nose like that should be sleeping with nobles.

"So then the... thish old fart is grabbin' at m' leg, tellin' me he ain't eaten for three daysh," The taller orc with a twisted nose went on with his story. "So I figger I'll give 'im a taste o' my boot". The pair broke out in rampant laughter.

"Had the fetcher's teeth shtuck in my sole all night!"

"You know what they say 'bout beggars." The shorter orc, missing one fang and part of an ear, started.

"They can't be choosers!" They cheered in chorus, slamming the table so hard it sent a rumbling through the tavern.

That was the last straw for the wood elf. With a cat's grace, she rose from her seat and turned tail to the drunken louts. She managed two steps toward the door, then froze stone cold. A monstrous set of olive-green fingers held her arm stiff. "Hey, hey, ya wouldn't be lookin' to ditch us now, would ya?" The broken-fang orc growled.

"It's too late now. If I don't get back to my mistress, I'll be in trouble!" She twisted and pulled to free herself of the hand's snare, like a mouse trying to escape the hawk's talon. "And you haven't even paid me yet! Let... me... go!"

"Paid ya? You ain't earned it yet!" The bent-nosed orc taunted. "But hey, if you're that eager, we can put you to work right 'ere!"

With a shriek, the girl was lifted off her feet and slammed down on the table, spilling wine in every direction. The orcs pinned her by the shoulders as they tore at her white dress like ravenous wolves. Bent-nose managed to rip her top right off and grabbed her briasts with both hands the instant they came to light. The girl took advantage of the distraction, reeling her arm back and slapping Bent-nose across the face as hard as she could. The blow brushed against the brute's bony cheek like a light breeze, but the insult went deeper.

"Don't they teach ya girls how to behave in these parts?" Bent-nose wrapped a hand around her throat, his other arm raised in a fist aimed at her left eye. "'Try some Orsinium manners!"

A hand reached out, grabbed Bent-nose's wrist, and twisted. The crunching snap was enough to force him to let go, but a kick to the hind leg brought him down to a kneel. Before the pain in his hand even clicked, somebody grabbed the back of his head and slammed his bad nose square into the edge of the table.

By the time Broken-fang knew what was happening, his partner was curled on the ground, spewing blood on the wine-soaked floorboards. Standing over him was the bartender, the dark pits of his wide eyes challenging him. "You stay out of this, barkeep!" The standing orc stammered, practically huffing steam out of his snout with bared teeth.

But the bartender returned no fear, only authority. "You boys have had enough. It's closing time."

"Insolent little..." Broken-fang released the elf to lunge at his newest frustration. The bartender waited for just the right moment, when he could sidestep the first swing, kick the charging orc in the knee, then throw him a kidney punch on his way down. Sure enough, Broken-fang joined his friend on the tavern floor faster than he could blink.

"Alright," The bartender towered over his delirious, whimpering patrons. "Now you've had enough." He grabbed both orcs by their hair and pulled, forcing them to crawl to the door kicking and howling until he threw both of them out into the summer night. "Next time I see you two in here, I'm calling your tab."

The orcs winced and groaned as they got back on their feet. Bent-nose clutched his bleeding snout and managed to yell in a nasal voice "The Vanisher take you next, barkeep! You hear me?" Without waiting for a retort, the pair made their escape into the dark streets. Their echo broke through the air "The Vanisher's gonna get you next!"

The bartender could only roll his eyes before turning back into his tavern. There, the Bosmer girl did all she could to assemble the rags that had become of her evening gown, still coughing through red marks on her throat. He had to sigh at the sight. It was like watching a bird build a nest out of feathers.

Wordlessly, he grabbed a large bar towel out from behind the counter and shoved it into the girl's arms. "Here," he said with a rasp, doing all he could to avoid laying eyes on her exposed skin. That just felt unfair. "That should get you home with less attention."

The girl raised her eyes to the bartender for the first time, bright hazel and wide in surprise. "I... They..."

"Don't think about it," he commanded. "Just get out of here before more trouble finds you." He unfolded the towel and draqed it over her shoulders, immediately dressing her with the charm of a common beggar. The girl nodded obediently, walking to the open door as the bartender resumed his duties.

