The Prophecy

[Dark Jack]

After Thaler had descended from her perch in the tree and charged to the aid of the rest of the companions, Olan decided to find a tree of his own. Granted, his old body would probably not allow him to climb it in any manner that would be deemed graceful, but he could at least hide behind the trunk while peeking around it to follow the progress of the skirmish a couple of dozen feet from where he was standing.
From his hiding place, Olan could not help but to feel a strange sort of pride as he beheld the companions rally anew to fend off the remaining goblins, many of which were the ones that Olan had just seconds earlier compelled to fall, and aside from one unfortunate soul that had apparently experienced an unhealthy landing as it dropped from the tree, all of them were mostly unharmed and eager to join their brethren in trying to tear everything else apart. Fewer and fewer goblins remained, he noted, and it seemed that all the companions were still standing, though some just barely. Aemoten seemed to be the one that had been affected the most, being badly wounded and seeming exhausted to the point of collapsing, yet somehow staying on his feet and swinging his sword in slashes that were comparably slower but stronger than the ones he had displayed earlier. Olan figured that the foreigner must have been fueled solely by his desire to survive at this point, or maybe just some sense of pride that did not allow him to accept defeat. Whatever kept him going, it had to be an extremely potent force.
Annabelle was also hurt, though her armor seemed to have saved her from being ravaged as badly as Aemoten, and despite her maladies - both those discernable to the naked eye, and those only visible under Olan's piercing gaze - she fought on with valor suitable for a Paladin of Liya. Olan did not need to guess at what motivated her to go on, and gave her strength - he saw it plainly, how her double-faces turned to Jaelnec with concern on occasion, how this seemed to dull the fire of Usha that surrounded her shadow-self. It was clear that if anything, it was loyalty and devotion in which this woman drew her might... what a strange source of strength for a part-demon.
Thaler... part of Olan felt at once happy and sad when his thoughts turned to the blind woman struggling to keep the black-skinned vermin at bay. On one hand he was immensely proud of her for having dashed to Jaelnec's rescue when the squire had been dragged to the ground by the goblins, and he felt both delighted and relieved that she, despite putting herself in severe hazard, had not used her power again. On the other hand, he could not shake the feeling that when she had sprinted into the goblin swarm before, it had been an attempt to flee from him as much as one to save the younger Nightwalker. He did not know if it had been something he had seen flashing across the Daywalker's face without realizing it, or if it was just some instinctive knowledge, but Olan felt certain that the odd unconditional trust Thaler had nourished for him had been replaced by fear the moment he had demonstrated his ability to use True Words for her. Why was that, he wondered? Did she fear his power - and if so, did she fear her own power as well? Or maybe... he shuddered at the thought. Maybe she feared the origin of the power within her, and that something similar to what Olan had sensed within her could reside in him? That would make sense. Definitely.
The Melenian... Olan was at once impressed and unnerved with this unknown factor that had at once brought this battle upon the group, but at the same time joined them to vanquish the wicked beings he had lead right to them. He had handled his bow well, despite of Olan recognizing the white limbs of the weapon as ghostwood, but he guessed that the Melenian's ability to apply sufficient draw weight to actually use such a powerful bow could be attributed to his obvious brute strength. In melee the feline creature fought in a manner that seemed halfway tuned by skill and halfway feral, using an odd mix of stylish unarmed combat and mindless tearing with claws and fangs. Olan guessed that this one had definitely stopped using piaan in the last moment, or he would have gone entirely feral - though like this level, he was probably the most dangerous a piaan addict could ever be.
And then there was the leader of these people, though the Melenian might not realize that he was being counted in with the rest just yet. Jaelnec had suffered significant injuries during his brief incapacitation, and like Aemoten he seemed barely able to stand up, yet he fought on relentlessly. His technique had changed, being less dexterous and stylish, much as Aemoten's style had failed, but unlike the foreigner, the Squire of the Will seemed to maintain a consistent speed and strength in his strikes. His footwork especially was affected by his wounds, but the young man seemed surprisingly able to adapt and cope with his disabilities, altering his style dependant not only on his enemy, but also himself. Olan did not even know to where to start in guessing what filled this Nightwalker youth with the will to go on. There were so many possibilities - protectiveness of his comrades, desire to survive, the feeling of responsibility towards the world... whatever the catalyst might be, Jaelnec's sheer willpower was nothing short of incredible.
A smile crept over Olan's lips, and he thought that if ever the hand of destiny had intervened with the free will given by the Spirits, this group was evidence of that one time. As the last few goblins made their suicidal charge over the piles of their fallen kin, Olan could almost see each of the companions wielding the banners of their motivation over their heads, though some of them were not entirely clear. These people - all of them, even Thaler, though she had needed a little push - had somehow found the courage to go against an enemy that was clearly stronger than themselves, and through sheer determination, they had prevailed. Even as Olan watched from the distance, the last goblins fell. Despite all the odds, these people had defeated yet another overpowering adversary... and secretly, he could not help but wonder: how far will their potential stretch?

Smiling in silent joy at the existence and unification of such promising individuals as these, Olan leaned back so that he was fully hidden by the trunk of the tree, and turned his back to it and the battle - just in time for him to face a lone black form that had managed to sneak behind him, and before the old Nightwalker could do anything to save himself, the goblin lunged at him. The cretin wielded an obviously stolen wooden pitchfork as its weapon, and Olan was unarmed, defenseless as the four sturdy wooden tines of the farm tool impaled him just below the ribs, tearing through flesh and organs, narrowly missing his spine. With the sinewy strength disproportional with their size that goblins possessed, Olan's assailant lifted the Nightwalker just an inch above the ground and then thrust forward again until his back hit the bark of the tree, and he felt the pitchfork tines entering the trunk, pinning him there.
For several seconds, all Olan could do was hang there and stare at the squealing and grinning goblin in wide-eyed disbelief. His countenance twisted as he felt hot pain sear through his body, and as he looked down, he realized that he was bleeding. Maybe it should not have come as a surprise, considering his condition, but nonetheless Olan felt thoroughly shocked at the sight of his own blood running down the slightly downward-sloping handle and dripping on the ground, dying the straws of grass down there an ominous crimson.
"Grahgrahgrah!" the goblin half-grunted and half-growled, its tone sadistic yet elated at its kill. Olan's mind, spinning out of control, heard this, and automatically accessed the part of his mind that stored the True Words, translating the savage monster's nonsense to a quickly and eagerly uttered Die, die, die!
For some reason, this pushed him over the limit - everything else had not really had any effect on his state of mind, but this exact exclamation seemed to shatter the astonished calm that had settled over him, swept away his mirth, his pride, his joy, until all that remained was terrifying primal rage.
Abruptly, Olan rose his right arm and pointed his index finger straight at the merry goblin's face. To Stupor with useless inhibitions! He had the word right there, so helpfully supplied.
And with his voice teeming with dark feelings, he spoke a terrible True Word: "Die."
Like before, there was nothing - no feeling of power, no flash of light, no sound or any indication at all that magic had been invoked aside from that single word that seemed to be a word of all languages. And similarly, there was no delay either: the moment Olan's lips had finished forming the command, the goblin's eyes went blank, and without a wound on its body the little creature just collapsed where it stood.

