It had been a difficult affair to seize the waitress from the Broken Dagger. At first only the elven swordsman had moved to oppose him. Yet Teron's presence had drawn opponents from the very woodwork itself to set themselves against him. The elf witch had soon joined those ranks, followed by some gypsy woman and finally the hulking werewolf. The ragtag band of would-be heroes had fought, tooth-and-nail, and had significantly delayed him. Had the woman fled the inn entirely she might have escaped.
Yet the Ashfiend had won through.
It was his nature to relentlessly press onward, at times as slow as fall descending into winter but just as unstoppable. Untiring, unyielding, he had battered his way through heavy opposition and won out - the girl belonged to him now. But not without cost.
The shadows darkened in the corner of the sanctuary. Within their depths a pair of crimson eyes flickered into being, livid lamps that drew in what little light remained, before the tall, armored figure took shape. His form was darker than the shadows that sloughed from broad shoulders beneath blackened plate as he emerged into the chamber. After a moment longer, perhaps to enjoy their mortal passenger, the shadows retreated from Teddi as well.
With only the few steps he has taken from the woman, the chill hovering about him had somewhat abated. Every gesture causes ice to spill from the gaps in his ancient suit of blackened metal plate. The crystallized water cascades to the floor like muted diamond castanets and, his left hand torn bare to reveal scourged translucent flesh and the hint of bone beneath, Ashfiend turns to regard Teddi over his shoulder. An elongated metallic hiss announced his sword being sheathed once more.
The pair stood in a sanctuary. What pews that remain are rotten, overturned and collapsed. The floor itself, where it did not entertain shallow but broad puddles of stagnant water, bore the great black stains of some conflagration that sought to consume the entire structure. An altar to the One Faith squatted at the far end, not far from a gaping hole in the ceiling that opened to a clouded midnight sky.
For a moment he stood in the heavy, cold silence. The air here was indeed colder than what one might expect for a summer's eve and Ashfiend could not take credit for it. He studied his torn hand, flexed it into a fist and, lowering it to his side, turned to face her fully.
"Follow." It was a simple, icy command. The heavy, gravelly rumble has grown hollow so far removed from the threat of his opponents. Empty to the degree that it was as if the four erstwhile patrons had not, mere moments ago, wrought havoc upon him.