"Xak..." The girl's weak voice called out to the bartender one last time. "... Thank you." And just like that, she turned and left.

Xak Theril stood within the warm golden glow of the Stunted Scamp's doorway, watching the elf stride, cautious and shaken, until the night took her in its veil. Truth be told, he didn't save her out of desire or chivalry.

It was just closing time.

So back to work he went, locking doors, killing lamps and scrubbing blood off the floor. It wasn't until he got to lifting chairs that Xak felt a familiar sensation creep along his spine. It was the touch of eyes upon him. He paused, only to measure the silence of the room, then cautiously returned to setting the chairs.

"We're closed now." He warned his hidden guest, but the shadow remained seated in the corner over his shoulder. "Look buddy, I won't tell you to go home, but you can't..." Xak turned to see his last patron rise and step into the light of the only living lamp in the tavern. It revealed the aging square face of a traveler, etched with red hair from his scalp to his iron-like chin, dressed with the smile of an old friend. "... stay here."

The tavern clock struck one in the morning, but Xak and the traveler remained, huddled at the bar with a lantern, four empty beers and two lit cigars between them. The air was rich with musty smoke and old stories as they kept the night alive.

"... So the next day Arvie shows up at the castle dungeon asking to see the guy who robbed him," The old man went on. "and the guard asks 'Why? We already got back the stuff he stole from you.' and Arvie tells him 'Forget that! This guy snuck in to my house without waking up my wife. I've been trying to figure that out for twenty years!'" His voice bounced with laughter. Xak gave a humble chuckle.

"Sounds like a guy I had in here from Daggerfall," began Xak. "His wife was having an affair for three years, and all of a sudden she winds up pregnant. The husband finds his wife's lover, knocks on his door, and when the bastard opens, he just congratulates him on being a braver man than he."

"We're a dying breed, men like us. Clever enough to keep a woman out of our lives. Course, that's what makes a breed die in the first place."

Xak leaned back, counting the wrinkles his companion had grown since last time. "What are you doing here, Uncle Brynjolf?" He asked blankly.

"What else?" replied Brynjolf. "Visiting my favorite nephew!"

"Don't guars--t me. You didn't come all the way from Riften just for stories and beer." Xak stamped out the last of his smoldered cigar. "Hell, you didn't even make my sixteenth birthday. So what really brings a Thieves Guild ringleader from Skyrim to a poor little tavern in Glenpoint?"

"Business before pleasure as usual, I see." He regained his composure, the warmth of his smile fading to solidarity. "Truth be told, I do have a proposition I wanted to run by you."

"I don't work for you anymore, Brynjolf. That guild stuff is none of my business." The bartender shrugged off, taking a stand to resume his closing duties.

"What about your unfinished business. What about Rhone?" The name made Xak halt mid-step. "By Nocturnal, Xak, look at yourself. I thought I'd find you scouring the edges of Nirn, but here you are hunkered down in High Rock beating up drunken orcs. What happened to the Nord half of you to give up on your brother that easy?"

Hesitantly, he turned to face his uncle, fist clenched. Whatever vengeful thoughts boiled in his mind cooled as he crept back to his seat. "What have you got?"

"Besides your attention, I hope, some news. The Vanisher's still going strong. People are disappearing all over Tamriel now. Some of them right under their mother's noses." Brynjolf's voice grew hushed, the lamp's fire bouncing in his eyes as he spoke. "Well, the Vanisher finally stepped on the wrong toes. The youngest son of the Aldmeri Dominion's ruling family was just taken, and they've thrown up a reward that could buy all the skooma in Elsweyr. Now every sod who can hold a sword wants to gut the Vanisher, but we both know there's only one fetcher out there who stands a chance at finding it."

"The Dragonborn?" Xak guessed, half-jokingly.

"That reward finally got him off his high horse. Word is he's got a plan to lure the Vanisher out of its hole, and he's putting together a team of mercs to pull it off here in High Rock."

"If he thinks he can tackle the Vanisher the way he did those dragons, he'll get nowhere. You know how the Vanisher works. Those bright blue lights coming from the sky, those... ungodly roars louder than any beast on Nirn. That's all people know when it hits. Then somebody goes missing, no hint of where or why. How do you stop something like that?"