The anger subsided as instantaneously as it had arisen as soon as the object of his hatred was gone, and Olan immediately regret what he had done. He had used what was definitely one of the very most powerful True Words, and one of those which he feared more than anything else that Thaler should ever discover. Every True Word spoken was a tragedy, indeed... but that specific word, that was a borderline catastrophe. He had just violated the Fifth Law of Magic, which was quite literally a crime when he was not home. He was lucky that he was still hanging from the tree as he was, and that the gods themselves had not descended from the Upper Plane to retrieve and punish him. They had doubtlessly noticed - when a word of such power was uttered, it could be heard by those with attuned awareness across the Planes. The fact that he had not already been expeditiously sentenced for his crime was a wonder.
Awkwardly, the old Nightwalker managed to position himself so that he had both feet and hands placed against the trunk of the tree to which he was still pinned, and though it caused him inconceivable agony he pushed it with all his limbs, thus pressing his torso into the pitchfork, further impaling himself until the tines were all the way through him. He kept applying pressure, and slowly forced the pitchfork along with himself away from the tree, until finally the tips of the tines were pried from the bark, and both man and weapon dropped to the ground.
Coughing and groaning, Olan quickly rolled onto his back and gripped the handle of the pitchfork with both hands, pulling it unceremoniously from his body, releasing a steady flow of blood from the wounds it left behind. There was no way to describe the pain - yet he endured. And as he slowly stumbled to his feet, he did as he had earlier, when he had felt sick back at the camp in Schaxathris. He mentally shrugged off his weakness, drew upon his secret, camouflaged reserves of magical energy, and tried to restore himself. Obviously recovering from being impaled upon a pitchfork was significantly harder than recovering from momentary vertigo, but nevertheless he devoted himself to it. He staggered over to the tree - which was now coated in blood from the marks left by the tines and down - and leaned against the trunk while the holes through his body repaired themselves, skin, flesh and organs rebuilding their tissue rapidly, until not even scars remained.

Sighing with relief as the pain disappeared along with his injuries, Olan looked down at himself, and saw that he was still covered in blood. The others cannot know. Swallowing, he pointed a finger at the blood covering his front, and he spoke the True Word "Vaporize," and the blood obeyed. He did the same with the back, and then arranged his robes so that the holes would not be as noticeable.
Each word is a tragedy... but they cannot know, he thought sadly. With that, he stepped out from his cover and began walking towards the others, smiling as though nothing had happened. The last goblin was dead. Only the companions remained in the aftermath.

[xbriannova]

The field was littered with corpses, all of which used to be goblins. The ground was slick with their blood, black as tar, perhaps just as dangerously flammable- it will likely set a man on fire with infection should it ever get into his wounds. The most important thing was that they did it- they were pulling through, they had somehow survived the onslaught of goblins brought about by the Melenian luring them to the group.

After killing the previous three goblins at once, Annabelle was spent. Exhaustion bit into her muscles deeply as she fought the few remaining goblins who took her to be their target- perhaps due to her prominent outlook: the shine of her armor, the intricate designs carved into the slopes of her protection, her warskirt bearing the colors and symbols of her order, her sallet helmet which suggests prominence in the form of wealth, station and importance. All the more fun, probably, for the goblins to take down such a figure.

As soon as she eviscerated the previous three goblins, Annabelle fell back in line with the rest of the questors, and redirected sideways the pike of one goblin with her swords before her actions, like water, flowed to execute a stock attack of hers- with scissor-like motions, Annabelle half-beheaded the shrieking thing just above the lower jaw. It was not a clean beheading, a clean beheading being to chop the head off around the neck, as the goblin was too short. It worked nontheless.

Another came in from the side, wielding a tree branch as a club- the crudest of crude weapons, perhaps one used by the most distant ancestor of men, yet it could potentially still do some damage. As Annabelle was in mid-motion with her scissor strike, she was open to an attack... If it weren't for Louis Pennyworthy, who sweeped his spear at the would-be attacker, pushing it back. Brian, who was fighting close to Louis, stabbed the goblin after it was thrown to the ground by the sheer force of the younger Pennyworthy brother, rivetting it for a time on the ground before the elder of the two withdraws his rusting scimitar. The younger is not without achievement- after assisting in the death of a goblin who could have potentially caused the death of their mistress, the spearman went on to skewer another goblin who was coming down upon then with another club.

And then something caught her attention, something eerie and yet familiar, foreign and yet homely. "Die." A faint voice in the wind, a word uttered softer than a whisper, something hanging in the air even after the instance it was said was over. Annabelle, after seeing that she was safe at the moment, with her soldiers of light guarding her, turned in the direction of the word, which was never Rodorian to begin with. It sounded like... True Word. Half expecting her nemesis, that lecherous demonspawn to be breathing down her neck, Annabelle was pleasantly surprised to find no one directly behind her, but she did find Olan standing some distance away, near a tree. 'That old coot', Annabelle thought. In her mind, she was agitated, agitated that he was standing all the way back, just watching, rather than helping. On second thought however, Annabelle could understand, even if grudgingly, that perhaps the nightwalker was getting old, no matter how much of an explorer or adventurer or whatever she could not remember extraordinaire he was.

Annabelle was unable to explain away the True Word that was spoken as if by a spectre, but the thought of it hung in her mind, foreboding yet enticing to her at the same time.

[Hymusia]

It was quiet, the sounds of clashing metal on metal or wood, or bone, the sound of little screeching voices speaking in a garbled language only they understood, all of it was gone, it was quiet. Somewhere a few birds were chirping, and closer the sound of many ragged breaths. They'd done it, they'd won! They had beaten back the swarm, more impressively she wasn't dead! Her pig sticker was covered in blood, as was her hand, as was quite a lot of her actually, the sticky fluid now having time to go tacky on her skin.

