The Prophecy

[Ashgan]

As was to be expected from the ancient warrior, he was not particularly fazed by Jillian’s emotional turmoil; on the contrary, it appeared that he was once again an immovable mountainside while she rocked back and forth like the stormy sea. Or so it appeared, for at the end of the day even Aemoten was but a human, only one who did not allow others to partake in his inner conflicts.

"And what are the principles you adhere to?" Aemoten asked the scarlet haired runaway, without opening a window to his own thoughts or feelings on this or other matters. He had a way of always sounding measured and calm, perhaps even impartial.

What were her principles? Jillian confusedly stared at Aemoten with wet eyes, apparently uncertain what to answer. I... I wanted to be better. I wanted to show them I could be a better mage then them or anyone else in that damned city. On principle. That... that was it. That was it? She had met Vincent, and he showed her black magic. It made an initially unrealistic goal suddenly quite achievable. All it took were a few syllables, and one could unleash doomsday upon potentially thousands of people. Such brutally simple, yet stupidly effective magic and the ability to control – or at least unleash it, equaled magical prowess for Jillian. That was what she had always wanted, then. That mad, childish fancy of hers was so close, so much in reach that she simply dared to grasp for it with his help. Only, things suddenly turned very sour very quickly and before she could quite realize what had happened to her, she had killed men who may have only wanted to seize her and was on the run from the entire state. In a matter of days she had turned from a respectable, if ill reputed liked citizen into an outlawed criminal. It was a disaster that she did not want to admit to anyone, including herself.

“I want to acquire magic on principle, that’s what,” she attempted to say with steadfastness, but the weakness in her voice and the recent tears robbed her tone of quite a bit of its decisiveness, “It’s what I wanted before all of this, and now that this whole mess has happened it’s all I’ve got left, don’t you see? You don’t think much of it, suit yourself, but I rather have something like this than nothing at all to hold on to.”

She was taken aback once more when the Sekalyn voiced even more questions that she had not pondered to great detail before that day:
"What did you want to become - good at magic, that you've told me, but what would you do with the power you would, hypothetically, acquire?" he wondered, further adding how Rodoria as a whole was not even suited to learning black magic, and how she would be better off going to the Northern Drylands to seek the council of a people where the art was practiced freely and legally and whose knowledge on it was undoubtedly superior to Vincent, as well as most other black mages in the northern duchies. Finally, he reiterated his point: what only would Jillian do with her power, once she had it? What only would her goal be if she were to be the most powerful sorceress in the land?

My goal... after? I- I don’t know. I don’t think there is one. Really, when would it be over? Magical power is infinite – or at least, greater than I. I could pursue sorcery until the end of my days and never reach the apex of power, there will always be that one extra step I could take. I guess I figured that, one day, I would simply get tired of chasing the unreachable and decide to do something else. I never thought it would come down to this, of course. With Vincent dead, maybe I won’t stop at all. Maybe I’ll go on until something bad finally happens to me too. Can’t be too long now, right?

While thinking about his words and her eventual response, Jillian gazed at him with empty eyes, visibly caught in inner struggle. She did not scan him or the daywalker at all anymore, instead boring a hole through somewhere behind Aemoten.

What kind of life is that? I’m just going to wander aimlessly, hoping to find some forbidden knowledge that’ll kill me before I find something else that does? Hell, would that even be so bad? Nobody would mourn my loss, obviously. On the contrary, I’m sure I couldn’t even count all the people who’d be happy to hear the sad news on both of my hands. Well, I’m not about to grant them a favor now either, am I? They can rot in Stupor for all I care. So...

Realizing that she had not answered him for what felt like minutes, but was probably less than or equal to only one, she felt that she should say something in response.

“Mh-... I...” Jillian stammered, not quite willing to say nothing but unable to come up with a satisfying answer either. She simply couldn’t tell Aemoten that there was some kind of ulterior motive to her drive, for there was none. Frustrated and ashamed, she balled her free hand into a fist which dangled beside her and turned her head from the southerner, downwards and to the side. With the motion, her crimson hair partially obstructed her face from the Sekalyn’s view.

“... I don’t... know,” she eventually muttered diminutively, followed by an audible sniff and what were probably a few more tears.

“Maybe you should’ve just killed me,” she later added even more quietly, barely hearable, though it was unclear whether or not she truly meant that.

Should Aemoten still mention the part about improving her bags with various useful upgrades that he was willing to make for her, she would not be very responsive towards them at this point. Her entire existence questioned and, essentially, declared redundant, childish and impossible, greater worries plagued her then than her baggage. What good would they do her if her life was not worth living in the first place?

[Dark Jack]

Brand is dead.
Jaelnec's right leather gauntlet was in his left hand, and his naked right hand rested at the charred man's throat, positioned to feel for a pulse even though the owner of the hand no longer paid any attention. Olan's robe and the coat Aemoten had let Thaler use were bunched up beside the inanimate former Cleric of Hazzergash. The squire crouched awkwardly by Brand's head, his expression looking almost distant aside from his eyes, which were wide with palpable desperation, staring fixedly at the other's face.
Brand is dead.
He knew this certainly now, the knowledge was clear in his mind, not clouded by doubt for once, yet somehow, even though he knew this, his mind would not accept it. It felt as though his thoughts were stuck in a loop, rewinding themselves each time they reached that particular conclusion again and again, preventing much other thought-processing from taking place.
Brand is dead.
The wind dried his eyeballs, and after several seconds the dryness was enough of a nuisance that Jaelnec was forced to blink, and somehow this action broke his thought-loop and made him finally accept what he knew was true, causing a surge of utter and complete despair and disappointment to fill him, making everything seem pointless all of sudden. Clenching his teeth hard, the young Nightwalker grabbed the robe and coat from beside the half-burned corpse, and stood, still without taking his eyes off Brand's face. He tried to remember how he had felt when he had saved - or thought he had, anyways - the cleric, of how absolutely wonderful and invigorating a sensation that had been. That event had restored much of the faith in himself that Jaelnec had lost, both in his spirit and his abilities. He had genuinely wanted to save Brand for no other reason than to save him, a selfless desire with little to no apparent forthcoming reward that could help him or their quest. And he had been able to save him, despite everything seeming hopeless at the time, to pull the lifeless man back to the shore and to restore the breath to his lungs. For once, he had done what he tried to do - he had not failed. Only...
Brand is dead.
Jaelnec turned away from the charred body and starting walking back to the others, dragging his feet as he walked and leaving furrows in the muddy soil where he went, accumulating a greater and greater mass of dirt on his boots. He was cold, and he hurt inside, though he could no longer seem to keep track of why that was. His task of gathering the horses was forgotten as he went back to the others, still staring downward in front of himself, his eyes wide and desperate, his shoulders sagging while he carried the robe and coat in his bare right hand, and the gauntlet still in his left hand. He did not even consciously acknowledge when he returned to the others, nor did he raise his gaze to look at them. He kept staring into the ground, seeing Brand's face before him, feeling that horrible lack of activity in the man's throat. His voice, when he spoke, was thin and fragile, and slightly coarse, but at the same time strangely expressionless.
"Brand is dead."

---

"Here," the seventeen-year-old boy said softly, handing a bottle of water to the pale woman before him, offering her a hesitant smile as she accepted it and drank from it greedily, then passed it on to the two children with her, who then returned the bottle - with most of its contents gone - to him. The woman thanked him in an unenthusiastic manner that told him that she had hoped for more help than just a few swigs of water, then her and her dirty children went past him, towards the city gates into Zerul City, where the guards would receive them and point them to the hastily arranged refugee shelter.
He scratched his chin and allowed himself a sigh, feeling somewhat bothered that he could not do more for the Nemhimian refugees than he did - than all of the Ducal Guard left in the vicinity of Zerul City could, with most of them being displaced either to an excavation in Etlon or the imminent wedding in Pelgaid City. So few guards remained, and there were so few officials left to command them, that even he - although he had no power in the city at all - had been forced to step in and help coordinate the efforts to help the steady flow of refugees that had been arriving from Nemhim since late yesterday, and were still making their way one group at the time. Most were exhausted and ragged from the journey from Nemhim City to Zerul City, many were hungry and thirsty, and a disturbingly high percentage even bore gruesome wounds upon them that had the Zerulic healers working non-stop since the arrival of the first refugees to save as many as possible from being confronted by the Wanderer. Wounds the like of which he had never seen before, not even on the soldiers during the civil war. Their injuries looked like nothing that could be inflicted by any weapon nor animal. According to the reports he had received, many of the refugees died on their way to Zerul City, and even though they had already received hundreds here, he had heard that Seclyr City were getting just as many, and people presumed that so did Wenal City and Anaxim City. Refugees were fleeing Nemhim by the thousands, and thousands more had died.
And as if that had not been enough, no one had any idea who was behind the attack. Someone was laying waste to Nemhim, had already vanquished their army and Ducal Guard and conquered the city and was now merrily butchering civilians, but no one would accept responsibility. He did not know whether to be angry or terrified - because unless someone was lying, this thing the refugees described, laying waste to Nemhim, was not working for any of the duchies. And if that was the case... it might not stop at Nemhim. Anaxim could be next. Or Seclyr. Or... even Wenal.