"By catching it in the act. Think about it, Xak, The Vanisher is a thief like you and me. Doesn't matter how good we are, once we're spotted on a job, it's all over. If there is any hope of finding Rhone again, it's being there when the Vanisher gets caught on the job."

"And why exactly would I be there for this extraordinary event?"

"Because the Dragonborn wants you as his scout." In one motion, Brynjolf withdrew a scrap of parchment and tossed it onto the counter. Xak's eyes nearly jumped out of his skull reading a note from the hero of Skyrim himself.

"How the hell did you..."

"Didn't you know, Xak? He's one of us."

Xaks' jaw hung in disbelief before breaking into a chuckle of admiration."You sly bastard, I don't even want to know how you pulled that off."

"So what do you say?"

With a long sigh and a longer sip of beer, he read and re-read the note before him."I don't work for you anymore, Uncle Brynjolf."

"Did I ever tell you I got a gift, Xak? I can see the future." Brynjolf said with two taps to his temple and a glint of crazy in his eyes. "Right now I see two things that could happen. You take that slip, you meet a legend, you journey with him to some gods-forsaken land and fight some monstrosity the likes this world has never seen. Or you could sit right there, behind this bar, day after day after day, getting older, fatter, letting this opportunity fade into some distant memory. But one thing that'll never fade is the question: What if I said yes? There's no question more simple, or more cruel, that you could have sitting in your head for the rest of your life."

"But hey, it's your call. This is a pretty nice tavern to leave behind too." Finishing off the last drop of booze, he called it a night, slinging his travel jacket over his shoulder as he stood. "Oh, and since I'm sure you figured this out too, no, I didn't come all the way from Riften just to hand you that piece of paper either. Figured, since I was in the neighborhood..."

Xak was wordless, his gaze racing across every letter on the page. He didn't pay the slightest attention to his uncle as he steadily made his exit. Brynjolf halted at the doorway, peeking back at his nephew seemingly abandoning reality.

"I miss him too, Xak."

By the time the bartender looked up, Brynjolf was nowhere. The tavern never felt so empty. It was just him and the Dragonborn's note, and he couldn't be sitting with a more challenging foe.

"I hate it when he does this." He lamented before blowing out the lamp, a good two hours after closing time.

He hated it even more three weeks later, huddled next to a dying fire with five other mercenaries in the woodlands of Wayrest. The starry sky above brought welcome relief from three straight nights of rain, which still tainted most of the wood within reach. The troupe's spellcaster, Onorith, had been pummeling logs with fire magic all night, but the damp wood proved more resilient than he.

"I think I've..." Onorith paused for a gaping yawn. "... hod jost ubout enough of this for one night."

"Orders are to stay awake 'till morn." Their Imperial fighter Jaulius Festus reminded him sternly. "The boss needs us ready if the Vanisher shows."

"You call this bein' ready?" Chimed the Bosmer archer Galynn. "Ready is havin' your spears raised and arrows prepped to stick into whatever's comin' to get'cha. You know what six arseheads sittin' on stumps is called? Bein' bait."

"If the Dragonborn just meant to use us as bait, he could have grabbed six drunkards from Skyrim, instead of recruiting professionals from every province in Tamriel." shot Onorith.

"Brilliant observation!" Galynn raised to an eager crouch on his tree stump. "Hey, you fellow! Xak, was it? What bar did they find you in again? The Stinkin' Scamp?"

Xak huffed at the wood elf. He had been so buried in his own concerns that he had seldom let a word out to any of his companions the last four days. Just the mention of his bar reminded him how he left the Stunted Scamp to Brynjolf and how, in retrospect, letting Brynjolf run a bar was like letting a mouse run a dairy and tried to calculate how long it would take the old Nord to drink through his entire stock (eight days, eleven hours and twenty-one minutes by his count).

"Very poetic response, good sir!" Galynn resumed his rant. "Look at us. We're good, damn good at what we do. But we don't make many friends with what we do, that's why we're good at doin' what we do!"

"Making sense must not be what you do." grunted Jaulius.

"Say you don't come back from a job. Well, who's gonna miss you? A missus? A tot? A nextdoor neighbor?" Galynn was a perceptive one, Xak admitted. Of all six men brought on this mission, not one of them wore a wedding band.