It was a wonder she was still standing, the enormous relief and surprise she felt made her knees feel like jelly and the weight she had been previously unaware of suddenly rushing at her all at once and forcing itself upon her shoulders, and with it the adrenaline began to wear off. The first of the pains she noticed was in her legs, the muscles were screaming without the aid of the multiple lacerations from claws and weapons that she had been inflicted with. Slowly all the wounds which had been numbed by adrenaline and the survival instinct began to protest their frustration. Her clothes were tattered, though somehow kept her mostly modest, unlike the paladin her only armour had consisted of the thin leather that had made up her trousers and the material of her shirt. Rarely had Thaler OR black sun ever needed more in the way of armour after all.

Her wounds, the ones that didn't run deep, were already crusting over, staining her clothes and skin in thick clots of blood, while the others oozed, and all of them were angry red and puffy. For a moment she staggered, the pig sticker held in a limp hand at her side. Her cane, her sword, her cloak. She needed to find them all, especially the cane sword, while it was easily replaced the memories were not and when it came to a person who could not see, they were more important than anything.

And she couldn't, see that is, even as people fidgetted around the mass of writhing dead bodies, even as echoes were bouncing around, she couldn't see. She couldn't concentrate, she couldn't focus and so all the world was black. Finally she heard the clanking of plate and she turned, ever so slightly towards the source of the armour. “You.” Her voice was unrecognisable, ragged, weak, feeble even, she was so shocked by it that for a brief moment she could not remember what it was that she was going to say. When finally the screaming of her mind and body had been shut behind a flimsy; metaphoric, door she continued. “You owe me a weeks wage.”

She couldn't let these people think good of her, think kindly of her, but even still she offered whoever it was a weak smile, a mere tilt of the corner of her lips. Heaving a hefty breath she coughed a few times into her hand, wiped her bloody mouth and took a step forward. She was exhausted, almost on the verge of magical fatigue, certainly at the end of her physical and she had yet to black out! Though, no sooner said than done, the girl teetered, hopped uselessly on one leg as the other stubbornly refused to obey her, and then she hit the dirt, breathing a mixture of goblin blood and their own from the slick grass.

She was out for the count, though her breaths still came regularly enough she had fainted, and really, who could blame her? Even as her mind was engulfed with a lovely pain-free darkness she was acutely aware of that little inner voice stating the obvious Such an idiot..

[Player2]

With a grunt of final exertion, Natyr's leg pushed out, the goblin's torso at his foot flying away. His arms however, remained in Natyr's nigh unbreakable grasp, claws digging into the things meager forearms. The sickening pop coupled with the tearing of flesh, tendon and muscle caused him to grimace, even despite the situation. Ragged pants rolled out from his mouth and drool trickled down the sides of his snout as his eyes searched for anymore of the black filth. But none were to be found.

He had a moment of shock at that point. The tides of seemingly endless black that had flowed from the forest now lay peacefully at their feet, and his allies all still stood. He blinked with wide eyes as he went over the field once more, searching for any sign of the black pestilence. None plagued his vision though, and a smile slowly crept to his face. In all his years spent darting through this jungle, not once had a party met with a full goblin tribe and lived to tell tales of it. As everyone stood on trembling legs attempting to rid the air of all oxygen in the vicinity, Natyr laughed. An odd noise, composed of some short, deep throated half-growl, but unmistakably a noise of happiness.

With the aid of his massive arms, he righted himself, standing to his full height and shaking his head. He noted the horses had not been quite so lucky as their bi-pedal allies, but compared to the price he'd seen other group of larger size pay, it was little. He bowed his head to show respect to each of the fine creatures. He would do his able most to hold memory of their aid. After his respects were paid and he took a few minutes to regain his breath, then set about cleaning his bow of the much that had gathered upon it, and attempted to find any arrows that had loosed themselves from his quiver. A mostly fruitless endeavour as the most the shafts were snapped, buried under bodies, covered in black goblin grime or a combination of the three. He did however locate a blade of finer quality than most the rubbish laying about, the handle looking more like a cane than any sword hilt he'd seen. No sheath to be found though. He thought he'd seen the daywalker wielding the weapon, and he quickly swiveled his head about in an attempt to find her. He manged such, just in time to see her stagger and plow face first into a pile of goblin insides.

Natyr's ears perked and he trotted over on all fours, fast as his heavily damaged limbs would allow. Despite his injuries, he still managed to roll the woman onto her front. He breathed a sigh that she was still breathing. Natyr was quite sure the others would be none to pleased he led a pack of goblins straight into them. His actions had already lost them their horses most likely, and he was sure their anger would flare up immensely if one of their party had died as well. He cleaned the sword as best he could on a slightly cleaner goblin shirt and stuck it into the soil a few feet from the lady.

After assuring the daywalker was still breathing, he backed a few paces and sank to his knees, his body bending till his forehead touched the group, and his paws resting one atop the other just in front of his head. A traditonal bow from a lesser to his or her master. The motion always set a lump in his throat, memories of beatings and lashings quickly storming back to the front of his mind. He swallowed and pushed them away. "I apologize for bringing the goblins to you. I did not realize I was so close to this path, and my failing has brought you all pain. Please forgive me."

[Shienvien]

The blade did not cut the goblin in two - if not for other reasons, then because the creature had been too far away for that. Rather, the tip of the sword met the pest's side at the height of its middle ribs and continued diagonally down from there, slicing it open and allowing its guts to pour out from the gaping wound. The lethally injured goblin let out something which began as furious, pained shriek, but which halfway along deformed into unintelligible gurgle and reflexive coughing as the damage done to its lung took hold of its actions. For a few more seconds it stood, swaying unsteadily on its feet, and then it collapsed at last, the crippled, dieing body still convulsing slightly.