Shuddering at the chill that crawled up his spine, he looked around for a moment, checking for more refugees approaching or maybe even those adventurers Master William told him to look for, who were supposedly on their way and liable to arrive any day now. When he saw no one, he turned around, pulling his brown hooded leather cloak tighter around him to shield him from the cold as he walked back towards the southern city gates. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them in an effort to restore some warmth to them, ill-equipped for the cold autumn of northern Rodoria as he was in his gray cloth pants and jacket and leather shoes. He threw up his hood so that it covered his short hazel hair, his right hand briefly gracing the crystal handle that extruded from beneath the cloak over his right shoulder, the hilt of his rune-sword, the mark of his strength as well as his weakness. Evidence that he was a Rune Mage, a wielder of a powerful rune-sword, but incapable of magic without it. It was his pride, and his shame. To his father, though, it was only a shame.
When he got to the gates, the guards saluted and bowed to him, and he made a noncommittal half-wave at them in return, uncomfortable with the undeserved attention as he was. He was no one of importance, after all - just a student at the Magic Academy who failed the entry examination, but who was enrolled anyways due to his father's insistence that he should study and become a sorcerer.
And that was the root of the issue, was it not? Why everyone treated him differently in Zerul City? Why citizens kept their distance from him, merchants threw discounts at his feet, and the guards treated him as though he was their superior. It was all just because his name was Thomas Remdal, and Dennis Remdal, the Blue Duke's high advisor, was his father. On his own, Thomas was nothing. Everything he was, he was because of his father.

It was then Thomas turned around to scout the area south of Zerul City again, to look for refugees or the questing adventurers he was to receive, and noticed a pair of figures, one human and one penin. For a moment Thomas thought that he had finally spotted the adventurers out looking for a way to end the Withering - a worthy quest, which Thomas had considered taking up himself on occasion, but in the end always stayed where he was - because William Devian had told him that they would be a mismatched bunch that looked remarkable enough to stand out easily. He started walking forward to meet the pair, only to feel his enthusiasm dampen significantly when he realized that these men were not strange travelers, but Zerulics back from wherever they had been. He did not recall the name of the human, but he knew the penin, I'on, quite well. I'on was a friend of the duke, and he and Thomas had met on occasion. Thomas had thought that I'on had left with his father, the duke and the vast majority of the nobility of Zerul to take part in the ducal wedding in Pelgaid, but apparently that was not the case.
Regardless, I'on had been away from Zerul City long enough to not know about the refugees, or what had happened in Nemhim three days ago. Odds were it would not be a pleasant surprise... it rarely was when an entire Rodorian duchy was on the verge of total annihilation.
"I'on!" he hailed the penin, waving his right hand over his head in greeting. He wondered for a moment whether he was being too familiar with the penin - he was considered something of an important figure in Zerul City, after all, and by extension of his friendship with Marcus Zerul, he was a powerful man. Better safe than sorry, he decided, and resolved that unless I'on gave the impression of wanting to act familiar, he had better act properly. He was already enough of a disappointment to his father without invoking the ire of the Blue Duke against their family.

[Hymusia]

Thaler's sleep was deep but even within her dream she could feel the sudden shift of movement that made her stomach lurch. She wasn't sure what happened, she was after all, asleep and in her dream state it did not bother her or strike her as odd that the entire 'world' shook. Though the sleep was indeed deep it was not a true sleep, it was the forced stop of her body as her mind rebelled against her, it was what a person would call a micro nap and while it had felt like hours since she had passed into the realm of sleep it was but minutes in the real world.

Her waking was much like her sleep, quick and brutal, too quick for her body to respond. So as she tried to open her eyes she felt the first pain in them she'd felt in years, like vinegar upon her eyelids and they refused to open. Her arms and legs refused to her obey her and to her dismay as she tried to open her mouth to ask for help that too refused to obey. Panic seized her chest but there was no where for it to go, it had happened before, when she was a child and had worked herself to exhaustion she had felt this same kind of helplessness. In a dream but without it, awake but still sleeping, she was for instance aware that the Witch was still around, she could hear her whining voice from where she was rested against Aemoten's thigh.

It seemed to feel like Aemoten had propped her up, using his thigh as a stool and his arm to keep her from skidding off it so she did not fall into the grime that was upon the floor. She had almost forgotten about the sickly surroundings but as luck would have it it wash er nose that first kicked in and she immediately felt nauseous again. If one didn't know better they'd think the smell was of cooking chicken or pork, they did know better though, the charred meaty smell was people and Thaler more than the others could smell the stench. However her mind didn't focus on the rancid smell of cooked people, it instead settled on how uncomfortable Aemoten must be at such an angle with her weight against him.

Again she attempted to move but her body rebelled against her brain, refusing it access to even the simplest of movements. Briefly her eyelids flickered before the stinging sensation overwhelmed her and forced her to stop trying. Instead she focused on her hands, on one finger, then the other slowly twitching, as if breaking the barrier to a dam feeling rushed hatefully into her limbs. Each nerve ending screamed in discomfort and exhaustion, her fingertips prickled with pins and needles and her heels to her toes following suit. Each muscle connecting to her body ached as if after a full weeks work and her head pounded with a soreness she wasn't sure was new or not. Like tiny Penin drilling their way out of her skull.

A small groan left her lips as she forced her head to move just slightly and it swam violently to the side. For a moment she sat there, the numb pain flooding her body making her regret waking up, then Olan coughed. He was okay, that much was for sure as there was no immediate cry for help from one of the other two. Once again Jaelnec's silence worried her and forced her mind to sharpen, which only encouraged the angry pounding of her head. She couldn’t' tell if her eyes were open or not but it truly didn't matter at this stage, all those gathered save the witch perhaps, knew she was blind.

Olan was still sick and if the voice was to be believed it was her fault, be it directly or otherwise she was to blame. If she hadn't joined the group, if she hadn't been at the church when that woman was so much sorrow could have been avoided. So much misery and pain and heartache for these poor people. Once again she thought of running, so much pressure, so much responsibility. They didn't need her she only bought with her misfortune and tragedy, surely they would see this soon themselves and drive her out themselves. Then he spoke, the voice which immediately quelled her worries, the voice of a knight (even if he did not yet consider himself one). For a moment her fears were squashed and her mind was at ease, the voice was just her own self doubt, her own sense of survivors guilt, it was nothing but mind tricks.

'Brand is dead.' The voice that was supposed to bring her hope and ease only delivered news that in her heart she had been waiting to hear. For a moment her features remained neutral, then they twisted into a small frown before finally into a slightly maddened smile. Of course, the voice may well have only been her fear but it was right, it was always right, by the fury of Rilon she wished it wasn't but it always was. Always. This was all her fault, she'd killed him. Somehow. This one would be harder to track as part of her long web of failures but it was her fault, her curse. Perhaps the coat now held some of her taint, after all the man was fine when Jaelnec had pulled him out the river and now he was dead? Now after she had offered him the coat for extra warmth, only now he died.

The frailness in Jaelnec's voice was worrying but Thaler was fighting the urge not to laugh, biting back a chuckle of frustration and anguish that those more accustomed to death and fighting would be hard pressed to understand. For those versed in madness though it was clear Thaler was dancing on a knife's edge with insanity. Finally her hand obeyed her, moving to cover her mouth as she coughed into it, clearing her throat and spilling a few wheezy snickers. Death was going to follow her everywhere, never mind dancing with Olan she was dancing a perpetual waltz with The Wanderer and it seemed fated to her now that they were joined in such a dance forever. Her friends were ultimately doomed and in a twisted way it was funny. These three men had made her forget about everything that had happened before she'd started living her fake life, separated from the world by a thin veil and now they'd have to pay for bringing her back into it.

While the amusement threatened to bubble from her mouth her head continued to pound and she struggled to think. There was something, something she was supposed to be doing something important. Jaelnec! He'd finally spoken! Now she could hear his pain, his uncertainty, his fear, it was all there like a book for her to read, if only her head didn’t' hurt as much. If she touched him it was quite likely he'd die, he didn't stand a chance in lieu of everything. Though if she didn't reach out he sounded as if he would certainly break, which would not be any good. Kill him or break him, such a wonderful choice and since she was the only woman here it really was up to her to fix things. Her mother had always said if left to a man no problem would ever be solved, she'd been talking about emotions at the time and her father, Thaler's Grandfather.

Kill or break. Such a tricky choice. With an effort she rocked up from Aemoten's lap, one hand finding his shoulder for stability. Immediately the aches in her body shot right up from her tightened tendons at the heel all the way up her back and shoulders to her neck. Various phrases circled the Daywalker's mind, 'you did all you could.', It's not your fault.', even the rather weaker ' I'm sorry.'. None of these though were what slipped past her lip as she fumbled for Jaelnec's hands, “I killed another one?” Her tone was almost as light and playful as Olan's had been before he'd broken into the coughing fit, though a tear slipped down Thaler's face and the sadness behind her sore body hinted she was far from amused.

Had she caught Jaelnec at all, be it sleeve, cuff or just the garments he held she gripped on tightly, almost painfully. “I didn't mean to.” Though it made no sense, even to her the words came out without a filter from the pounding brain, her flushed cheeks still hot to the touch and the illness clearly still within her she hoped it would be taken for fever talk and nothing more. Her shoulders shook as she forced back whatever was threatening to bubble up inside her, How selfish of him to just go and die like that!

[Mercinus3]

Night time had fallen on Zerul City. A few people were asleep while there were a few people, namely the guards, had been awake to make sure that their job concluded before turning in for the night or until their shift is over. In a large building that led into what was a medium-sized shop, a merchant and his personal guards were awake, keeping his eye on the money that he had collected today. Much of the money he had made was from today's sales in the shop front, which was nothing but everyday food and cloth, but there was a few of the Rodlins that he obtained through other means. There had been a few sales behind closed doors where some artifacts from a long-abandoned ruins from a few of his 'contacts' and sold it on to the higher bidder. In either case, the merchant had made a massive profit.