"We're the outsiders. We could up and disappear and not a soul will come lookin', because all those missus and tots and neighbors say we're gonna get ourselves killed someday. And if the Dragonborn wants to throw us to the wolves, he'll be provin' them all right."

"You're confusing sociological coincidence with blind paranoia." stood Onorith, abandoning the fire to vent his rising agitation with Galynn. "We were hand-picked by the hero of Skyrim himself to hunt down the greatest threat to Tamriel since the return of the dragons. You're insisting that he intends to sacrifice us, and the only evidence you can provide is that we are all unmarried?"

Said Jaulius "Onorith's right, you're jumping at shadows. If you don't trust the Dragonborn, you should not have signed on with him in the first place. For now, we need to work together."

This only excited Galynn more. "Together! There's another point. If we're all in this together to defeat the Vanisher in glorious battle..." His voice hushed, tracing his finger up the trail, bouncing off each stone to point high at the hill where a lone figure sat half an acre away. "Then what the hell is he doing all the way over there?" To his satisfaction, the rest of the group grew quiet, their gaze fixed on the distant shadow of the man who brought them to the middle of nowhere.

Just then, Xak broke the silence. "Why don't you ask him?"

The group of five shot surprised looks to him, shocked both by the suggestion and the fact that the sullen scout said anything at all.

"He's sitting right there. If you're so curious, go up there and ask him."

Onorith laughed nerviously. "You... don't just go up to the Dragonborn of all people and say..."

"People. Exactly. He's a person, not the next incarnation of Talos." Xak suddenly realized he was merely repeating what he had tried to convince himself for the entire journey. For all the legends, the bard songs and tavern tales that surrounded the Dragonborn, in the end he was still a man. A man who owed him an explanation. "Alright. I'll ask him myself." So he hopped from his log and crossed through the circle of speechless adventurers in a determined march down the path, bringing his quarterstaff with him.

The silhouette of the lone armored hero, perched on a boulder like a monk in meditation, grew clearer as Xak approached. Two curled horns of dragon-bone rose from a helmet that obscured most of his face, giving him the air of a Daedra. But Xak refused to be intimidated at this point. "Hey, Dragonborn! Mister... Whatever your real name is!" Xak called as he climbed up the boulder. The Dragonborn hardly budged as he joined him at the peak. "I need a word with you."

The Dragonborn kept his head tilted back, eyes set like iron on one spot of the night sky. "You are... Mr. Theril, right?" He spoke in a hushed rasp, and as his words left, Xak could feel the air make way for them and the trees seemingly bend to listen. Their leader had seldom spoken since the expedition began, and on this still night the reason why became clearer.

"Xak Theril." He answered, taking a seat next to his boss. "My uncle Brynjolf said he knew you personally."

"Ah, Brynjolf." Xak could swear he saw the sullen hero crack a smile. "Your uncle is a very... interesting man. He has told me much about you."

"And that puts me at a disadvantage. I have no idea who you are, what your plan is, or what I have to do with any of it, save that you happen to know my uncle." Xak sighed, trying to keep his frustration under control. "And I've followed you in spite of all that. But it's been four days of wallowing in the dark. It's time you tell me what you know."

"I know you are more than you seem, Theril." The Dragonborn relaxed his voice, allowing the tremors of each word to shake the woods around them. "I know you weren't always a bartender. I also know you have been more than a thief."

Xak's eyes drifted down to his feet with a heavy sigh. "Those years are behind me. I've done things I'm not proud of, but..."

"Years are never behind you. We all carry our regrets, past and present. Where a man walks, he brings his entire life with him." At last the Dragonborn turned to face Xak directly, his gaze glowing with immense power. "That is what truly brought you here. The others seek profit, but you are after something else. Something precious that was lost long ago."

Xak suddenly felt very uncomfortable next to this man. There's no way even Brynjolf would have let this much slip. "This isn't about me. You hired six people to help you find the Vanisher. Now do you really know how to find it, or did you just bring us out here for a camping trip?"

