A hand managed to press against Tarrin's chest, and a magical bolt of lightning managed to get the Were-cat off of it. Tarrin's body was driven up by the power of the spell, to land lightly on its feet some ten spans away with a blackened circle in his chest, pain he barely registered. Jegojah rolled to its feet, and it showed that it had been savaged in the powerful attack, armor ripped and gouged, jawbone broken and both pieces dangling limply from their anchors on either side of its head, a huge chunk of both its legs laying in little pieces all over the ground. The straps of its shield had been broken in the assault, leaving it laying on the ground, so it held its sword in both hands now, its mangled expression unreadable and its ability to speak destroyed. Tarrin spat out a mouthful of decayed flesh, then spread his paws wide and crouched down into that slouching stance he used when fighting unarmed.
It was an exchange no less furious than what had happened on the ground, but this time the wounding went both ways. Tarrin literally ignored the sword as it concentrated on tearing the Doomwalker apart, and the Doomwalker took advantage of that by carving up the enraged Were-cat at every available opportunity. Jegojah kept backing up, kept from getting hooked and driven to the ground, where certain destruction awaited it. It backed up in circles, getting ripped up by those deadly claws, but managing to give back as good as it got. Jegojah had used Tarrin's rage against him before, so it knew exactly what to do, and it was doing it perfectly. Back up, keep from getting grappled, and do as much damage as physically possible until the amount of injury the Were-cat sustained was enough to bring it back to its senses.
But the Were-cat showed no signs of backing off, of coming to its senses. It was absolutely enraged, and Jegojah sensed that it would not stop coming until it was dead. And given the horrific damage the Doomwalker had taken, it knew which would reach that state first. So it backed away even faster, getting a chance to open some distance between them, and motioned towards the ground.
"Come!" it managed to say through a shattered face. "Jegojah needs ye now!"
The Were-cat backed up in confusion when a second vile scent arose from the earth. It looked to see a second figure much like the first, armored and helmeted with a visor, the smell of death and the cold of the grave surrounding it like a shroud. This one was stockier than the first, that hated, known scent, stockier and a bit shorter, and it held a large broadsword in its gauntleted hand and a shield strapped to the other arm. It had literally risen up from the ground, a ground that showed no signs of disturbance, like a ghost.
But the Cat was not afraid. One was nearly destroyed, and the second was nothing more than an obstacle to get to the first.
The Cat was quickly disabused of that notion. This second one was every bit as quick and strong as the first, and it attacked with the same mindless fearlessness the Cat itself employed. It charged forward with sword raised, not even trying to defend itself, sword seeking out the Cat's heart immediately. This unusual tactic was enough to put the Cat aback, force it to back up and give ground, defending itself from this strange, fearless enemy. The sword slashed across the Were-cat's upper left arm, just under the brand, and the pain that caused was enough to make the Cat understand that raw brutality was not going to win this fight. It needed a plan, and that meant that it had to give some control back to the Human in it.
As always, Tarrin was a little disoriented when the rage slipped away, and he couldn't remember anything that had happened while he was raging. All he could see was that Jegojah was pretty much well done for, with rips and tears all over its body. It had summoned forth another combatant, he saw, a stocky one with maggots wriggling from between the holes in its visor. Tarrin had quite a few injuries, but none of them were severe enough to slow him down.
That was about all he managed to take in. The new combatant charged him with a kind of mindless intensity, not even raising its shield in defense as it rushed him. Just as it did to the Cat, this confused Tarrin, who backed away from the seemingly suicidal attack instead of attempting to engage. It had to have a reason for being so confident, for being so uncaring for its own welfare, and Tarrin was wounded enough to respect the need to not get any more holes in him. He didn't understand this new assailant. It was obviously undead, but it didn't act like Jegojah. Was it some kind of sycophant or assistant, raised to defend the Doomwalker?
Tarrin backed away from it as it tried to chop him with that sword, trying to puzzle out this strange turn of events. He Summoned his staff back to his paws and used it to fend off this attacker's blows in sudden wariness. What was this thing? He retreated faster than the thing could advance, then turned and scampered up the pile of loose rocks, to force it to come at him over uneven ground. It did so without hesitation, slipping more than once, but continuing to advance.
Tarrin looked down at it, and saw Jegojah standing some distance behind, trying to recover itself. The afternoon sun shone over Tarrin's shoulder, striking the swordblade of this new enemy in a way that made it reflect back the reddening sun's light in his face, turning the blade red to his eyes.
Like fire.
No! It couldn't be! Tarrin looked more closely at his advancing opponent. Though the armor was blackened and dirty, the design and shape of it was unmistakable, the heavy-shoulderded design used by the Knights. The rend in the breastplate of the armor was visible now that he was looking for it, and he saw the black wisps of curly hair extending out from the bottom of that burgonet helmet.
This new undead foe was Faalken!
The dream hadn't been a symbol or metaphor, it had been literal!
It was impossible! They had animated the dead body of his slain friend to attack him! Tarrin backed away, shaking his head in disbelief, stunned at this turn of events. He kept backing away as the dead body of Faalken advanced on him, still swinging that broadsword to try to take off Tarrin's head. They couldn't have! They must have robbed Faalken's grave, stolen his body and taken it back to do this to him, to disturb his rest and force his body to seek out Tarrin and destroy him! Had they no honor, no shame? Faalken had died a heroic death, one filled with honor, and they defiled everything that death stood for by reanimating his body, denying him the peace and rest he had so greatly deserved. No! This couldn't be, it couldn't be happening!
But the undead form of Faalken stalked him relentlessly, stepping forward for every step Tarrin took back, up the uneven slope and further away from Jegojah.
No! It couldn't be! Not Faalken! He'd have to fight his own friend, and destroy him! Those bastard ki'zadun!
Tarrin's backwards motion stopped, and his shoulders literally shook from rage and consternation. Not like this, not like this! How dare they defile the memory of his friend! How dare they use him as nothing more than a playing piece to get to him! First Jula, now Faalken! They were animals, using people until they had nothing left, then throwing them away like garbage!
The dead body of Faalken reached Tarrin's point and raised its sword, then chopped it down at the shoulder of its larger foe-
– -and the blade stopped some safe distance from Tarrin's body, stopped by the palm of his paw, a palm nearly cut all the way through. Tarrin's radiant green eyes seemed to waver in their color and intensity, and a look of abject indignation appeared on his face.
"You… BASTARDS!" Tarrin shrieked, finally breaking his silence. The Weave seemed to writhe at his bellowing cry, and it started to shift in ways that he could feel. He reached out to the Weave, felt it, sensed it, became one with it, then, instead of reaching out and touching it, he drew it inside of himself.