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"The siege on Barton Town is going well, and Vengeance is performing well with the new weapons," Valas replied. "We are looking to expand our fleet and have set our sights upon St. Aggripina."

Valas nodded to the crystal ball, which was showing an image of the city. More specifically, it was focused on a large building. "There is an airship museum in St. Aggripina. No doubt the ships can no longer fly, but I speculate that with some service and modifications, they could see the skies once again. Is this something you would be capable of doing?"

"All in due time," the demilich said.

"The Horde must be retrofitted and updated first to deal with the current technological advantage our enemies have, and with the progress of your work, it should not be too long now. Assuming operations go well in Aggripina and we have ourselves a small fleet of airships, we will be more than prepared to finally be rid of our enemies. As for West Fall's involvement in all this, I don't care how you sacrifice your own people."

((I actually forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me. Lol))

"Yes, I have felt its presence keenly. The time is drawing near."

Valas would meet his gaze, and nothing would happen. It's not like he wanted to kill the man, afterall. Perhaps the demilich was beginning to trust the doctor a little. Maybe that's just what he wanted him to think.

"We will let you know if the operation is a success. My apprentice will escort you back to your laboratory."

Dr. Iskugawa would be informed that he would not be going with the team to St. Agrippina. Instead, an expert would be going in his place, along with all of the new soldier units so far manufactured (let's say 20). The mission would be a field test of their capabilities, the data of which would be collected on site and sent back for analysis. The expert in question was another apprentice mage, who would come by the doctor's lab at sometime in order to get the whole rundown of how the soldiers worked. Sitting like an attentive student, he awaited Dr. Iskugawa's briefing.

Research complete.
Research complete.
Research complete.
Research complete.
Incoming transmission.

...

Word spread throughout Necromon: pack it all up and return to the necropolis. Magic flashed in dozens of places as wizards and necromancers opened gates to transport all their goods back to Necropolita, while the mindless undead workers filed through the tunnels. The completed weapons and armada of airships were teleported en mass through the combined magicks of ten wizards. The caverns below had already been expanded to accommodate for them. When the upper city was cleared of everything, the chasm that it occupied was suddenly pulled closed together, destroying the city.

The earth was worked like wet clay, creating a series of elaborate mazes, starting from the surface and working its way down to the underdark tunnels near the necropolis. Nine levels in all, each floor with an exit leading down to the next, each exit guarded by a powerful creature of undead or fiendish origin. It had to be the largest labyrinth in all of mortal existence! And to top it all off, the mazes were constantly changing, so they would never be the same from one visit to the next.

Of course, there's always the backdoor way to the necropolis, through the underdark, but that has considerable dangers all on its own.

In either case, it would make for some epic adventuring!

Somewhere, deep under the Temple of Dark Eternal...

The black robed, hooded figure appeared in a dimly lit chamber that resembled an operating room, holding a battered and bloody, jawless drow by the bloody scruff of his cloak. He was unceremonously dropped to the ground as the robed figure walked over to a steel rack with surgeon tools laid out on a silver tray.

"Poor performance. Very poor. I expected more out of you, Veszafein," said the robed figure, pulling the swords that had been retrieved from within the sleeves and setting them on the tray.

"Perhaps I've been too lenient on you. Perhaps I should have kept you out there, instead of giving you a comfortable position. Your blade has grown dull, and now your life is slowly draining away."

A hand came up to pull the hood back. Ghost-white hair spilled out from underneath, falling over shoulders and back. Darshendros turned to face the unconscious drow-dragon, holding a scalpel in his hand.

"But fear not, for I am a merciful god, and I will give you a second chance. You will not, however, be completely whole. I will rid you of the burden which landed you in this state, as you obviously have little handle over it. If I recall, you spend most of your time in this form anyway."

Darshendros kneeled over Veszafein, the blade of the scalpel glowing red hot.

The scene fades to black.

Hours later...

Veszafein lay strapped to the operating table, screaming and squirming around in pain, fighting against unbreakable restraints. The sheets were covered in blood and stitches criss-crossed his bare torso. His screams came out uneven and sometimes half-gurgled due to the lack of a jaw. He barely resembled the drow form he commonly assumed. Now, he looked like a grotesque half-dragon-drow abomination with clawed hands and torn, leathery flaps hanging from his back that once resembled wings. His skin was a blueish-black color, smooth and scaleless, and his hair was now the opposite color of what it once was.

Darshendros stood in front of a sink, wearing a bloodsoaked butcher's apron, pulling off a pair of gloves and dunking them into the water-filled sink, immediately turning dark red.

"Quit your crying, you baby," he said as he turned around and approached the table.

Veszafein continued struggling against his restraints, unable to hear his words through the searing pain racking his body at the moment. Darshendros, growing annoyed, clamped a hand right around his throat, cutting off the air for him to scream.

"I SAID SHUT IT!" his voice thundered, and the drow immediately complied.

There was genuine fear in his eyes, as his last memory had been falling on Ebris in the alleyway, then waking up in a strange laboratory dungeon, strapped to an operating table and discovering his jaw missing. Darshendros explained to him the final moments of the fight, and saw the fear become replaced with irrepressable rage. Good, he thought. He wanted him angry.

"Now then, if you've calmed yourself," Darshendros said, releasing Veszafein's throat, "here is what you are going to do. I am going to send you back to Latent, as you are now. As it stands, the team you are on is at a disadvantage, and likely will not win their first match. Since the tournament is double-elimination, that gives you a second chance at winning. You will win, this time, no matter what it takes. Unfortunately, you've fallen out of favor with Khazid'hea, so you will only be going back with your other sword and your dagger. I trust you will make good use of them."

He took the restraints off Veszafein and dressed him in his bloodstained gear, then spirited him off to the hotel where he would pass out for several days.

There was much activity going on at the necropolis. Since the closure of the upper city and its replacement with the labyrinth, the undead have been working nonstop at creating their war machines. Giant stone rings covered in runes and glyphs had been constructed on high up the walls of the huge cavern, spaced out around the entire city. One of these giant rings were currently active, shimmering with swirling colors that rippled outwards as an airship passed through it and into the cavern, moving toward what looked like a group of large hangars in the east side of the necropolis. Drydock-like platforms were constructed on the walls, which had huge, powerful looking airships docked, with crews of undead working tirelessly on maintenance and welding.

The skeletons did not lead them toward the large tower in the center of the city, but rather the solitary one standing off to the west. it looked just as impressive, if not as towering, and radiated with magical auras. The tower of Nightlund was the hub of arcane practice in the necropolis, surrounded by a moat of molten lava spanned only by a single stone bridge. A pair of black robed sentries stood guard at the bridge, which would escort the entourage the rest of the way. The doors opened before them, allowing them entry into the tower's lobby area, but there wasn't any spiraling staircases or any other apparent means of accessing the tower's upper floors. Waiting for them was one of the tower's necromancers, garbed in the same black robes as the sentries, with pouches smelling of spell components hanging from his belt. He had pale skin and wore a black skullcap, and smelled of death.

"The master has been waiting. He will only see the leader of your party. The rest of you must wait here."

The necromancer's eye twitched. He wasn't used to orders being defied here, especially those coming from the master of the tower. He stared off for a second while in silent communication, then nodded his head a moment later.

"Very well, but no more than that."

He would wait until Xanathos chose who would go with him, before taking a small charm out from the inside of his sleeve.

"If you will stand around me, please."