Aemoten felt another surge of pain, and since the fight was no longer as frantic, there was more time for his worn mind to take notice of it. The slight curve towards the very tip of the blade rested on the ground as the the man took ragged breaths, ever so slowly gaining the awareness of his own condition. Bad, but not the worst he had gone through. By far not the worst.
His head slowly turned, the unusually lifeless-looking eyes - which reflected cold determination, as well as his weariness and the pain he endured - fixing on one of the last standing goblins. It did not seem to be targeting him, but it was a goblin nevertheless, and it was nearby. He dragged the sword closer to himself, paused almost unnoticeably, then abruptly lifted his weapon into the air and stepped forward, unsteady, but advancing regardless.
It was not, like Olan had guessed, the desire to survive which drove the Sekalyn on. Nor was it, strictly spoken, pride.
Desire to survive meant a some kind of comprehension of the fact that he might die, at least the subconscious recognition of it - and although he was, just very barely, able to piece together that his condition was bad, no fraction of him managed to get any further from it. Even if someone would have come and managed to get the possibility of dieing through to him, it would have triggered no emotions or other responses. He could die - what of it?
Pride, on the other hand, was an impossibly abstract concept for him now. There was no fear in him, the momentary anger had long dulled and faded, no sense of duty was present, even. Had someone asked why he forced himself to fight, he would not have known, not now, not afterwards. - Because he had earlier decided to fight to the end? Because it seemed to be the only plausible thing to do he could still consider? All in all, it likely carried little importance, especially to Aemoten's own current self. He was unable to care why he kept going.

The goblin the Sekalyn had spotted managed to let out a surprised yelp when it suddenly found itself impaled; the sword had entered from its back and gone straight through its upper body. For about as long as it would have taken to count to ten, it flailed vigorously, weakening visibly towards the end, then became lifelessly limp.
The sword remained in place as its wielder looked around. Only three or four goblins remained standing, and those were rapidly cut down in front of his eyes. None had been in the Sekalyn's closer vicinity. The foreigner could detect some weak motion in a few places on the goblin-littered ground, but none of it posed any threat. Even those little pests who still were not completely dead would die very soon: they all were lethally injured in one way or other and far too weak to be harmful.
Only the group remained - all of them except Gerald, whom the foreigner had briefly spotted walking off. ...As had been intended, had the goblins not interrupted. Now he had simply departed - fled - a bit sooner - had someone asked, the warlock would have probably told that he had ensured that at least one who knew of the Withering's true nature survived. Selfish, moral-less logic, but not entirely wrong - maybe. The forest might hide worse things than a few hundred goblins.

Olan was showing up again, unfittingly cheery like nothing else, Jalenec, Thaler, the Melenian, Brian, Louis, the paladin... The latter being a living proof that some people had somehow gotten far more luck than was their share, possibly from the accounts of the many people suffering the pointless deaths occurring each day. Had any other person done what she had, the one would be as dead as one could go - but she had even maintained all her limbs and both eyes! Nothing but a few token scratches as if specifically for showing off... Impossible. One could start to believe she had made a some kind of agreement with the vermin - or rather controlled the dumb creatures, the accursed mind-manipulator - and her evident lack of ability to do tactical thinking was just another of her simple tricks. She was a fairly weak healer, and she was not partially invincible to explain the miraculous lack of dire damage she had taken, heavier armor or no.
...The horse. His horse.
The southerner, partially leaning on his sword, the tip of which had sunk several inches into the soil and on which the now-dead goblin was still impaled, turned his head to look at what was left of the poor animal. On the first glance it appeared dead, but on the second, one could see it was still breathing, occasionally even trying to move one of its legs or head. Most likely just a matter of time... Aemoten knew he would kill himself if he brought it to a condition which would have permitted it to survive, and he doubted the paladin would have enough power to achieve a similar effect. Not in killing him, though she had already tried that, too. In healing the horse.
Healing? He had been in a fairly bad condition, he vaguely recalled, and hence probably still was. - The southerner's thinking was far from clear and straightforward.

The Sekalyn realized he tasted blood, and turned his head to the side to spit it out. Swallowing blood was generally a bad idea - quite a few people could not stomach it, and hence it would have been viable to worsen his already less-than-perfect state. It had not been before now that he noticed the blood on his face - the injury it had come from was fairly insignificant, and had stopped bleeding on its own. The other wounds, however...
At first he attempted to pull up the sleeve on his right arm, but this proved to be too much to manage. Then, he tried to habitually remove the overgarment as he usually did, but this movement sent excruciating pain outward from his left shoulder; he stilled, gritting his teeth. In the end Aemoten carefully slid the garment over his left shoulder using his right hand; getting it over his right shoulder was easier, as was sliding it off his back from there on.
His right lower arm looked nasty - the thing had torn his flesh to shreds, albeit the man barely felt it. All his appendages felt numb and cool. He watched impassionately how the lacerations closed when he finally muttered the words which sealed them and consequently stopped the continuous bleeding.
Using only his right hand - the man did not want to put any strain on his left shoulder -, he forcefully pulled his sword free of the ground and the goblin, then sloppily wiped it clean and sheathed it. What was left of the overgarmet (and which he had used for removing the blood from the sword) was cast to the side: it had been hopelessly ruined. Out of all the things he owned, only the sword carried personal value and could not be lost.
He had another, slightly similar garment to replace the black overgarmet he had been wearing before meeting the horde of vermin, that one dark blue and with flowing-pattern silver embroidery running down in vertical lines, slightly longer and of softer, more flowing fabric. Then he had the black coat, three additional pairs of pants, at least a handful of extra shirts, some more of the yellowish-green fabric his shirts were made of and a few other things, socks and similar, non-clothing articles such as the blankets and tools, coins, remaining food not included. He would have to buy additional clothes once they reached Zerul - at this rate, he would otherwise be walking around naked quite soon. Firsthand he needs to replace his boots, for he did not have another pair and this one no longer held water after having protected his feet from the goblin's claws.
Nevertheless - if the horse dies, who will carry his things? He had issues staying upright when being unburdened as it was, and improving his state of being to what it had been before the fight would be too costly in the long run.
It was perhaps strange that trying to arrange such things under the present circumstances seemed to take priority for the moment, but those had been amongst the few trains of thought which seemed coherent enough to have a meaning or to make sense. His mind still was not working clearly.
The fingers of his right hand moved mechanically, reaching his right thigh, and again he muttered something in his native language, again a stream of blood ceased to run, and then his right hand fell to the side, trembling without any apparent reason. Cold?
His upper body was now only covered by a thin, sleeveless shirt, but the blood-loss most likely played as great part in it. He was still breathing too quickly and his vision at times seemed to either blur or dim slightly, especially when when he moved too abruptly. The effects of the fight had worn off, and now cold sweat glued his shirt to his skin.
It was probably remarkable enough that his shirt, if a bit stained, was completely intact. His limbs had taken a few larger - now closed - wounds and many lesser scratches, there was the light cut on his temple, but aside from the strain- and impact-damage to his both shoulders (especially the left, heavily bruised and almost dislocated one) and the surrounding regions, there were no injuries on his main body - at least none that bled.