There was a knock on the back door, which he used only for trades that weren't observed by members of the guard. All of the merchant's guards craned their heads towards the door, the merchant only keeping his eyes on the gold on the long banquet table that was in the room. "That would be one of my 'customers'," he spoke, his husky voice filled with charisma that made him able to make sales, "open the door and make sure they enter swiftly". The guard closest to the door, wearing leather armour and armed with a spear, had walked up to the door and moved the wooden block that kept the door closed. The cold air rushed in as the door opened and the guard peered out into the night. He turned his head and informs his leader that there was no one at the door. "I swear that you aren't looking correctly, you fool! Keep looking out for..."

Before the merchant had finished his sentence, a sudden squelching sound was heard from the door, a flash of silver light coming from the guard. All the guards had looked to the lone guard at the door and was up in arms. The poor man staggered backwards, a curved blade protruding from his back. It didn't seem like a blade of a sword as the blade curved in one direction and the wicked edge of the blade followed the inside of the curve. Before the person fell to the floor, he disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the door. All of the guards edged forward, the merchant drawing his own sword as well, towards the door. Agonizing seconds passed, but nothing had happened. "Close the door!" barked the merchant, his charismatic voice tickled with nerves. "Close all the doors! Make sure that whoever's outside doesn't enter this building!" Two of the guards immediately rushed to the door and closed it, the wooden block slipping into its hold very quickly. The other guards did the same with the other doors. For what seemed like an eternity, everyone inside the building paced, their weapons still drawn. If the commotion was heard, then the guards would have heard about it by now and could barge the door down and revealed the merchant's not-so-legal wares in the room.

Suddenly, the dead body of the guard, his white eyes still open, fell from the ceiling. He came to a complete halt above the table, his limp neck broken by the rope tied into a makeshift noose. "They're inside!" the merchant yelped, fear now filling his own voice. "Quick, shoot up into the ceiling and get rid of whoever's inside!" The two archers that were inside notched arrows to their bows and aimed up into the dark ceiling, completely concealed by shadows. A flash of silver later and one of the archer's fired, a luminous dagger protruding from one of the archer's neck. The other archer fired into the darkness, roughly where the dagger came from, but the thud of wood came a second later. He notched another arrow, but another dagger appeared from the darkness, whirling towards the other archer. The archer dodged the knife and aimed into the darkness. Under mysterious forces, the knife suddenly changed direction and embedded itself in the archer's back. Another arrow fired hopelessly into a guard's leg as another body dropped to the floor. By now, everyone that was in the room was completely scared, a couple of them soiling themselves as their still illusive assailant remained in the rafters.

The merchant's eyes suddenly widened and colour drained from his face. His lips trembled and edged away, his eyes focusing on something that was apparently in the room. "Get away, you foul demon!" he screamed, his sword raised and pointing towards one of the guards, his eyes wavering in the space around the guard. The guard immediately moved away, thinking that there was an impeding attack on his own body, but the merchant remained unmoved. Something, or someone, was appearing to the merchant and no one else was able to see them. The merchant suddenly started to swing his sword about, attacking the mysterious assailant. "Keep back, or I will kill you..."

Before the guards had any chance of getting themselves in a defensive position, a black chain shot out from the darkness, a round weight at the end of it, towards a guard and wrapped itself around their head. The weight circled around their head, chain leaving a vicious trail in its wake to wrap itself around his neck. The weight finally stopped moving, its momentum cracking across the guard's right temple. He was then yanked from where he stood into the darkness above, only to drop moments later to the ends of a spear rack in one of the corners of the room. As soon as the body stopped moving, something else appeared from the darkness, revealing itself as a shortened scythe on a chain. It arced through the air and impaled itself into another guard's stomach. The other end of the chain moved over and another tug later, the blade cut itself free through the guard's left side. Blood and entrails spilled out of the dead guard and they instantly fell to the floor.

It was at that point all hell broke loose in the building. To the merchant, he was fending off someone who was completely covered in black while he could see in his immediate tunnel-vision a crimson blur darting around between guards. To the guards, they saw their own assailant that had plagued them for the past few minutes; an assassin clad in crimson armour, though they were moving to fast to note any details. One by one, the assassin swiped and slashed at the guards, leaving carnage of cold-blood murder in their wake. Some laid on the floor, other guards disappeared up into the air only end up being hung from the rafters around the room. One guard had even been taken underneath the table, only a small crimson blur appeared in one of the corner for the briefest of moments. The lone surviving guard was already at one of the doors, trying to get the wooden block free from its hold. His bloodied hands were shaking like a leaf, unable to move the wood free. He froze as he felt pressure on the curve of his back, lips quivering as he whimpered. Then slowly, the assassin edged the blade of one of his knives into the guard's back, steel sliding through flesh, blood and the vital organs inside. The guard's body shook as the blade dug in until it stopped, arms hung loosely along the body. The knife then slipped quickly out of the body, gravity taking the corpse down to the ground. The assassin then disappeared into thin air.

While the carnage still occurred, the merchant still swung his blade at his shadowy assailant. No matter what he had done, the figure easily parried the attacks and, shortly afterwards, was launching seemingly easy attacks that forced its target to keep defending, edging backwards. As the last guard died, the man fell backwards into his chair, snapping his eyes and waited for the inevitable. However, that moment never came and he slowly opened his eyes. His eyes scanned the bloodied room, dead bodies of his 20 guards strewn everywhere, whether by floor or on ropes that came from the unlit chandeliers. Most of the candles that were lit on the walls were out, darkening the entire area.

Out of the shadows themselves, his attacker slowly emerged from the shadows that were near the merchant's chair. It had started to gather its shape until it stood at 5'6". The darkness in the figure started to recede, revealing the assassin. He stood there, his eyes, left bare by the veil that covered half of his face. Every single bit of armour and fabric that covered his entire body, the crimson and goldenrod matching the flames that remained. The 'crown' that sat on top of his head had a small amount of canary sapphires and, which practically stood out from the metal piece that was on the assassin's forehead, sun stones. The merchant noted that if there was any blood that was on the assassin, it wouldn't be noticed easily because of the colour of his attire. "Ssssst-t-t-tay b-b-b-b-ack, demon..." the merchant muttered, fear completely taking grip of him. The assassin slowly took a step forward towards his target.

With a sense of urgency and wanting to survive this ordeal to report to the guards, disregarding the illegal artefacts that were in the room, the merchant instantly ran towards one of the doors and attempted to remove a hinged wooden plank that barred the door. Thud! Before he got the chance to lift the block an inch, a knife embedded itself above the latch. Eyes wide in horror, the merchant reached for the knife and tried to pull it free. "No..." the merchant turned around as the assassin spoke. His enemy's voice was raspy, as if there was something hindering the assassin's speech. Moments later, the chain and weight wrapped itself around the merchant's neck, revealing that the chain connected to the end of the modified scythe instead of being two weapons though the weight didn't cause any damage. "You've wronged my client... You double-crossed him for the last time..." The assassin's rasped on, his speech separated by wheezing inhales.

Then with a burst of speed and surprising strength from the small figure, the assassin tugged hard on the chain, forcing the merchant to stagger towards him. The modified scythe was in hand, ready to strike his stumbling target. While the merchant tried to regain his balance, the assassin tugged at the chain to make sure he carried on stumbling. Finally, when the merchant was very close, the assassin struck, the scythe striking into the merchant's stomach. Using the thumb to hold the weapon in place, his fingers placed themselves over the merchant's mouth, silencing them from the shout of death. He used his other hand to hold the merchant upright. Then, with the scarred eyes moving closer, the assassin spoke, "How much is your soul worth?" The merchant's body writhed with the death throes for tens of seconds until the body went limp. The assassin ripped the blade free from the corpse and threw the body into the sturdy chair it had sat in a few minutes ago. Once done, he gathered the knives that he used, cleaned them and sheathed them on his left side. He then looked out of the window to see someone staring at him from the other side of the street. He looked up at the rafter and then back at the person, his index finger placed over where his lips were. A horse and carriage passed by the windows between the two people and the other person saw nothing but thin air as their view of the room was visible again.

Meanwhile, on the roof of the building, the assassin emerged from the hole that he created within the past couple of days and began to cover it with the slate roof tiles. There was a blood streak across where he dragged his first victim across. He finally placed the last tile just as he heard the footsteps of some guards close by. He looks towards the nearby church and disappears, reappearing near one of the gargoyles that lined the edges of the spire. Throughout the rest of the night and through the morning, he sat there, watching everything that was happening down below. His modified scythe, or kusarigama, hung loosely on the right side of his hip. He noticed someone calling out another being, a penin, into a conversation near one of the walls of the city. Curious about this, he teleported to the roof of a nearby building to hear the oncoming conversation, whether they see him or not is something he wasn't too fussed about.

[yoshua171]

With each step Carti became more and more aggravating, his words grated into I'on's psyche like nails. Then, he simply stopped walking, why were there so many people streaming into Zerul? Usually there were the usual influx, but this was 2...no 4 score that amount. Many looked to be in distress of some kind, in fact as he moved over to ask he heard his name called and turned to see someone it took a moment to recognize. A smile came upon his face "Thomas!" I'on exclaimed, glad to see someone he knew could likely explain what he had missed in his 3 days of absence. Glancing back at the poor women and her child he weaved a quick spell to raise their spirits and replenish their energy with his own, and then turned and headed over to Thomas.

He was fond of the boy, a rune mage, and as he approached with his quick steps -largely to make up for his small but hearty frame- he raised his hand and when he was close enough clapped his hand into Thomas's hard and fast. Grasping eachother's hands in his friendly greeting, the penin smiled up at the boy and then frowned slightly as he saw the drawn lines of worry, tension, stress, and what might be lack of sleep on his friend's face. Letting the human's hand go he took several steps back, noting Carti was actually being helpful and tending to some of what he'd come to know were refugees, I'on was feeling strange.

