Rest of story, up to the TPB

--
    
   Within the armored walls of the delivery truck, DarkSide 
chewed his lip anxiously, thumbing the safety on one of his 
pistols.  He badly wanted to go out there, to join the fray, but 
he needed to stay with the 'Slayer.  A glance to the rest of his 
team game indicated that the rest of them shared his desire.  
"Th'mages c'n handle it," he assured them, though it was probably 
more for his benefit than theirs.  We're stayin' where we're 
needed mo--"  He stuttered in mid-thought.
      
   There it was again.  The tiny voice at the back of his mind, 
whispering.  Sparks of flame burned brightly behind his eyes as 
he listened.  The hairs on the back of his neck danced.  "He's 
here," he muttered.  The responsive query of one of the soldiers 
was shut out as DS tried to push back the growing urge.  He could 
feel his blood being to warm as the voice became more insistant; 
his fingers twitched nervously, their nails taking on an 
unnoticed metallic sheen.
   
   "Our duty is here," DS muttered through clenched teeth.  His 
troops nodded in response, but his instincts stood resolute.  
Imagery began to flash in his mind.  His blood was burning with 
unbridled rage.  The voice in his mind was now a roar.  In a blur 
of movement, he burst through the doors of the truck.

   The sound of Nemesis' Feral cry echoed above the raging 
magical maelstrom.

--

Battle stuff here

--

   The battle wasn't even a concern to him now, a distant memory 
that was lost somewhere behind the blurring scenery as it rushed 
past.  All there was now was the Hunt- the sole purpose behind 
what he had become.

   Nemesis was free.
   
   He existed as a suppressed part of DarkSide, almost as a 
separate entity and only allowed into being when the call of the 
Albino drove him to battle; but he was loose now, one with the 
earth and the trees and the creatures, and his blood coursed with 
fire and his ears filled with the sound of his own frenzied 
heartbeat and his thoughts were consumed with an insatiable lust 
for blood.
   
   The blood of a Lyran.
   
   The taste of the mage was on the air, so tangible that the 
Maenad felt as though he could seize it in his Claws[tm] and 
choke the wretched life from it as if it were the alien itself.  
His long coat was shed as he lept to the trees, inhaling deeply 
of the foul stench that only the children of the Albino could 
detect.  Not far.
   
   And so he forged onward, driven by the rage and hatred so 
ingrained into the Maenad psyche throughout the centuries.  There 
would be no reasoning with him, no quarter given and none asked.  
He would not stop he had found the mage and killed him, or had 
been killed himself.  Gone were any thoughts that he was 
deserting his post-- such things were no concern.  Only the Hunt 
was important.
   
   The Hunt must come to fruition.
   
--

Battle stuff here

--

   Prak'Al sat motionless amidst a flurry of scrawled runes, his 
concentration turned to reining in the raw magical fury that 
raged some distance away; but no matter how he tried to push the 
stray thought away, the presence of the Maenad troubled him.  He 
at last gave in to the distraction, splitting his attention just 
enough that he could reach out with a probe without losing 
control of the army.  The effort was fruitless, however... the 
Cub was nowhere to be found, possibly evading the probe.  This 
worried the mage, and he invested more energy into the search, 
which became still fruitless.  He gritted his teeth, relenting 
his search to maintain focus on the spongin horde.

   The squeak of his mask in alarm caused him to start, 
completely breaking his concentration.  Hot, animalistic breath 
caressed his ear, carrying a word that had him frozen with sheer 
terror.

   "NYAR."

   He had just begun to turn when the Claws[tm] closed around his 
head.

--

Post-battle stuff