"SPEAK! Where is my brother?!"
Baroness Anastari's corporeal form was rent asunder as two axes, one guided by the wind, the other burning, struck home. Bolts of arcane slammed into the banshee, while the Light burned her from within. In the end, nothing remained, save her bracelets, and a single, scorched finger.
"Nothing! She refused to talk.." The orcish shaman growled, hands gripping the haft of his Wicked Edge of the Planes.
"Perhaps he's inside there.", suggested Teledriath, a shining beacon of light in the burning city of the dead. Artisania, clad in robes becoming a magi of her skill, nodded in agreement.