When he expanded his senses he noted that the aura, the life force of the city and its inhabitants had changed since he left. Looking back to Thomas, worry and curiousity nagging at him, I'on queried the boy "what is going on? I've only been gone for three days and the place is already in what appears to be some sort of crisis," 'as if the Withering was not enough of a problem for Reniam to trudge through.' "...I do hope it is nothing too horrible, It'd be a shame, but my intuition tells me otherwise." Shaking his head, a frown quite prevalent on his face now as he again glanced around, hands on his hips now as he surveyed the influx of distraught-looking peasants and the like. Shaking his head with displeasure his eyes shifted to Thomas again, but he did not speak just yet, no, he had to think first. As such, he gave the boy chance to respond to his earlier queries without bombarding him once more with questions, afterall I'onriyi was a rather thoughtful bloke, he preferred not to stymie progress of any form.

- - - - -

The forest of Schaxathris was a lively place, thought Azsera as she ran on all fours with incredible agility and guile. She hadn't rested since seeing the penin, he had made her all shivery with amusement and pleasure. How wonderful it was to be in the presence of such a being, she thought to herself. It proved wonders to travel so far, for so long, and so fast without tiring in the least. Magic was a wonderful thing was it not? The animals shied from her as she ran, everywhere she went silence spread, it was incredible really to think she had such a profound effect on her environment, fear was a gift really. As she ran she sensed something far off and her feline eyes narrowed only for her to quickly react and bound right into the branches of a tree where she landed with amazing precision and dug her claws into its form. There she perched, in the tree, watching and waiting to see whom was so near. She would not be surprised, no rather it would be the one she saw who would find him or herself startled and thrown off balance by her presence. Afterall, the forest was silent, no that simply would not do. Closing her eyes she let spread the influence of her magics and then it was as if her presence did nothing, she was nothing, a figment, a shadow of energy, invisible.

"Let them come to me so the mother may embrace her children once more," a smile curled upon her lips as she stood to full height in the tree and leaned a hand against a nearby branch for support. She was the huntress, the prowler, an assassin, an ally, an enemy, a whim on the flowing currents of the world. She was Azsera, origin unknown, enigma of Reniam, of her kind. Her eyes would have glittered, but they could not, instead they grew in intensity as a colorful pattern opened up in their centers and expanded.

Soon her magic would take hold again, awake, and do what it would, what it must, what she must; purpose.

[AM Oneechan]

Her sleep was dreamless, but it always was. This was one of he many reasons that she wished she had just been born a human, rather than this abomination she was. Something – a tickling sensation – was urging her out of her rest. Despite the lack of dreams, she still found that she did not want to wake up. She kept her eyes tightly shut, attempting to ignore the sensation she was now awake enough to identify; Thrysh was licking at her ear. With an annoyed groan and an arch of her back, Wikai opened her eyes. It was still dark, was the first thing she noticed. Even without her mask on, her cart was black of night. She could easily see Thrysh, with his shiny scales lighting up under any sort of light.
”What is it, boy?,” she mumbled, reaching out and petting the cat-sized lizard on its head. He raised his head high - standing on only hind and middle legs – and pointed his head towards the exit of their little home. Wikai was alert at once, ”Do you smell something?”
With a small hiss in confirmation, Thrysh scurried out of the drapes that made up the door for their cart. Wikai – grabbing her mask and putting it on as the first thing – hurried out after him. Under the light of the moon, Thrysh lit up like a fire; the silvery light reflecting in his precious scales in yellows and blues. He looked back to make sure Wikai was really following him before scurrying further ahead. Wikai hurried to kick Blaath lightly in the side, even if the huge lizard would feel nothing of it through her heavy armor. She decided that there was no time to wake her, but she did not want to leave her behind. ”Thrysh!” she hissed desperately, not wanting to be loud and attract any attention. Thrysh paused and looked back. If he had not been a lizard – and no one would have listened anyway – Wikai would have sworn that he had rolled his little eyes at her. A few moments later, Thrysh had climbed Blaath and was now running up and down her back to coax her awake. As small as he was compared to her massive body, Thrysh was still heavy with his almost three millimeters thick armor of mostly gold and silver.
Blaath gave a loud groan, but was awoken by Thrysh insistent attempt. Wikai shushed her gently and ran her hand along her steely scales, urging her to follow. Thrysh was already down on the ground again and waiting impatiently for his master and sister to follow. As they finally did, he scurried ahead towards the scents that caught his sensitive nose. They were not long before Wikai was able to smell it, too. That metallic – like rusted iron – and sweet smell that she had smelled far too many times in her long life; the smell of blood. It hung thick in the air. She looked around, mirror-like eyes veiled by the black fabric of her mask scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of such slaughter as the strong scent suggested. At night, with no light but the faint light from the moon to light through the veil before her eyes, it became hard for her to see anything at all.
When she finally spotted movement, it was through one of the windows in the building across the street from her. Thrysh gave an angry hiss, climbing up Wikai's skirt and skin, all the way to her shoulders, where he curled around her neck like a heavy, glittery boa. Wikai saw the man in the window retract his weapon from the man before him; the body falling limply out of her frame of vision. He turned to her and she felt like he blood was turned to ice in her veins as their eyes met. He raised a hand to his mouth, index finger raised across his lips in the universal signal of being quiet. Then he vanished.

“Thrysh!” Wikai exclaimed in an urgent whisper, starling the glittery lizard so he dug his claws into the flesh on the back of her neck. She paid no heed to it, grabbing him around his middle and dragging him down to the ground again, “Thrysh, sniff him out!”
He gave a small snort, flicking his tongue out a few times while his eyes darted around a bit. After a few tries, he seemed to catch a scent and gave a small squeal-like hiss before darting off as fast as his little legs could carry him. Wikai sprinted after him, giving a strangled – from being out of breath – groan as he climbed up the side of a building.
“Blaath, stay on the ground,” she ordered her giant lizard. She gave a groan in reply, scurrying along the side of the house; she had the scent, too.
Drawing two throwing knives from beneath her skirt, Wikai began ascending the wall. Being that she was mostly human and incapable of magic, the only way for her to climb a wall was the old-fashioned way; using her knives. As she had done this more time than she probably should have, the climb was fast. She stuck her knives into the hem of her skirt and hurried after Thrysh, who had begun moving again as soon as she was up.
Jumping around on the rooftops was most likely not something most people did, but it was a lot of fun, Wikai decided. Every time she had to jump from one rooftop to another, she felt a surge of adrenaline in her stomach. The feeling of what if was strong and the excitement put a smile on her face. She even laughed a little when her bare feet slipped a little and she almost plunged to the ground.
Thrysh was making large dents in the tiles where he landed after each leap. It had to take him all of his power to leap that far. It was incredible how such a heavy creature could carry itself so well. He was stopping every now and then, tasting the air with his tongue as if he had lost the scent, only to continue a moment after in another direction than where they had been going before.

After a little while of this, Thrysh finally slowed to a halt, his tongue darting out repeatedly and his gaze fixed on a figure on the next roof. A full out grin broke out on Wikai's face as she crouched down to pet Thrysh before he scurried down to the ground to join Blaath. With a deep breath to soothe the churning of her stomach – the adrenaline pumping around her body – she stood up straight. She figured that she was still far enough away that the man would not have heard her land on the roof. He might have heard Thrysh, though.
She tried to gather courage – she had always been a coward – to go over to him. She wanted to ask him if he would be willing to guard her – being that she was a coward. She wanted to move away from Zerul. She had been there for long enough that people would start to wonder about her lacking aging. She needed someone – anyone capable of protecting her – to take her to the next town. She had yet to decide where she would be going. She had been thinking about going to Relimon and picking some of the over-stuffed pockets there. It could be a bit risky; the merchants there really loved their money, she had heard.
Dismissing her fleeting thoughts, she moved forward. As she leaped to the next roof – her stomach going crazy with the instinctive fear of falling down – another fleeting thought occurred to her; who was to say that this man would not simply murder her?
She had to dismiss that thought quickly as she landed on the next roof; the same roof that the man was on.

[Shienvien]

The red-haired woman had firsthand stared at him in confusion, then feebly and powerlessly affirmed his suspicions that she indeed had no other defined goal in mind but that of simply acquiring magic. Which was, as Jillian had correctly derived, truly an empty objective in Aemoten's opinion, furthermore so because he was quite definite Jillian would never in her life get even close to achieving the skills nor sheer magnitude of power a score of the most proficient and potent others before and after her had and would reach. The would-be great sorceress and envy of all appeared to lack the self-discipline to flawlessly manage casting advanced arcane or elemental magic, her magical reserves were probably quite average more so than extensive, she lacked the thought to safely perform black magic, and even her memory was bound to be mediocre rather than brilliant - no matter her natural skill at manipulating magical energy, which the human warrior had no way of detecting without involving the Weighter, the rest of her did not suggest a good candidate for a great mage. The Sekalyn had spent enough time alongside magically talented folks to tell the basics, even if he himself never underwent the effort of familiarizing himself with specific spells - he had seen no point, for he himself would have made a comparatively poor mage. The human man however also estimated that even with her relative mediocrity, Jillian could have gotten far with the aid of her magic... That was, had she found any form of a decent purpose for herself rather than plunging headfirst into the realm of ridiculous expectations, unachievable goals and steadily dwindling selection of options. 'All she has left' indeed...
Aemoten thought he would know: he considered himself - and for all that he cared about, quite accurately - a fairly average Sekalynic warrior, as far as those went. Their reputation was not exactly from nothing. Had he been matched against any of the more skilled Sekalynic warriors - against Siroton, Tekaton, Sirokatek, Xyrais, or almost any other terakh niatera* -, he would have been defeated thirty cases out of thirty-one**.
He knew that, and it did not bother him the least. That had never been the thing to get in the way of him accomplishing anything. Sometimes he had failed, it was true, but in the end, he had also endured. Through deaths, through wars, through centuries, never broken, never forced to a path he did not choose, never failing to act on principle above impulse, will controlling the body, mind in charge of actions.