Someone spoke, weakly, raggedly, and the man's attention gathered onto the speaker and the recipient. Owe? The speaker - Thaler - appeared to be looking at 'Annabelle'. Owe. The paladin had been the one to make the fight a much harder one than it should have been. He turned and took a few staggering steps towards the paladin. The horse would have had much better chances, had she not acted as she did. They all would have.
Aemoten stopped unsteadily, his attention diverted when Thaler lost her balance and fell. The fact that he might not be the one with the worst injuries managed to make itself apparent, in a rather sudden and unpleasant manner. Ragged they all were.
The Melenian was the first to react, making his way over to the downed Daywalker on all fours like an animal. At first the human warrior was doubtful of the former Piaan-addict's intentions (was the creature still more an intelligent being or already a mindless beast? like which he acted?) and moved himself - as quickly as he could without risking falling or passing out himself - over to the two, but it seemed the cat-man's intention's were of good nature. The creature merely seemed to inspect the woman's condition, then stuck her sword he had picked up from somewhere into the ground nearby and backed down.
Aemoten knelt by the woman, carefully sliding his right arm under her shoulders and lifting her slightly off the ground and the bloody mud covering it. He could not have stood up with her - he did not have strength for it -, but this was still preferable to lying in a thick puddle of goblin-fluid, he presumed.
The Sekalyn attempted to gather his thoughts and concentrate, then set his shaking left hand on the woman's right shoulder and soundlessly muttered a request. He did not mend the many smaller and larger wounds completely - but the goblin-blood was forced out of the open cuts and the skin repaired itself. What remained would heal on its own, in a few days or a week. He had made certain the wounds would not be infected - and clean cuts mended fast. - Unless the paladin wanted to take care of what little remained. After what he did, even the paladin's limited powers could suffice to restore Thaler's health completely, or almost so.
He hoped the Daywalker would wake back up soon.

Blinking, he looked up, fixing his eyes on the Melenian once more. He was speaking. Apologizing?
Without moving from his place, the Sekalyn began to respond: "If you..." The words had come out as a voiceless rasp. He began again, this time speaking clearly and coherently enough to be understood despite the lack of fluency, even if the words came out wearily and in an odd monotone, him occasionally leaving longer pauses. He also hoped he could also put the words together aptly enough to at least convey what he intended. "You heard what was said ... goblins would continue chasing ... until their prey is or they are dead. Alone ... you would have been killed. You live. The goblins ... are dead. Now. You caused us no more pain ... than the lack of unity amongst our own lines. Not your intention to ... lead the goblins to us. No blame. Would be pointless."
He left a pause, closing his eyes and seemingly attempting to catch his breath. The next his eyes were on the paladin.
"We were ... thirty times outnumbered ... more than half of us didn't have mounts and ... unlike you ... couldn't advance ... and out of the four horses there were ... mine was clearly scared out of its mind and unfit for charging. All you did was ... scatter our lines and let us all be surrounded ... individually. What were you thinking?" Again, a pause, but this time he kept on his eyes on the paladin, a shadow of the look he had given her earlier passing his face.
"Next time ... follow what the man you call your leader orders. Word to word." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Or I."
His eyes flickered to the side, where his horse was.
"Can you ... do anything with my horse once you've ... done what you can to the rest of us, save for ... ending its suffering? If not, you owe it its life and me a horse."

[Hymusia]

In the pure black nothingness that was this forced rest she felt as if she were sinking, falling ever downwards, being sucked into somewhere unpleasant. She couldn't always see in her dreams but the impenetrable darkness was unusual as well, she felt chilled, not uncomfortably so but to an almost refreshing degree, and her descent was so slow and tedious she didn't care to panic or try and force herself free. Nothing hurt here, nothing ached, there was no need to pretend, no need to run, no need to fight. There was just this endless tranquillity, until...

That was stupid, not to mention needless. A disembodied voice floated about her, it had no real discerning features, no tone, no hint of gender, she couldn't even tell if it was high pitched or deep. It was a voice though, and one she didn't think belonged in her tranquil break spot. “What do you mean?” She queried, an uncertainty and discomfort growing within her, for whatever reason the question 'who are you' didn't even enter her mind at the time. You know very well what I mean girl. You're just too scared to admit it. Thaler was confused, but she knew, deep down in that dark part every person had and kept locked shut, she knew what the voice meant. She knew what it was referring too. If you just opened yourself up, trusted in your gift you could have saved everyone a lot of pain.
“I can't do something like that, I simply don't have that kind of power!”
If you say so. Thaler was panicked but in this thick state she did not -could not- act out, only listen and reply, sinking further and further into her mind. She didn't know who this voice was, where it belonged, but it scared her, there was no way she could have taken down two hundred goblins with this unrefined power! It would have been ridiculous to even try unless she wanted to scatter her innards all over the ground.

* * *

And then she was awake, her eyes remained shut; for they were useless either way, and for a moment she tried to catch up with current events. There was a battle, then she fell and then she had that dream. A dream that was already fading from memory as her mind began to sharpen. She'd been injured, hurt quite badly from what she could remember, but it was strange, something was off. She wasn't face down in the dirt any more, which she guessed was a good thing since she could feel that both her face and hair ere slick with drying blood that very likely wasn't just her own. The second thing was...

Well how could she have missed that! There was an arm around her, holding her up and out of the dirt, someone was propping her up. What's more, her wounds, the irritated itch and the thick throbbing that threatened to split her skull, both were gone. In their wake was only a dull, if not consistent, ache. What had happened while she had been unconscious? Surely she had not been resting for long, the sun was beating down still, she could feel it on her face and hands. "We were ... thirty times outnumbered ... more than half of us didn't have mounts and ... unlike you ... couldn't advance ... and out of the four horses there were ... mine was clearly scared out of its mind and unfit for charging. All you did was ... scatter our lines and let us all be surrounded ... individually. What were you thinking?"