"Tell me, Xak. Have you seen the face of Masser lately?" The Dragonborn resumed his stare at the sky above. It took a while for Xak to realize he was supposed to do the same. Looking up, he saw the moons Masser and Secunda hanging directly above like the noontime sun. Masser formed a crimson sliver as its new moon approached, leaving most of the orb obscured in blackness. As his eyes adjusted to the void, Xak could faintly make out what had captured the Dragonborn's rapt attention. Lights, as clear as the stars around them, flowed along the dark moon like a web, flickering with life. Some seemed to flow like rivers, others blinked in every color Xak could recognize, others in tones he had never seen before. It was a sight as beautiful as it was disturbing, like nightshade over a fresh grave.

"The Khajiit hold Masser as sacred. It was a Khajiit trader who first showed me the lights. Many of them believe the moon is tainted, and that those born under the tainted moon are cursed. Elsweyr has outright banned copulation for fear of giving rise to cursed children."

"That's unfortunate, but I don't plan on making any conquests in Elsweyr." Xak chided.

"They've shone for many years, but until a year ago they could not be seen with human eyes." The Dragonborn turned back to Xak, the tone in his voice so heavy that the boulder they sat upon cracked with his words. "Those lights are growing, consuming Masser by the day. And the brighter the lights get, the more frequent the Vanisher strikes."

"So you think there's a connection between the moon and when the Vanisher appears?"

"Not just when, but where! It has been said that none can predict who the Vanisher will take next, but every single place the Vanisher has struck..." The Dragonborn withdrew his long sword and pressed its pommel into the rock between the two men. With a whisper, the blade shot directly upright, standing in perfect balance as rigid as ice. The Dragonborn traced a finger along the sword, urging Xak to follow the blade like an arrow as it pointed directly to the heavens – and Masser. "... has been directly underneath the largest moon!"

Xak's eyes practically shot out of his skull as he followed the blade's point to the moon, back down, and up to the sky again. There was no question. Masser was in the dead center of the sky from where they had camped. "You're saying the Vanisher is coming here?"

"It is merely a theory. One I must say I haven't been eager to prove," The Dragonborn lamented as he sheathed his sword. "but if I am right, then yes. We have been following Masser's path, and now our paths meet."

"How much time do we have?"

"Not much. Be sure the men are ready, but keep them quiet." He resumed his stance of meditation. "I am hoping the Vanisher will come for me first. A predator cannot resist lone prey."

So it was the other way around; The Dragonborn himself was bait! Xak jumped to his feet. "I'll go warn the others!"

"Wait, Xak!" The Dragonborn called out, withdrawing a slim jade ring from his belt. "Take this, in case we become separated." He flipped it like a coin to Xak, who caught it effortlessly. The ring seemed plain, lacking any sort of gem or inscribed runes. Then again, the Dragonborn is a renowned craftsman and enchanter who could easily imbue power into a piece of clay, Xak thought as he hastily slipped his finger through the band.

"Why give it to me?"

"In a way you remind me of myself years ago. Wandering, alone, and asking too many questions. Now go!"

Obediently, Xak hurried back down the path towards the others. His head pounded with anticipation, shoving his skeptical nature aside. This could be it! After eight years, his search could finally be over! Caution reminded him not to expect the reunion he had hoped for, but at least the false leads, the gnawing questions, and the bottomless guilt could all be coming to an end, regardless of where the outcome led.

He could never have expected it to lead to this.

A flash of incredible blue light shocked his vision. He was on the ground. Ears were ringing. What he couldn't hear, he could feel. A mighty resonance rumbled through his gut like the loudest clap of thunder. He rolled onto his back as he tried to regain his senses. It wasn't until his vision cleared that the fear hit him.

Something had ripped through the sky above, tearing a hole of blinding light in its aftermath. Through this hole, the head of a great beast emerged. No, this was no beast, Xak realized, for the skin was made of solid sheets of gray steel, angled like the facets of a fine ruby. Dark glass replaced eyes, and in place of any arms or legs were triangular wings spewing blue fire in a thick cone. It appeared to be a flying construct, but this too was impossible as far as Xak knew. This entity defied the basest laws of existence, yet it hovered over their camp with winds so powerful their tents were blown to pieces.