Will continue in this way, the foreigner thought to himself for an unknownth time, as if the repetition would help to set it to stone. Maybe it did, maybe it did not, but for that time being the human man was willing to believe that his ways would remain to prevail. It was not the first time the future had looked bleak and continuing onward little rewarding, if not pointless altogether. People had dragged through in the past, and he would find a way to make it so here, too. Somehow, but will.
Strange as it was, but somewhere along the way, the outlander had achieved a state where he was in actuality internally calm, and thus keeping matching exterior took little effort. While he was still keeping to his earlier thoughts, and could still clearly observe the witch's distress, he was now analyzing it in a rather rational, detached manner.
Her's was a sad fate, but their lot were not the right people to aid her in the long run. Her carelessness in using her powers made her about as dangerous to her allies as to her opponents, they were headed straight for the place she would be the least welcomed, and they had no resource to deal with yet another hazardous and mentally unstable person, given that they all combined would probably amount to just two healthy minds ... one of which most probably belonged to Etakar, whereas the remaining one was unevenly distributed amongst the rest. Thusly, sending the witch on her own way was the only right course of action - the most they could do was to offer as much useful information as they had in their disposal and as much material aid as they could afford.
Even as Jillian was seemingly no longer looking at him, but rather staring at some point behind him, her gaze vacant, Aemoten persisted to absently observe the re-haired woman's face (once again not seeking eye-contact), though he likewise seemed to be in thought rather than the keenly watchful alert he had been before. Only for a moment, his attention was diverted as Thaler groaned sleepily and briefly and unsuccessfully attempted to lift her head from his shoulder. The Sekalyn glanced at the weakly stirring, still mostly languid form of the Daywalker resting against his body. Most likely, either his shift of position or Olan's coughing - or possibly both - had roused her.
"Sleep," the human man quietly muttered, and then shifted his eyes back onto the sorceress. It was undeniable that this arrangement was notably inconvenient, and matters would have been even worse, had something required him to draw his sword or otherwise move quickly, but at this time he considered the inconvenience a fairly minor one. It was unlikely Jillian would do something drastic now, and by all rights, Thaler needed and deserved any rest and respite the world could offer her. Koraakan knew that she had been through far too much already, furthermore so in the past few days she had spent alongside them...

Many dragged-out seconds had passed since Aemoten had last addressed Jillian before the witch spoke again. Any form of eloquence had disappeared from her speech; at first she simply stammered, then looked away from him, barely managing to utter: “...I don’t... know.”
And who else is supposed to? In some sense, Aemoten felt sorry for the witch, but that did not deter him. At some point, he had also felt sorry for the three-quarter-demon and regretted that she had her future predestined, but to what result? It did not change the fact that he should have killed the infernal abomination at first chance, without remorse, by the warriors' right, with no regard to Jaelnec's wishes. The present situation likewise did not change the fact that they were better off without the witch and the witch had at least marginally better chances without them.
Now, if he could at least make the red-haired woman see the many faults in her ways, he would already have achieved something. Maybe Jillian was much like 'Annabelle' had been, and would forget her current internal turmoil and painful realizations as soon as he would be out of sight or something else would catch her attention, but at most he could only hope it was not so. Maybe she would learn something, and actually try to change her fate...
It was probably a cruel time and manner for trying to get those kinds of things across, but maybe the effect was greater this way, and the time for making her see the light was limited to begin with. Aemoten had never considered himself a patient and hard to anger person, and neither did he think himself as friendly, understanding and nice as Olan appeared to be.
Not too long ago, he had moreso doubted that this woman altogether possessed any ability to comprehend the severity of her deeds, or empathy, or regret at her actions, or was truly remorseful at her 'dear friend's' death, or even properly managed to understand what it all meant for her in person. She certainly did not look like someone who had thought her life and goals through or planned ahead, the same as she evidently had not realized her deeds and words might evoke entirely different feelings in others. She was pursuing something pointless, and would likely go to her death if she continued this way, probably bringing more innocent others down with her as she went.
If he could make her understand any of it, it would only benefit her...

Why he was trying to find a good solution to the sorceress' problems, the outlander continually did not know, but it was clear that material things would not help much here in the longer perspective. And, he only had counted minutes... For one, he himself wanted to depart as quickly as possible, for the second he had promised Thaler he would.
“Maybe you should’ve just killed me,” the witch quietly added. Aemoten had by now completely ceased to do anything other than dully observe the witch. Not too long ago, the same woman had been promising almost anything just to be left alive, and probably even now hew words were a testimony of her sudden acknowledged lack of purpose rather than an honest wish.
She did not look like a person who would have the initiative to alter her life drastically - or, rather, she did not look like a person who would know how to set reachable goals and find her means for reaching those. It was probable that even if she tried, she would only make a single sloppy attempt, fail, then return to her old ways and soon thereafter perish. And what could he do against it? He had practically no one left he knew well on this land, he knew no good place to direct her to...
While in thought, the Sekalynic warrior was initially only vaguely aware that Jaelnec was slowly making his way over to them, without any of the animals with him. Still, the perception of the other's gait and posture combined with the unfulfilled request got through on some instinctual level, and per reflex, the outlander prepared himself to face even more bad news.
Carefully, seeing that the witch was barely interested in being handed suppliess over at this point, the foreigner set the things he had picked out on top of his bag, thusly freeing his hands as much as was possible with his right arm being positioned to support the Daywalker. The warrior's expression did not change, but if Thaler had been more awake and less occupied with fighting pain and her own body's reluctance to move, she might have been able to feel the man tensing slightly, and attempting to straighten himself as much as it was possible in his current half-kneeling position.

Only once the young Nightwalker had come to a halt next to him did the outlander halfway turn his head to look sideways up at the other - in his current position, Aemoten was not half a head taller than Jaelnec like he would have been standing. The young Nightwalker did not even seem to notice that the foreign warrior's attention was now on him, but rather appeared to stare vacantly at a spot in front of himself and next to Aemoten, wide-eyed and desperate.
That expression came across as unpleasantly familiar to the Sekalyn - one could not easily find something like that on the face of a warrior, for warriors would rather acquire a certain kind of dull hopelessness in their eyes as they slowly stopped caring about the misery dominating the world around them and became impartial towards it all, but on people who were not accustomed to seeing constant death and destruction, their comrades killed before their eyes only to be replaced by others of the allied forces' dwindling numbers, and who then suddenly came to face more than they could handle, one might recognize similar.
- It was not that Jaelnec no longer found the will to gather himself up and do something; instead, it seemed that his mind was fixated on something else but the world around, and that was something the Nightwalker could see too vividly. The last, Aemoten had seen something very similar barely more than two days ago, in the eyes of another young man - on Louis, in the morning after the dreadful events culminating with Brian's death, Jaelnec's betrayal and Usha's return to her true form. Making the surviving Pennyworthy listen to him had been compromised, but possible, therefore it was likely logical to assume that Jaelnec, too, would listen to him, although easy it would not be....
Louis had at the very least had a home to return to, and presumably living relatives there, whereas Jaelnec had neither. He himself had said so - his family had been killed long ago, home burned down, and the man who had been his master during the following years had been claimed by the Withering shortly before the original group had been founded. For the young Nightwalker, there was only them and their quest in this warring and diseased country, which did not quite promise an immediately brighter future ahead. No, there would most likely be more hardships. With any luck, Jaelnec would recover enough to return to mostly normal in a few hours or a day or two. And if he would not? What if something added to the young Nightwalker's condition and furthered it, delaying him from regaining his old self, or worse, broke him entirely and prevented him from it for a long time altogether?
Aemoten might have been too good with handling himself to let it show, but within an unpleasant sense of sinking uncertainty wanted to take hold as he looked at the young Nightwalker's miserable form as the other stood there, holding Olan's robe and his own deep blue overgarment in one hand - holding both of the things which had been used to try help the burned former cleric to retain some warmth. It was not hard to correctly assume what had been the last straw, even before Jaelnec himself feebly voiced it.
"Brand is dead."

At first, Aemoten could not get his mind to do anything with this bit of information. He had already known that Jaelnec would say that from what the young Nightwlker had brought with him, and even before, he had been aware from his experiences that it would probably come to this.
A person who was in extreme pain simply did not lie motionlessly on ground, relaxed - and Brand had to have been in excruciating agony, unless his flesh had been so burned through that he had no nerves left to feel pain with. A person would be very evidently trying to endure pain or screaming out from it unless the one had truly impressive pain threshold or self-control (or was for some reason incapable of feeling pain). Only those who were truly dying looked fairly indifferent, and if a person managed to 'fall asleep' right after being subjected to truly grievous injury, it was more likely that the one was slowly dieing, and could simply no longer maintain consciousness. And had Brand been visibly terribly suffering, Jaelnec probably would not have decided to wander off to begin with. Evidently, the Nightwalker had not put two and two together and realized that the lack of response to pain meant not the lack of pain, but the dwindling ability to react to or sense anything at all.
Furthermore, while Aemoten had not had the chance to take a proper look at Brand after the incident, he could easily estimate that Brand had been engulfed in fire for long enough for his entire skin to be destroyed by the heat. The old warrior roughly knew which injuries were lethal and which were not - this one certainly was one of the kind. It simply could not be survived. Not by natural means, anyway.

