The darkfriend rode the dark road again. He had come north many times to meet his masters and take instructions and it was always unpleasant. He looks down at his rotting arms, the holes worn through above his right wrist from still trying to work the staff. It might be the last time to ride in this body he thought. He dared to hope even with the future long ago being stripped from his consciousness. He wanted only the present and fire.
He had brought what small treasures he had collected, a pair of obsidian staves, two gleaming black swords, surcoats, gowns and several thousand crowns. He didn't want to ride this road again.
In thakandar the darkfriend was met with fire. More fire then he had ever known. Ishamael burned out his eyes and put back new ones, used the metal from the gleaming swords to reinforce the worst of the rotten bones and forced the skin to grow back over it. And then burned it all again, healed and burned, healed and burned.
After all, he was a new creature.