Through bleary eyes, weak and dim, he perceived his archfoe. They were now within arm's reach of one another. The enemy's face was drawn and aged, his dark skin tight against the bone. His mouth was set in a pained grimace, but fierce. Their eyes locked, red and gold. In those eyes, Veer'Shule saw his decision made for him. There was no defeat there. He would have to use the final Word. *********************************************************** The dying Warmage met the gaze of those evil golden eyes with the last shreds of his stamina, and despised his inability to utter as much as a single word, not even a final gasping curse. He saw the desperate resolve in Veer'Shule's eyes, and knew his Doom was at last upon him; he lacked sufficient reserves to counter another Word of Power. Indeed, he lacked the reserves to prolong his life much longer, much less the deadly duel that was killing him. With the certain knowledge that his death was at last upon him, it seemed that the moment existed outside of Time, and his senses perceived with preternatural clarity. Balefire would have laughed, had he the energy, in triumph at his foe's loss of his staff and the hand that had held it. And laughed louder, had he been able, at the bungled misguided attack on his own staff, the legendary Staff of the Dawn. The Ancient Vampire souls trapped in the staff both hated and loved their enslaver, for he kept them entrapped and used them mercilessly, but he had kept them well-fed for years. In other circumstances, they might have greeted the prospect of the staff's breaking with glee, eager to be free and turn on their erstwhile master. Steeped in centuries of guile, they sensed that to be freed in this storm of magical power would bring instant dissolution, and so they reacted to defend their hated home's integrity, and their continued existence, hateful though it was. Elfiran...loyal, cheerful, deadly Elfiran kept the Denigroth at bay, the Warmage knew, along with the Werre and agile Loriella. A part of him wished he could observe them in their legend-worthy fight. And...Twilight! He sensed her presence and her white-hot fury, proud and sad at once in the knowledge that he would die without a last stand back-to-back with his longtime swordmate and sometime lover, and in the inescapable certainty that she would insist on revenge at the expense of her own safety. He had tried to teach her to live to fight another day, but mayhap she had learned other lessons than his words alone had taught. He heard her, dimly now as his pain and fading senses overwhelmed his dying reverie, shout his name. "If only," he thought, "I had told you half of what I should have. Save yourself, sweet, fiery, incomparable Twilight. Would that I could speak one last word to you." Veer'Shule's hate-filled eyes swam back into focus, overshadowing his awareness of the others, the strange Dark Elf, sweet impulsive Mea, J'layah..."Death will cause me to break my promise J'layah," the words rang bitterly in his heart, " to save your sister. Forgive me, for Death has won the toss for the first and last time." The dusky Warmage saw the decision in his failing foe's eyes, and knew his Doom was upon him. He tried to speak, to utter a last taunt or threat, and he forced out a sound that none could recognize as other than a death rattle. "Dead, but undefeated", he whispered, as he poured the last of his will into the power he drew through the Blood from the Heart. It would make as good an epitaph as any.