Free Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) by G. Akella, Mark Berelekhis

all the elements, at the center of which glimmered a spark... Holy Myrt! the archmage exclaimed mentally. That's primeval chaos! How did they... And what artifact do they intend to create?
    All right, calm down, he snapped at himself, bringing his thoughts in order. They're pumping energy into the chalice, and tossing a portion of it below. It wasn't long before it would fill completely. Were he to meddle by destroying the altar, he would throw off the fragile balance of the ritual, and not a stone would remain of the entire stronghold. However...
    The archmage paid no attention to his surroundings, his hearing only sporadically registering the wailing and wheezing of gorhies being massacred by Raena's eight. His team was going to be fine, so he decided to put an end to the necromantic ritual. The scientist in him shouted that whatever it was that had compelled the lord to make a deal with the disavowed—abominations who worshiped only Vill and Syrat, cursed by even the majority of the dark gods—had to be extraordinarily valuable indeed.
    He was capable of working with all sorts of dark magic, but death energy was his favorite. His mind focused, the archmage drew from the billowing power around him, and poured a generous portion of it into the chalice. A loathsome feeling overwhelmed him, and Altus dropped to his knees, retching his guts out. Just then came a soft clapping sound to the right of the altar.
    "Monsieur, monsieur Altus," Raena was shaking him by the shoulder.
    The archmage shook his head, his body awash in the cool of cleansing magic. He struggled to his feet.
    "I'm all right, girl," he wheezed. "Did I miss something?"
    "We..." the sorceress flushed, "I know we were supposed to capture one of those alive," she cast a vicious glance in the direction of the dead necromancers. "But after seeing all this..."
    "It's all right," he gave her a reassuring smile. "Go on down and help the others, I'll linger here a moment," he nodded and started toward the alter, his feet sticking to the slabs awash in human and gorh blood.
    Resting in the chalice was a ring, black as coal, with a large emerald that shimmered slightly from the power that was spilling out of it. The stronghold shuddered suddenly; wasting no time, the mage produced a case of truesilver, shook the ring into it and closed it shut. He then threw the chalice into his bag and hurried downstairs.
     
    Lars was supine, his right arm outstretched at his side and his helm lying nearby. The warrior's blue eyes were looking up at the crimson sky. It seemed as if any second now he would get up and give a familiar wink at Raena—her cheeks glistening from streaking tears, her slacked jaw covered by her hand—then bark at the warriors and mages crowding him to fall in... If not for the ghastly, molten wound on his chest... Some ten feet away lay his finest and final trophy—the twelve-foot carcass of the lord, its eye socket filled to the hilt by the Silver Tear.
    Kan Shyom's voice brought the archmage back to reality.
    "Towards the end, the beast went berserk, and we lost a lot of men," he stopped short. "I don't know how the champion managed to do it, but if it weren't for him, none of us would be alive now." The knight sighed. "It was a worthy death," the commander said quietly, looking down. "Here," he offered Altus a signet ring with an elaborate token of flame. "No one can wear it until the Order's council—you should hold on to it until then."
    The archmage took the signet ring carefully and put it away in his bag.
    "Gather all the dead. Kan, I will lead the ritual."
    "Consider it done," the knight raised his eyes at Altus. "And another thing..." he hemmed and hawed, and finally said, "you should take the Tear. It was very precious to him, and I'm sure he would have wanted his friend to have it." The commander spun around, military like, and left to give out orders.
    "We've lost seventeen," said Saverus, walking up to the archmage from the side; the news