There had been a man by the name of Imanrep, pronounced dead along with a good number of others as a victim of betrayal - there had not been enough time or resource to do proper checking of each individual allegedly dead person at that time, let along to go physically over to each scene to do investigation, so as soon as the knowledge of his fraction being eliminated became known, he had been counted in.
A few weeks later, the man had returned, and while he had always been a lean fellow, he had came back from his presumed death looking - as the descriptions went - like naught but a skeleton held together by tendons and oddly thin semi-transparent skin, also lacking ears and, amongst other things, most of his right hand. He had then went on to orchestrate the capture and killing of the traitor, only to disappear for nearly four years once the task was completed, after which point Imanrep the half-hand had made a second reappearance and entered and actively participated as a mid-level leader in the finale of the last great war between the Sekalynic peoples and the Egemites.
He had however never quite returned to being the same kind of person he had been before everything, or so it was generally claimed - that he had not always been the suspicious, distrustful, merciless and intolerant individual he had become after his close confrontation with a death of the most unpleasant kind. Aemoten could not argue against those claims, either, since he only had gotten to know the man after his second return - by then Imanrep the half-hand was once more looking like a human, and had managed to restore his right hand (which did not stop the nickname half-hand from persisting), ears, and possibly other missing body-parts. It had been because he had heard that he had been skinned alive that the human warrior had recalled the guy, but people said all kinds of things. Aemoten had never asked for any clarifications on those matters, especially not from him personally.
Did not matter, in any case.

What did was the undefined feeling that Brand had not deserved the kind of death he had suffered - barely anyone did, but from somewhere, the foreigner had gotten the impression that Brand had been but a person caught in the wrong kinds of events rather than a truly evil one who honestly supported Hazzergash's ways and had served the demon lord because of that.
The former cleric had lied to his face, that was true - but why? To save the life of a person he had just met and, by the sound of it, dragged out of a rather unpleasant place. Sadly, that particular stranger had not appreciated his effort to help her and the result could be plainly seen now. Brand was dead, killed not by Jillian, but his own former lord, who had furthermore spared Jillian - apparently, helping random strangers was not the devil's idea of good service, but accidentally murdering a score of unfortunate mostly-innocent people was. Not too surprisingly.
Slowly, the human warrior shifted his gaze back to the red-haired witch whom he had been talking to prior to the interruption. It was now significantly harder to focus on what he had meant to say to her - a living person who might or might not still be able to change her fate rather than a dead one. Technically, there was no reason for Jaelnec to inform him of Brand's death now rather than later, although judging by the look on the young Nightwalker's face, he was barely capable of sitting down and thinking through in which order things were best done. If the former cleric's condition had simply suddenly worsened, or if there was something else which somehow required Aemoten's immediate attention, then yes, but now... There was nothing that could be done for Brand anymore.
Or was there? The Sekalyn's eyes flickered from the sorceress to the dekkun towering by his side; the human man was seemingly contemplating for a moment.
"Arekerjetea alan,***" the outlander suddenly requested, his voice kept low and measured. The large creature finally averted his eyes from Jillian, raised his head, and looked at the human warrior, as if surprised or seeking for a confirmation that the words were indeed meant for him.
"Ienal, eleranorakh,****" the Sekalyn further specified, and Etakar's eyes moved from his rider to the severely burned corpse in the distance to which he had paid literally no attention up to this point. For some reason, the beast then paused to look at Jaelnec, momentarily observing him in the same quite unnerving manner he had earlier, then fixed his eyes back on Jillian, as if attempting to figure out whether it would not be better to just preemptively crush this troublesome individual, or at the very least as if wanting to opt for resuming watching her every action closely. If she did not do anything particularly interesting, the dekkun simply heaved a deep, strangely humanlike sigh, and turned away from the little cluster of people to head for a rather unambiguous patch of uncharred ground several yards away from any of his humanoid companions. Assuming that nothing alarming had happened by then, he rather unceremoniously unfurled the three long fingers of one of his forefeet and pressed the claws of those into the ground, effectively and seemingly effortlessly removing almost three square feet's worth of grass along with its layer of roots with the next move.
Still listening to what was happening back by the living humanoids and occasionally turning his head to glance at the progress of things, Etakar continued what he had started - again, provided that the magic-wielder did not attempt something suspicions and nothing else demanded his attention. He personally did not see much point in what he was doing, but as it was part of humanoid customs...
Then again, there was about exactly one person in whose name he would agree to participate in pointless human traditions.

And that likely settled at least one thing, figured Aemoten, dully following Etakar with his gaze before letting his eyes glide over Jillian, briefly finding Olan, and then fixing those on Jaelnec again. Even though he had been speaking to the witch prior to the interruption, he still felt he should tell the Nightwalker something before resuming his former conversation, whether or not he would even be able to listen to him.
The outlander was, however, once again interrupted before he could do anything as Thaler suddenly started coughing, then snickering. Her features had contorted into maddened smile unfit for the circumstances, but she was most definitely no longer sleeping.
Aemoten did not immediately stop the Daywalker when she rocked up and stood, although at this point he could only wish she had listened to his advice and remained asleep, and slept through the unfortunate news.
Whether it was because of the sudden shift in temperature now that Thaler was no longer leaning against his chest or something else - he was not cold, especially since he was the only more-or-less weather-appropriately dressed person about, minus the no longer existent boots -, but a slight shiver ran down his spine. Strangely enough, he seemed to altogether lack a defined expression at this moment.
Then Thaler spoke, and for a moment he felt as though his body had gone numb, even though he could still clearly feel the clothes against his back, the cool air against his face, and himself breathing. About at the moment he realized the last, he ceased to breathe, and simply stared at Thaler.
Too many things were happening at once to be properly handled. He could deal with any of the three, at most he could deal with two of the three, but all at once were not manageable. At that moment, it was Jillian he abandoned for the time being.

Suddenly, Aemoten drew in a sharp breath and appeared to regain his ability to move, and on the next moment he was standing, having risen from his half-kneeling position, side-stepped, and managed to catch Thaler's fumbling hand. His other hand he had placed on the Daywalker's opposite upper arm, near the shoulder.
"No, not you," he told to the blind woman. "Hazzergash did." The human man spoke with steadfast conviction, his voice quiet - however still loud enough for Jaelnec to hear it, if he was paying attention - and seemingly still calm, but his speech was more rapid and less measured than before. It could not be seen, but at this point his hands were trembling slightly. It, however, could be felt, if Thaler could notice it.
He had the bizarre feeling that something immensely strong had wrapped itself around his torso, but yet he felt no pain and could breathe unrestricted. For some reason he also had the feeling that Thaler would try to tear herself free at any moment, like she had evaded him the past few days. She was crying, and seemed to be on the verge of a hysteric fit.
Some part of the human warrior would have wanted to simply hold her close and wait until she had calmed down, but combined with the feeling that she would try to rid herself from him, he did not dare to. Some part of him was afraid that she was another person who might not endure everything that was happening. Some part of him hoped that Jaelnec had not even heard the other's words or seen her distress and the tears on her face - that certainly would not help anyone; Jaelnec was already feeling down enough, and witnessing Thaler react to the news in such a way would certainly no help any... Some part of him knew he should do something, now, but he was not certain what exactly and thus his body did not comply. Some part of him would have even wanted to punch something hard and completely unyielding with his full strength put behind the blow, as if his uncracked knuckles were somehow an affront to someone. At the very least, the pain would have provided a noteworthy distraction.
The outlander still mostly lacked a defined expression, but his eyes had widened slightly.

And how is this now helping anyone? Aemoten drew a deep breath, swallowed, and closed his eyes. The slight trembling in his hands ceased, his breathing returned to normal and even his heartbeat started to follow suit. He was not sure since when, but had started to hold his breath once more. For the moment he focused solely on regaining control over himself, again. His eyes, when he opened those again, turned first vacant and almost glassy, then his gaze became piercing and unreadable. His expression was once more completely calm, and his body as if relaxed, though he could, and would react at a moment's notice if need arose.
The odd feeling in his chest persisted, even got stronger. Dread of a kind, Aemoten now figured. Not important. He thoroughly looked unwaveringly calm and composed again.
Somewhat hesitantly, the foreign warrior let go of Thaler's hand to try and wipe away the tear-trail on her face with the back of his index finger, then set his hand on her shoulder-blade. If she wanted to step closer, she could, but on his part he could just as well remain standing at half an arm's length. If only she would not try to flee, again...
"Quiet now," he insisted, if barely audibly and in an oddly soft tone which seemed to thoroughly conflict with his current look. Something stung inside, but it was ignored. "Say no more. Later. Try to calm down now."
Aemoten shifted his gaze to look at Jillian, but when he spoke again, it was mostly aimed at Jaelnec rather than the witch. Now, his words came at normal speaking volume and were measured and grim.
"There was likely little that could have been done to prevent it, even with my powers. I asked Etakar to dig a grave; at least that much could still be done." It had felt like the right decision. Not only was burying in the soil the easiest to arrange with Etakar's presence, but a pyre or water-burial for a man who had first been burned to the verge of death and then drowned on top of it would have felt like a mockery of Brand's memory. Neither fire nor water managed to properly kill you, you died later from the damage, but one of the two will get you, anyway? Rather not.
Only then did he turn to the witch again, though he no longer was truly with her in his thoughts. In truth, he had also forgotten what he originally intended to tell her. Neither was apparent, however.
"Then you should pick an aim, Jillian. There are people in the world who will not turn you away simply because of your past, and places that'll regardless accept you. If you do not want to settle down, join a cause of the right kind, even if it is not with us. The other of the two practitioners of forbidden magics we met in the past days was an outcast from Zerul, similarly to you - that did not stop him from trying to find a cure for the Withering."