A voice, the foreigners, and he didn't sound happy, nor in the best of physical condition himself, and he was close, he was the one holding her up? It made sense, the thrumming of his chest and vibrations of his throat reached her as his voice had. For a moment she lay still, she just listened and digested the information being fed to her; although unbeknownst to the others of course, it seemed someone had broken the ranks, been the cause of this chaos, her wounds. That must have been the armour clad one, now that she thought about it there were only three possibilities as to who it was, one of those boys, the brothers, or the other woman here.

The thought that anyone had made such a critical error in this group was enough to turn her stomach -though it could also be attributed to blood loss and fatigue- "Next time ... follow what the man you call your leader orders. Word to word." The woman, what was her name? Annabelle? She had caused this? Well, some of it. Surely she hadn't summoned the goblins, who could do that kind of thing anyway. Of course if Thaler was to be fair -and she wasn't often- in the other's position she would have been even more useless, Thaler didn't know the first thing about fighting in a team or ranks or anything of the sort.

While she lay thinking another thought struck her. Where was Olan? Part of her was bitterly disappointed that he wasn't the one holding her face out of the carcasses, was he even alive? Was he okay? She hoped desperately he was alive and well, she'd left him alone to fend for himself at that tree when she'd jumped down to save Jaelnec. Though that memory bought with it the remembrance of the terror she felt and she was also glad it wasn't him holding her. Was it that voice, his voice she'd heard in her head all that time? Not that she could remember clearly what it had been saying. They definitely need to talk, her and Olan. Maybe if he had just found those words she could persuade him to never use them again, they were like Opium, addictive and deadly.

Finally, some minute or so after first awakening her fingers twitched, it seemed she still had them all, which was relieving, and slowly she moved her hand, beginning to remember just how one went about controlling their body. It was a wonder she still had one, and more of a wonder she still had use of it. Her limbs felt heavy, but no doubt that was simply the fatigue that she'd gone through, her fingers crept up, feeling across the chest of the one holding her, up to his neck and then finding his cheek she tapped it with the tip of one bloody digit. Time to get his attention, but she wasn't sure she could find her voice again yet, her throat felt thick and lumpy and it was all she could do not to cough right then and there in her 'saviours' face.

Instead slowly; whether she had his attention or not, she used the tip of her finger to draw a symbol on the sensitive cheek flesh, her touch light as if a pen upon paper. It was the Rodoria symbol for 'Thank you' or 'Gratitude', and once she had drawn it her hand dropped to her face and she turned her head to cough away from him and upon the ground, loosing the odd blood clot amongst other fluids. Once done her throat was burning but it felt clearer now, with more of a possibility to speak, not that she really had much to say. She wanted to speak to this Annabelle, demand a decent reward for the fact her clothes lay tattered, barely covering the basics, her sword and sheath probably lost, not to mention for physical damages; even if they were feeling much better now. She wanted to ask if Jaelnec were alright and if Olan could be seen anywhere. She wanted to ask Aemoten if he was alright; because he didn't sound great, and if there was anything she could do to repay him.

Instead she shifted against his arms, attempting to move herself so that should Aemoten want he could release her and go beat the living tar out of Annabelle. The weak whinny of a nearby horse meant all that had fought were not certain to survive, and she counted herself among the lucky that she was even able to think venomous thoughts about the woman who had handicapped their operation. Finally she decided on simply. “I was serious, about the pay.” She was hoarse, when was the last time any of them had something to drink or eat? She didn't dare think, clearing her throat as she tried again to sit up holding lightly to one of Aemo's shoulders as she did so.

She felt disgusting, where the blood on her had dried stretched and contracted with that disgustingly sticky feeling, the faint breeze seeping in through numerous jagged cuts in her clothes and said ragged scraps were clinging from blood and other moisture on the ground. She didn't dare think what a sight she looked like, lest she attempt to plunge something sharp and pointy into the paladin's eye from feminine; but justified, outrage. Her head swam from the sudden movement, threatening for a moment to make her spill the contents of her stomach.

[xbriannova]

As Annabelle was taking in the mysterious... spectral voice in the wind, the unknown daywalker girl whom she knew not even the name of at all approached her, wounded and ragged as she was, and proclaim, greatly disturbing the paladin at the same time, that she owed her a week's wage. It was a sting of insult to the warrior of the light by virtue of the fact that she dared to extort from her- and for what? They were supposed to be a fellowship, a brotherhood (or sisterhood), a group, a band of people dedicated to the goal of eradicating the disease that was the Withering that had been terrorizing Rodoria for countless, slow and painful days. They were supposed to be each other's rewards, and this- Before Annabelle could reply, even finish thinking of how irrational Thaler was, the daywalker fell where she stood.

Being a healer, a medic, the worshipper of Liya, Annabelle's reaction would have been to help the blind girl had she had the chance, but before she could do so, out of the sea of black corpses came the Melenian who lead the goblins in on them. Annabelle, with her intricate shortswords still in hand, was for a moment cautious and assumed a defensive stance, but the cat-like being was quick to show his intentions by feverishly cleaning the cane-sword of the downed human-nightwalker child before planting it upright with the care of a zealot before Thaler and then prostrating himself before Annabelle and her 'companions'.

Again, before Annabelle could act, Aemoten came forward, which frustrated and irked her somewhat- never had she liked being without power, without the agency to act. She had always acted in the interest of herself and whomever she was concerned- the citizens of Pelgaid, the Order of Liya, the good... But now, ever since the dawn of her membership into this motley crew of questors, Annabelle was ever so rudely interrupted so many times. Thankfully, with her sallet helmet on, no one could see the look on her face with only her eyes slightly visible, which helped, a little, diplomatically.

After pardoning the prostrating Melenien, Aemoten said to Annabelle, "We were ... thirty times outnumbered ... more than half of us didn't have mounts and ... unlike you ... couldn't advance ... and out of the four horses there were ... mine was clearly scared out of its mind and unfit for charging. All you did was ... scatter our lines and let us all be surrounded ... individually. What were you thinking?"

Thankfully, due to the Sekalyn's likely exhaustions and wounds, the strength of his words were diminished, though it wasn't enough to diminish greatly the impact of his words upon Annabelle, the Pelgaidian paladin. It was pretty much the last straw- it would have been fine to be insulted, and it would have been tolerable to be circumvented in action, as long as she could rebalance the table again, but to be blamed for the poor aftermath of the battle! Annabelle's iris expanded, and the central window of her eyes shone red for a brief moment of anger, but her anger receded very quickly- thankfully, the helmet should have blocked the view of her eyes pretty much- perhaps only Aemoten should be able to see the change in the tone of her eyes.

