Trees. Gigantic trees.

It seemed to Allen that his life, or whatever was left of it, had been filled with their mighty crowns and huge trunk. Silent and sullen, they gazed down upon him. Sometimes their branches rustled angrily, agitated by the unnatural presence of the Pale Master; and sometimes they stood still with cold distain. At least, that’s what the necromancer sensed. He wasn’t serious about his wild imaginations, since he now felt more akin to undead things than he did to living creatures, which he regarded as a good sign of his progress. But still, maybe the solitude he always yearned for was costing his sanity. Sometimes he wondered if it would be nice to have a familiar, maybe a raven or a falcon, just to have some companionship.

It’s not he’s alone. He had dozens of minor undead servants, skeleton warriors and zombies who would obey any order he gave. Also he controlled a couple of ghosts, and a wraith had recently been pushed into his service. But alas, among his “companions”, those without a soul left in their empty shell of a body cannot talk, and rest only concentrate their pathetic consciousness on the hatred for the living. He had had enough of murmurs of death and screams of anguish, even the silence that sometimes seemed to gnaw at his soul had became merciful. Allen the Pale Master had taken the road of undeath and left his “life” behind, but not his hearing, nor his taste.

As the thought of sitting in the ancient elven tomb he had taken as his residence, listening to the crack of bone when a skeleton shifted its position, moans of pain and hatred when the ghosts were either at work or idle, splatter of water when it rained, as it always did, and all other queer sound that’s considered to be ordinary for a tomb didn’t appeal to him, a walk among the forest was refreshing. Who knows, maybe he could even find some sport.

So it was, Allen strode between the gigantic trees, powerful trees, slender trees and elegant trees, and sometimes he truly admired them, especially a gargantuan oak he believed to be thousands of years old. The necromancer was no druid, but he had no doubt that even a beast with its limited perception could recognize that ancient one. Whenever he put his right hand, the still human one on its trunk, a feeling of life and peace would surge into his mind, like the ever cool water of a deep well. Then huge oak must had seen the wax and wane of several ages, the rise of fall of many empires, the come and go of countless mortals. The Netheril Empire before Allen’s time, the elven kingdoms before that, maybe even the reign of dragons, all these were but ancient memory for the more ancient oak. He couldn’t hope to achieve a legendary life like that, not even as long as an elf’s, but Allen tried something else that made him immortal, and the price he paid for it was nothing in comparison with what he had gained.

As he wandered and mused in the forest, five skeleton warriors fanned out beside and behind him, another in front him as a shield. He wasn’t really expecting to face any threat, but the Pale Master hadn’t done all the work in his life to be waylaid by some mindless brute.

And his caution proved to be wise.

When he wove his way through a particularly dense part of the forest, he felt something, or rather someone. And as Allen turned to inspect his surroundings, he came to stare into a pair of beautiful eyes.

Obviously, the elf with her pointed ears and slender build just saw him at the same time. They were both surprised, since neither of them expected to see anything other than those all kinds of trees. An instant later, they both began to chant. Allen saw the telltale wands thrust in her belt, identical to be a spellcaster’s weapons. Even without them, the cold and dangerous glimmer in her eyes betrayed a sharp and calculating mind trained by the Art. While for the elf’s part, the half a dozen undead bodyguards were no doubt enough for anyone to take action. Allen wouldn’t blame her if the elf chose to unleash a fire ball or a thunder bolt, and simply out of self-defense he would usually throw an equally deadly, or even more lethal spell in his new friend’s way. But this time, he began with a defensive one that will reflect any magical assault directed at him back to the assailant. The moment he completed his casting, the elf spread her arms wide, and thick, milky mist filled the forest around them.

Giving a silent command to his skeleton warriors to attack anything nearby, Allen put another layer of defense to ward himself from fire. The mist obscured almost everything in his sight, so the necromancer assumed that the elf couldn’t see well, either. Yet the seemingly fair situation had in a manner rendered his reflection shield useless. Since his opponent had difficulty in locating him, any assault directed at him would be impossible, instead an area affected spell certainly came into handy. Also, as a common sense, the most effective elemental power against undead was fire.

But the expected attack didn’t come, though Allen wasn’t standing still and waiting for it. He concentrated on the connection between him and his undead servants, and once any of his skeleton warriors engaged with an enemy, he would lash out with a more offensive spell.

A rush of air betrayed the movement of the elf, or it was some creature she summoned for protection, though Allen heard no incantation of that specific kind of Conjuration spell. The necromancer abandoned his previous plan and stood on guard, his left hand grew translucent and poised, ready to attack. Should the elf or her minions be foolish enough to assume that the Pale Master had no defense against a melee attack when his undead servants milled about in search of unseen foes, well, Allen would make her regret it.

But as he waited, nothing came. And he suddenly knew that there was something strange with the elf, something he didn’t quite see but rather felt. The space between them was thick with trees, and he focused first on her eyes and then on his spell-casting. The obscuring mist made him lose sight of the elf, but not the beginning of her next move in the last second. Allen had no time to think about it back then, but now that he had an opportunity to have a closer look into his instant memory, he realized that she flexed her wings.

Black, leathery wings, like a bat’s, or a demon’s.

The necromancer began to feel somewhat beaten. Since their encounter, the female elf had outmaneuvered every move he made. The mist rendered his spell-reflecting shield useless, as well as his skeleton warriors; her taking to the air prevented possible counterattack from himself or his servants; her next move must be an airborne assault, which he was not expecting before it must had already been too late. Without much experience of fighting an enemy possessing the advantage of flying, the Pale Master couldn’t hope to strike back efficiently with his touch of death.

So Allen simply braced himself for the elf’s attack, maybe some hellish power that would surely penetrate his shield against normal or even magical fire. He had read about some incidence in which demons assaulted unsuspecting wizards with hell flame that contained the element of pure evil that burned the very soul. With a withered core, even an eternal shell wouldn’t make any difference.

And again, the reality didn’t match with his prediction. Moments crept by, but nothing happened. Until the necromancer couldn’t wait any longer and attempted a dispelling, only to find the female elf gone, like the obscuring mist.

Still cautious, Allen hastily teleported himself and his undead servants back to the elven tomb to think about this encounter, and to reload his spells. Then he would find out this elf, and find out what, if his guess was correct, was a demonfey doing in this forest.