_ _ _


*'Terakh' literally meaning 'a warrior' by the Sekalynic definition, whereas a person whom other people might also call a warrior, a Sekalyn might rather opt to label an 'iatraknar', a term which can be considered mildly derogatory and strongly suggests that the speaker does not approve of the person's ways and considers the one to be not properly self-disciplined, lacking agreeable moral standards, or having otherwise undesirable qualities which do not let the one to be called a proper warrior, especially in terms of mind and way of thinking (a very stereotypical idea of iatraknar would be that of a savage and overly impulsive pillager-type who would kill and participate in battles simply out of bloodlust or some generic desire for reward or glory). An individual who has not lost the right to carry weapons by the Sekalynic laws, but is not considered a warrior, would be called 'setirakh' (occasionally, though somewhat inaccurately, translated into 'sword-carrier'). A soldier, which does also not equal a warrior, but also is not an 'iatraknar', would be an 'iantharak', which is a practically neutral label. Someone completely deprived of the right to arm themselves - which is about as low as a person can drop without acquiring a kill-on-sight status in a Sekalynic society - would be a 'khyolonth'; foreigners usually tend to interpret the latter as slaves, but this conclusion is technically incorrect.
While by this terminology people could be divided into khyolonteth, setiraketh and teraketh, there were also subdivisions to those groups, most notably warriors - teraketh - were further divided into iatkanet and niateraet according to physical skill and capabilities, with iatkanet being the less formidable opponents of the two (and Aemoten being a terakh iatkan). There, however, was no distinction between a niatera-warrior and iatkan-warrior in terms of right - their decisions had equal cost, niatera-warriors had no privileges over iatkan-warriors, and for one's good skills in leadership, an iatkan-warrior could easily rise to be in charge or any number of niatera-warriors. In practice, the distinction came to be to help with telling a person's capabilities without any further tests; niatera-warriors were generally set to tasks which put them under greater strain in conflicts.
[All terms given in Lower Sekalynic.]

**The Sekalyns do not use the decimal system, from where the somewhat unusual 'round' numbers.

***"If you would, (please) dig a hole (for someone)." [Lower Sekalynic]

****"A grave, for the fire-burned one." [Lower Sekalynic]

[Ashgan]

It took her a while to take note of Jaelnec, who had been dragging himself more than anything towards Aemoten and the two women. Only moments before his stop she tilted her head towards his directions, though not properly facing him or Aemoten for not wanting to show that she had cried again, even if it had not been much. She hated crying and more than that, she hated being seen doing it. Jillian took a deep breath and calmed herself, then brushed her empty hand across her face once again. By the time she lowered it, Jaelnec had come to a halt and announced unceremoniously, and without as much as looking up to anyone, that Brand had died.

So what? Good! What do I care? Can’t you see that the grown-ups are in the middle of something?!

Jillian measured Jaelnec with the kind of moody, disapproving gaze that she had shown earlier when she had defied Aemoten at the beginning of their acquaintance. Something was wrong with him, though she couldn’t quite tell what it was. What, was he in shock? Really? Over the death of something like that? Had he even looked at Brand? It was a miracle he had been alive before in the first place! It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him, that foolish boy. Good riddance anyhow, she could have never forgiven him for hitting her like he had. The scar would last a good while and she could only hope it would go away. Thinking of the mark, she gently touched the spot, as if hoping to find that it was not there anymore. Of course, she was disappointed when her fingertips were met with the hardened, rough and uneven surface of a sore scar. Hope you rot in hell, bastard.

When the feeling of annoyance dulled, she peeked at Aemoten to see his reaction to the so very unfortunate news of a demon-worshipper’s demise. He seemed little phased by the announcement, much like Jillian herself, though he showed none of the hostility that she did of course. Even so, he did not reply straight away, apparently not having anything in particular to say about it. And what would he say anyhow? If Brand was dead, then he was dead, end of story. Though kind, Aemoten did not strike Jillian as the kind of man who would lament the death of a stranger.

“Just drop him in a ditch and be done with it, then,” Jillian muttered beneath her breath, only audible to those who would actually pay attention to what she had said. She crossed her arms while she waited for Aemoten and his squire – she imagined, anyhow – to finish discussing Brand’s death. The foreign warrior issued some kind of command to his nightmarish beast, which trotted off towards the cultist’s burned corpse only after unscrupulously inspecting Jillian one last time as the damned creature had taken a liking to doing. If only she could, she would have loved shoving a dose of arcane fire into the thing’s body so that it might stop harassing her with its damned eyes. Next, to further prolong an already vexing and interruptive situation, Thaler suddenly woke up and sprang to life again with a wicked smile and some odd coughing that sounded not quite right, as if she had only coughed to cover some other thing she had wanted to say. With that, she eventually got up to her feet again, mercifully leaving Aemoten alone for a while (which Jillian was actually happy about since she had been peeved about Aemoten having to support her earlier) and walking up on the young nightwalker. Disturbingly, she then asked him whether she had killed another one, further insisting that she hadn’t meant to.

She’s nuts, Jillian thought. Not thinking of it as an insult, she was quite convinced at that moment that Thaler might actually just be crazy. It would certainly explain the rather awkward moment between the two women just before, which had lacked any form of rational thought. And she was dangerous too, Jillian knew. Seeing Thaler like that, standing with one and a half foot in madness, Jillian contemplated feeling sorry for the girl. Maybe it wasn’t her fault after all, that she was insane. People like that existed, thrown into Reniam without a healthy mind. Sad thing, but it happened. Still, if she was right then it did not quite explain why Aemoten would have insisted so that Jillian would not join them; he was willing to travel with a totally crazy woman who wielded an unfathomable kind of powerful magic and who was willing to use it without rhyme or reason – or warning! – against anyone she so chose, but the company of a witch was too much? Yes, Jillian knew she had a bad temper she could not control and that she might have a tendency to be eccentric at times, but she did not consider herself to be such terrible company, especially compared to a lunatic such as this one. Maybe they just didn’t want me interfering with their disturbing love triangle. It would have certainly made things more awkward for them if I were there, staring at them. Would also explain why the old geezer is the only one who didn’t readily insist that I leave. Maybe he would have even liked if I had stayed to put an end to the debauchery. Sigh, no matter, it's not my concern, and I shouldn't talk - I'm no stranger to debauchery.

Before the bearer of ill news could answer the mad woman, Aemoten approached her to reassure her that it had not been her doing after all, instead putting the blame on the vicious demon known as Hazzergash. The one whose flames did not touch me. Favored by the demon... the irony is stunning. After attempting to calm down the daywalker, Aemoten once again looked upon the witch, though only to reassure her that he had not forgotten about her as his words did not feel directed at her at all. The explanation of his decision to let the monstrous Etakar dig a grave for Brand passed Jillian who had no real interest in the cleric’s fate. The Sekalyn was clearly the only one who made this little enterprise of theirs possible – everybody depended on him, needed his approval, his comfort, his wisdom and his shelter. It was plain before her: save for Olan, who seemed capable enough for an old man, Aemoten was the one tasked with ensuring the physical and mental well-being of all of his peons. Thaler, sick in mind and body as she was, depended on his care to survive, and the squire appeared all but inept without the guidance of a real man such as Aemoten. Jillian was capable enough, she thought. She did not need to further bother the southerner by being yet another liability. She was independent, and he was busy as it was.

Just as she had gotten over her previous frailty, now fully facing Aemoten and the others once more with a more steadfast gaze, he too seemed to finally resume his train of thought from before.

"Then you should pick an aim, Jillian,” Aemoten suggested. He explained that there were places in this world where Jillian would be accepted in spite of her dubious practices, places unlike Zerul, and if she did not want to settle down he suggested she should find a cause worthy of pursuing instead. Interestingly, he mentioned one of the two mages he had encountered in the days before, saying that this one had been an outcast like herself and that he had made it his goal to search for a cure to the plague that culled Rodoria’s population.

“I don’t think I want to settle down. Not yet,” Jillian answered dryly but not unfriendly, “What else can you tell me of this mage? Maybe I should seek him out for now. That’d be a good start, right?”

Against all odds, Jillian’s current expression and tone could almost be described as optimistic, or at the least as rational. In any case she was not rebelling without a cause, nor was she weeping in self-pity, which was an improvement by all means.

[Hymusia]

For a moment the world was still, or it seemed that way, to Thaler it was the stillness in the eye of the storm. It was almost as if she could feel the biting winds around her, the movement of her own memories, thoughts, the words of others, the feel, the smell, the noise. All of it bombarding her troubled mind while she stood, calmer than she had ever been, in the center of it all. It was a false calm, she knew this, she felt it, but all the same such serenity, such a quiet bliss was not something she wanted to throw away. On the knife edge between madness and sanity, between losing herself and remaining herself, balanced so precariously that even the slightest breath would throw her one way or the other. One word, one phrase, one sentence, which would it be though, would it be salvation or damnation?

Her hearing was far too good, her frantic mind declared, for the first words she heard since she spoke her concerns were those of the diabolical witch. “Just drop him in a ditch and be done with it, then,” The stillness was gone, now she was instead swept into her thoughts, her mind literally began to white out and her body moved by reflex. The decision was made, it was out of her hands now and really, wasn't this better? No more pretending, no more caring, no more trying to be a good person. Look at this devil - she killed, stole and took what she wanted from life. No remorse, no compassion, no kindness, no guilt, no shame, no idea what she had done. Such a child, but even a child knew when they had done wrong, when they had hurt people, when they ought to be quiet and humble and when they ought to show a hint of regret. Jillian was no child, she was a demon, a foul and dirty demon.