Annabelle's fury gave way to disappointment and sadness. Perhaps she was, after all, the cause of all the pain and misery in the group. Perhaps she should not have been so eager to assume that the band she was in functioned the same way her previous unit did. In an act befitting her station, she extinguished any thought of argument against her being blamed. She knew that it would be wrong to blame anyone but herself, even if there were room for manuevering. Her own belief had turned against her anyway.

The image of the grand paladin sagged as Annabelle's back hunched in carrying the weight of the world on her back. It sagged as she could only look at the feet of her archrival, her mind heavy with forlorn- she had nearly disappointed Liya this day, and it was not the first time. Annabelle's swords hung limply at her sides, her arms hanging not just from tiredness, but also from the lethargy inflicted by her guilt. So much for saving the leader to make up for it. Still, Aemoten continued, "Next time ... follow what the man you call your leader orders. Word to word. Or I." At this point Annabelle was expecting a dire, real threat to be uttered against her, but she didn't care, she wouldn't allow herself the luxury of acting against a threat- it was her fault. Yet, perhaps Liya was giving her a second chance, for Aemoten's gaze was moved away from her, "Can you ... do anything with my horse once you've ... done what you can to the rest of us, save for ... ending its suffering? If not, you owe it its life and me a horse."

Annabelle's lips moved silently, not a word issued from her mouth- she could find no word that would suit her circumstance, the shame, the blame, the pain. Thankfully her helmet had saved her from exposing her guilt and forlorn, the tears kept secret behind steel walls. She could only nod vigorously even if she knew not what she could do with his horse. It could be dead for all she knew.

By the time Aemoten was done heaping boulders on Annabelle's back, Thaler was back on her own two feet, this time stating that she was serious about her pay, heaping an insult upon another. She could not find the words nor summon the will to fight back nor comply. The paladin could only bear the insult as she intends to do the only thing she could now to vindicate herself, if only partially. The foreign swordsman had healed her but incompletely so. In following his wishes, Annabelle moved and close in on Thaler. Sheathing her swords and laying a hand on Thaler, the paladin prayed for her recover "O great Liya, great Spirit of birth and mother of life-" But before she could finish, the daywalker pushed aside her hand, interrupting the prayer, stating that she had no need for healing and least of all, to be touched.

After Annabelle was 'done' with Thaler, without a word, the human left without saying a word or voicing any objections as she would have, her actions done grudgingly as the weight of the world was upon her. It was another sting of insult- spurning her help, but there was nothing to be done. The next thing she could think about in fulfilling Aemoten's wishes, ironically the only way now to vindicate herself, was to head to Jaelnec, the leader of the group. On the way to him, dark thoughts were swirling in the sky of her consciousness. 'I am never a paladin of Liya...', 'Perhaps it is all the better if I cast off this false skin of mine now...', 'I would make a better demonspawn than a paladin...', 'Perhaps I should kneel before Jaelnec and end my life there and then with a slit of the throat with my own sword...'

In the distance, a nemesis that only Annabelle could see stood on the field with its fire-hair, hooves, horns and dextrous tail. It smiled venomously as Annabelle's lips were tasting the water of sadness.

[Hymusia]

As she slapped Annabelle away she also turned her face away from the woman. She knew she was trying to help, trying to make amends the only way she knew how. However frankly it wasn't good enough. Touching her would never make it alright, besides Aemo had already done most of the job, she could tell by the way the wounds felt. So in reality what Annabelle wanted to do was make amends with a job that had already been done. “Just...go help Jaelnec.” She uttered beneath her breath, she wanted to remind the woman he nearly died because of her, but she couldn't bring herself to be so hateful, she was too tired and if Annabelle had a brain cell at all she would know what she nearly caused.

In her mind the reality of it hadn't really hit her, if she hadn't dived to Jaelnec's rescue would he have died? She couldn’t' quite bring herself to believe that, no ones life had ever really depended on her before, no one owed their lives to her actions. If she'd stayed in that tree the outcome could have been so much worse, but she couldn't think about that. These people were not her concern and she was more resolute than ever to ditch them as soon as she was at Zerul. If this was any display of the groups cohesion she liked her chances alone much better.

Finally she released a huff of air and rocked unsteadily onto her toes, she didn't think anyone had much in the way of medical supplies here so her first priority was her sword. Aemoten's still hurt though. She stayed where she was, crouched like a rabbit caught between a wolf and a fox until finally with an inward sight she turned towards where the foreigner had been holding her. Both arms extending slowly to feel out for the man. This was why she didn't like having to rely on people, the guilt they made you feel was unbearable at times and made a person do incredibly stupid things. “Are...you okay?” If she found him her fingers would once again begin their searching for his shoulder, though one hand drew away to reach for her own body and tear what was left of a sleeve from her clothing, joining her first hand; by following its wrist, and if not yet shunned the slightly dirty -but still cleaner than a lot of her- cloth was dabbed against the flesh, be it on a wound or not.

Her sword would wait, it had to, if she owed anyone here anything he wouldn't be able to leave, besides as long as they hadn't moved much since her fainting -that alone was embarrassing as hell- then it should be easy to find the sword and the scabbard, as long as they weren't buried under smelly goblin bodies that is. Briefly she wondered why Annabelle hadn't set hands on Aemoten while so close to the pair, after all he couldn't have been more than a foot or two away from her, and her brows furrowed in thought. Civil war in their group perhaps?

Laon above, what did I walk into this time? She asked herself, sighing lightly, “Is...can anyone see Olan? Is he okay?” She had to ask, she'd abandoned him to help these people when it should have been him she was protecting. If anyone. He was the one who had sat with her and spoke to her, he'd even tried to protect her from that whatever it was from before. Still there was something...else about the old nightwalker, something behind his mask of joviality and she had seen a glimpse of it earlier.

