Cold Fire, Hot Fury

At last Malika leaned away from the stranger, shrugging off his embrace like a cloak. She wanted her pain, needed it in order to do what must be done. She reached down and plucked Morduth from the ground where it had fallen.

Mistress, are you alright? The concern in the sword's tone was palpable, and Malika was almost comforted by that.

"No," she replied. The expression on her face hardened as the anger welled up inside her once more, both hot and cold at the same time. Morduth lit up with a low, blue flame in response. "But I will be, eventually."

She looked up at Orthael. "Come, holy man," she said, an edge to her voice. "There be work to be done. I be sworn to exact vengeance upon those of the Dead who destroyed my home," and here her voice cracked just slightly with grief, the blue flame licking along Morduth's edge flaring lightly. "I will find them, Lesser and Greater both, and I will have my retribution. If you be a holy man, truly, then I suspect your path lies with, or parallel to, mine."