Her mind tried to reason that the woman had not known him, but then again, nor had Thaler and her blood had lit aflame the moment the witch opened her filthy mouth; furthermore, with her inept magic and her inability to understand simple things, the witch had proven she was unstable. Then again, Brand had been a worshiper of Hazzergash... Should people be judged by the lords they followed or those who chose them? The man had shown his salt by trying to protect the woman, eradicating the evidence of her heinous crime of ineptitude, further protecting her from them and then trying to keep her safe when he could no longer hide it. Whatever his reasons for such an act, it was noble and at the very least the bitch should have kept her mouth shut rather than spoken up.

“Speak well of the dead.” She hissed beneath her breath, inadvertently having squeezed Aemoten’s shoulder as she stood, her nails digging into his flesh her anger seething. She wasn't sure why, she knew this wasn't appropriate, that this would only further damage Jaelnec and yet it was as if a current had caught her and she was simply being swept away with it. “Leave, leave now, get out of my sight, get out of my hearing, just go. Or I will kill you.” Whether Jillian acknowledged this or not seemed inconsequential, she released Aemoten and appeared ready to scratch at Jillian's eyes. Her tone had been light and perhaps even joyful, and with a wide grin on her lips it seemed she had lost it. Her mind failed to collect what was happening even as she staggered upon her feet, she fully intended to lunge for Jillian but a steadying hand had touched upon her shoulder and then quickly caught her hands.

For a moment he commanded her whole attention, his warm guiding hands a thin scrap of light at the end of her delirium. Without sleep, guilt-ridden and grief-stricken, surrounded by the stench of cooked meat and blood, forced into the company of a compassion-less monster, every second gnawing at her brain, the brief rest she gained full of voices of hate and pain. She trembled like the last leaf of autumn that clung defiantly to the branch, and lightly her fingers gripped his back. She was scared, frightened and yet somehow excited.

This demon had gotten through life, her ugliness, her hatred, her black murderous heart had not stopped her. Perhaps then trying to be good was in vain? Perhaps caring whether people lived or died was a pointless fad? Perhaps she ought not to care, whether she did or not, people were going to die, either by her hand, her curse or other means. No matter what, people always died, and no matter how hard she fought it, those around her were in the blast zone. So what did it matter if she killed one disgusting witch? One horribly broken human, so deformed it no longer even resembled its race? What did it matter if she killed one hundred, one thousand? Did none of it matter? She had hoped to be a good person, she had suffered greatly and her rewards had been slight, but this woman caused suffering and she had been granted more gifts than one could fathom. How was this the just and free Reniam her mother had spoken of?

Hazzergash did it? Thaler was not convinced and she shook her head vigorously, no, the demon did this, the second demon that walked in human skin. This one commanded even less of Thaler's pity though and warranted even less kindness, a monster did not choose to be born a monster, it just was. This, this abomination was choice and greed. “The code of the Will states very clearly what I must do to demons, Aemoten. Jaelnec is too good and too kind to do what needs to be done, but I don't mind. She isn't human, Aemoten, she's cast aside everything that makes her human, so I have to kill her now, alright?” She spoke gently, as if it were her trying to calm an enraged Aemoten and not the other way around. She could cut off her head, nay she'd make her drown where she sat, no, she would ask Etakar to rip off her head and bury it, rather fittingly, with Brand, of course first she’d have to locate him but that wouldn't be too hard. No better, she would bury her alive with Brand's corpse as her punishment.

She pulled slowly away, her fingers dropping to Aemoten's hip where his sword hung and lightly they captured the hilt in them. She was though as if frozen when Aemoten wiped at her cheeks, and she blinked, as if confused about where she was and what she was doing. This was long enough for him to utter magic words that dissolved the heat and fire in her veins, the hatred and boiling rage that had become her means of mobility for the short duration. Once again she trembled like a leaf and once again her mind filled with turmoil, “But...” she whimpered, quiet and scared once again, so confused, so in need of sleep and food and reprieve from all of this. “She is evil, Aemoten, that man did so much for her and she... she is not human, she isn't. Please, make her leave now, remove her or let me go so I can. She is as foul as this place now is, she is tainted, I can't stand it any more, I can't. Please.”

He hushed her, quieted her and uttered words of harsh truth that Thaler didn't want to hear. She stopped trying to hear, she didn't want to hear or feel or see anything. She wanted to fall back to that moment just before the voice, where everything was gone, weight, direction, even thought all had faded. She had yet to release the sword hilt but her fingers now only rested on it rather than ready to draw, unless he'd brushed her off it, he continued to hush her and uttered something that seemed a waste on her. Then it dawned on her: it was likely meant for Jaelnec, the man had tried to save his life, had risked his own to do so, and now he was dead. 'So selfish...' Jaelnec was in pain, he wasn't okay, he was broken and he had no one to cling to. Alone, what a horrid word it felt at moments like this and perhaps in retaliation to that thought she completely dropped her grip and reached for Jaelnec from her position, her eyes seeking out the nightwalker even if it were a vain attempt. “He's not okay.” She whispered for Aemoten's ears only.

Jaelnec was the one who showed the pain on his sleeve but was stronger than perhaps even he gave himself credit for, while Aemoten hid his pain deep inside behind a thick shell of strength. They were the opposites and yet so the same, what was the likelihood of the pair finding each other? Why, it almost seemed like fate. "And that is another reason why you should try to calm down above everything else. More not thought-out words and actions - from any of the people here - aren't bound to help anyone now. Once the witch has left, then - when it would be just us here yet again, but not before. I'll try to make it as quick as I can; the quicker we'd get everything done and this place left behind, the better. Until the witch is gone, please, just try to calm down... Okay?" Aemoten spoke as if comforting the mad, perhaps now she was mad. His words made sense, so much sense and yet it was like they were oceans apart.

She needed sleep, she needed to stop, perhaps that was the problem, perhaps she had broken her body and with it damaged her mind by staying awake so long and neglecting it’s basic needs. It was running on memory and there wasn't a lot of coherent memory left to run on. Nodding meekly she did her best once more to calm down, gripping and releasing her hands into fists, forcing shut her eyes, though she wasn't sure if they’d even been open, trying to take deep and steadying breaths.
When had calm become so hard to find? Her skin crawled and ran goose flesh as fingers went unexpectedly into her hair, a further calming motion no doubt and it bought forth a small whimper. When had she gone mad? Was this true madness? How would she find her center again? Aemoten’s arm had loosely made its way about her as well, she could feel it against the small of her back. Not heavy, not restrictive, supportive. She had to calm down, for Jaelnec, for Aemoten, for herself even!

[Mercinus3]

The assassin looked on at the penin and human, who appeared as a rune mage, conversed with each other, by the use of a greeting. He looked on the rooftops around him and on the wall to make sure he wasn't spotted by anyone that was on them to take him by surprise. He also took in the memory of the entire rooftops, should he needed to defend himself or escape if there was an overwhelming force. He would need to leave the city soon as the merchant or his guards' death wouldn't go unnoticed, especially if the person at the window let the Zerul guards know about the massacre in that building. He was pretty sure that his description spread throughout all the duchies, so he was pretty sure he wasn't leaving as easy as anticipated.

He heard dull thuds, as if something heavy landed on the slates on the roofs behind him, but he ignored it. He walked towards one of the chimneys that were on the building, noticing a few Zerul guards walking on the ground below. While they didn't notice them, he still wasn't sure if the penin or the rune mage had noticed him earlier watching them. "What is going on? I've only been gone for three days and the place is already in what appears to be some sort of crisis. I do hope it is nothing too horrible. It'd be a shame, but my intuition tells me otherwise." From the sounds of things, the penin, who took the name of I'on, had been away from the city for a while and was not sure about what has happened in the city, but he appeared as a being an important figure of the city and, along with the human called Thomas, the massacre would probably be noticed and spoken about shortly.

Meanwhile, the dull thudding got louder and louder, the noise definitely coming from behind him. When it suddenly stopped, the assassin was already on his guard. The one thing he wanted to know was the conversation that the two figures below were talking about, but the thing that was behind him was rapidly becoming a priority for his attention. The rune mage hadn't spoken in the while, probably meaning that he was still thinking about what to say. He heard scraping noises as the thing behind him descended to the ground below. An ore-lizard, the assassin thought, guessing with some certainty on the origin of the sound. He then heard another, much softer, sound a short while afterwards. If the thing he had assumed before was correct, it could only mean one thing. If there's an ore-lizard, there would be a master. Concealing his movements, he drew one of his knives, the edges made of what appeared to be stainless steel, and waited.

Just as he had anticipated, the moment he had finished drawing the knife, he heard a slight thud directly behind him. The figure behind him was certainly lighter, which he had assumed was the ore-lizard's master. Calculating how far behind him the perpetrator was, he vanished into thin air, recalling a memory of the area that was behind them. In one fluid movement, he grabbed the figure, who was a woman. His left arm reached around the woman's throat, halting any retreat that she could make, while his right, which held the knife, was pointing towards an area on her lower back, the tip poking the area instead of thrusting it in there. He recognized the woman as the person who was looking through the window after he had carried out his job. While his hold loosened slightly, he still kept a hold of it. "Speak..." he spoke, his rasping voice close to her ear. "Why follow me here from the massacre?... What is your purpose here?... Speak... or this knife will be the last thing you feel..."