[Dark Jack]

If asked later to describe how he had experienced the last seconds of the skirmish, Jaelnec would probably have no answer. His mind was occupied with so many different things all at once that there was simply no strength left in him to store what happened in his memory with any reliable accuracy. Fighting in general - the strict muscle-control he had been taught to maintain the speed, weight and precision of his blows, and at the same time conserve his dwindling stamina - required a great deal of concentration, almost enough to rival that which was required to wield magic, and after his fall and momentary degeneration into a creature driven by primal instincts, he controlled his muscles even more strictly than ever, putting a great deal of thought and consideration into every move he made. Then naturally there was the legendary level of awareness that the Knights of the Will taught themselves, and though Jaelnec was but a squire and had not achieved the full potential of this ability, just maintaining the awareness he could produce was rather taxing. Every single one of his senses were tuned to catch things that were usually faint enough to evade him, and he even put effort into paying attention to the instinctive sixth sense that was at once inexplicable and undeniable in its existence. Every goblin and ally around him were marked by his senses, their locations and approximate movements monitored, his mind constantly and actively searching for signs of danger.
But both of these efforts, while admittedly active in an extreme degree, were things he always pursued in battle, endeavors his mind was accustomed to and had learned to cope with. What pushed the young man over the limit was that while he was fighting, he also had to manage the searing pain of his badly lacerated legs. The agony of standing on his injured appendages did not fade, but rather intensified with every second he applied his weight to them, and it drained enormous amounts of concentration and sheer willpower to block out as much of that pain as he could and resist what he could not. To his mind's eye, he almost pictured a second spectral version of himself within his own soul, trying to gather up the roaring flames of agony within him and enclose them in his grasp. The mental effort it took for him to keep on fighting was incredible, even though he did not even have enough capacity left to realize that at the time.

It was not until Jaelnec beheaded the last goblin with a sweeping horizontal slash and his senses no longer registered any more threats that he released control of himself, unbinding enough mental capacity to have any left to consciously register what was happening. But this did not happen gradually, easing him out of his stress - rather, it propelled him out of it from one moment to the next, like a bow with its string made so taut that the entire weapon nearly shattered, only to have the bowstring released instantaneously. The second the sense of danger was gone, his extreme control released, and like a whiplash across his very soul all the pain he had suppressed until then was free to ravage his mind.
For a moment Jaelnec felt as though he was going to black out and faint right then and there, lightheaded and with his limbs turning nerveless, but rather than the world turning black, it seemed to momentarily drastically change its colors. He did not see the world in negative, but it was just as unnatural sight as that, and somehow that strange vision of a warped and twisted world jarred him back to consciousness before he had even gone fully unconscious.
Instinctively thrusting Roct downward, Jaelnec buried much of the blade in the ground just in time to use the Sartal sword for support before he would have collapsed entirely, his legs now refusing to carry him entirely. He fell almost to his knees before he caught himself, and somehow even just lifting himself to just barely balancing on the balls of his feet, both hands clutching desperately at the gilded hilt of Roct as though it was his only anchor to the waking world.
With a surge of effort, Jaelnec managed to stand back up and balance himself on his legs, even though the pain of doing this strained him so that he kept trembling and sweating profusely. I will not fall again, he thought stubbornly, gritting his teeth as he tried to limp forward, but upon realizing that it was impossible for him to favor one leg over the other rather settled into short staggering strides. I will not fall again!

Finally he looked up, trying to pinpoint where everyone else had settled for the moment. Ironically, Olan was the first to catch his eyes even though the old Nightwalker was the one farthest away, just strolling over to the group at a leisurely pace, looking around him with a mildly fascinated expression as though the heaps of dead goblins lying about were little more than patches of nice flowers. He found the Pennyworthy brothers standing by themselves for the time being, and the Melenian, Aemoten and Thaler having grouped up over by - much to Jaelnec's distress, not for practical reasons, but rather empathic ones - the foreigner's downed horse. Gerald was nowhere to be seen, and Annabelle...
Coming to an unsteady halt upon realizing that the paladin was approaching him, the squire (ignorant to what had just happened and how Annabelle looked behind her helmet) offered the woman a pained smile, genuinely happy. He remembered now - despite how the battle had fared, she had made her way over to him when the goblins had dragged him to the ground. He recalled the rattle of her armor beside him, and also remembered the warm soothing sensation that had filled him just before he had stood back up to fight on. Even in the face of the danger that was overwhelming masses of goblins, she had opted to come to his aid, to save him again.
She risked herself again to save me. That is definitely not something an evil creature would do. His smile broadened.

Sheathing Roct without cleaning it - finding something to do that with and cleaning it would quite frankly require far more strength than he had left in him at this point - he straightened, shredded trousers, tattered coat and all, and said the first words that came to mind: "Thank you."
His voice was surprisingly normal and unmarked of his fatigue, he noted. That was good. That 'thank you' would need to show gratitude for so many things, it would not do for it to have been hoarse. He just hoped that she understood.

[xbriannova]

Annabelle could not bear to look at Jaelnec as she made her approach towards the Squire of the Will. It was a mix of emotions that made circuits through her head like a messenger running between armies that made her felt what she felt. The greatest fear she had was to see him in the eye and find the gems emanating disappointment and anger, perhaps a tinge of sadness. The second greatest pain she could not bear to take was for those black gems to reflect back the disappointment she had for herself, having once again took certain things for granted, like how this band of assorted adventurers would respond to her the same way an Order party would have. Annabelle knew she would lose some of her impeccable skill in matters of war, spirituality and healing but apparently, she seem to be losing more...

It was then that something unexpected was uttered from Jaelnec's lips, "Thank you," he said to the paladin, perhaps ambiguous of what she was feeling. It felt comforting, as if it would lift the heavy burden of having very nearly indirectly taken a few lives, but at the same time it felt so wrong. Annabelle knew that she did not deserve this at all- the nightwalker, perhaps being so young and susceptible to the rigours of warfare, was perhaps succumbing to the hardships of war and thus delirious and innocent of what he said. Upon finally lifting her eyes to look upon him, she found herself horror-struck from the condition he was in.

"Oh Liya! What have I done!" Annabelle exclaimed, her voice quivering and losing substance as she took badly the visage of a worn-out and injured Jaelnec, "No, I do not deserve your gratitude!" Tears were once again flowing down with renewed ferocity but Annabelle held some of it back. It felt about as strong as if he was her child and she had allowed him to slip into danger- it was her responsibility, anyway, child or not, "Here, no, wait, it's okay... It's okay child... Let me..." Hysterically, Annabelle pointed her blade at the core of the wounds the nightwalker had suffered, wounds that mirrored the pain the paladin was feeling inside, and started mumbling a string of prayers punctuated by her crying, emphasizing it, hoping for the most portent favour Liya could bestow upon someone ever.

Annabelle Nemesis was closer to her now, just grinning, its arms folded in triumph even if it was keeping its distance...