The sides of the great entity opened like jaws, from which men clad in pearl-white armor the likes he had never seen before leaped. Blue flames erupted from their backs, slowing their fall as they descended on the panicked mercenaries. From just outside the camp, Xak watched the chaos unfold as the strange men brandished wands shaped like crystalline crossbows and surrounded his comrades. Jaulius fell quickly. Somebody shot him with a red bolt of energy before he could even grab his axe. Galynn managed to ready an arrow and let one fly at the nearest invader, only to see the arrow shatter against their flawless armor. The recipient of said arrow responded in kind, and Galynn fell to the ground like a children's doll. Onorith tried to douse his attackers in flame, all in vain as the campfire had drained all the magic out of him. The two other mercenaries were shot before they even recovered from the initial blast. Xak observed helplessly as five of the most capable warriors he ever met fell in seconds.

Then they saw him.

A trooper flew in behind Xak. Reacting with gut instinct, he gripped his staff and delivered a swing to the man's helmet. The blow connected, knocking him off balance enough for a strike at the arms to drop his weapon. Xak spun around to greet another soldier descending upon him. He somersaulted beneath the attacker's feet to deliver a powerful double-kick to his jetpack, dislodging the jet alignments and launching the soldier into a wild flight through the trees. Xak's first opponent rushed at him hand-to-hand, grabbing the quarterstaff with two mighty gauntlets. The two wrestled for the weapon, until another trooper tried to rush Xak from behind with a charged stun prod. Xak waited for just the right moment, then put all his strength into a jump, using the quarterstaff to flip clear over his enemy's head as the charging soldier accidentally drove a tazer arc into his friend's chest. A fourth trooper joined the fray, aiming a rifle squarely between Xak's eyes. Both of them paused, waiting for the other to make the first move. Just then a warped scream came out of nowhere as the out-of-control jetpack soldier flew from the branches and slammed into the rifleman so fast he vanished from Xak's sight in a blur.

Then a flash of red filled Xak's vision, and his world froze. His arms numbed and his legs gave way. The ground rose to meet him, and before he knew why he was face-down in the dirt. He put every ounce of strength he had to getting back up, but the best he could do was twitch a finger, like he was trapped in a dream. A soldier kicked him onto his back, yet the touch felt as numb as a distant cloud. Then he saw the freshly-fired rifle the victor held, and knew it was over.

"Cliff Racer, this is Pantheon 3." The man called in a voice grainy and distorted, as though spoken through a sewer grate. "Six packages secured, prepare evac. Be ready for wounded."

"Roger, Pantheon. Cliff Racer inbound." Xak couldn't tell where this voice came from, but he could hear the great metal airship come to a landing just meters away. Two soldiers grabbed him by the arms and unapologetically dragged him through the dirt, towards the open airship where he could see his friends being thrown onboard, a fate they had in common.

So, Xak lamented. The Vanisher did take me next.

"FUS RO DAH!"

A shockwave sliced through the air above Xak, launching one of the soldiers headfirst against a tree. Into the clearing, the Dragonborn emerged, facing down each surviving trooper with a cold hard glare.

"S--t! Pantheon 4, secure the last package! All others, provide cover!" One man hastily lifted Xak onto his shoulders as the others rushed the Dragonborn. Xak could hear the inevitable. An enchanted blade cutting through the toughest armor. Soldiers crying out as their limbs were severed. Ancient shouts bending time and space to one warrior's will. It wouldn't be enough.

A multi-barrel cannon at the nose of the airship came to life. It unleashed a barrage of high-energy pulse fire at the Dragonborn, pulverizing the ground around him as he did all he could to maintain a strong-enough ward to endure the blasts. The cannon had him pinned.

With a heave, Xak's limp body was thrown beyond the doors of the airship, landing hard on cold metal grating as the remaining soldiers leaped onboard. "Cliff Racer, get us out of here!" One trooper ordered.

"What about the casualties, sir?" Another protested.

"Leave them!" the commander barked, then solemnly hit the door switch with a clenched fist. "The Archmage isn't gonna like this one."

From his sideways view, Xak could see the ground drift further away, leaving one infuriated man alone on a scorched battlefield, shouting curses at the retreating force. Then his vision shifted above the tree line and to the starry sky, with the vibrant blue glow of the portal they were about to pass through. Then the doors were shut, and there was nothing to see.