The Prophecy

[Dark Jack]

Lu continued walking for only about ten seconds after passing the cart, moving at a brisk pace but still not putting much distance between himself and the woman who was his new companion, whom he found boundlessly fascinating, and who had inadvertently stirred memories buried in the depths of Lu's mind which he would rather never see again. Once he stopped walking, he simply sat down and hugged his knees with his back to the cart and Usha, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as he could. He was a soldier and a warrior - and once even a champion and commander - and was accustomed to carnage and gore... but the things he had seen and experienced during his captivity were crimes worse than anything he had ever seen done in the name of war. He was fine with being around death and mutilation, but the sight of peeling off bloody skin was just too much like the torture from back then.
I'm stronger than this, he told himself desperately, even as the spectral echoes of screams kept ringing inside his head, the screams of women and screams of his own. He trembled, and had to resist the urge to crawl into fetal position and weep until the pain went away. I'm stronger than this! It happened, but I endured, got through it and out on the other side. I escaped. Draigen saved me. I got out!
He still remembered his initial confusion and distrust upon seeing Draigen, back then wearing no veil and possessing no powers, enter the chamber that served as Lu's dungeon. Lu had immediately known that Draigen was not like the others, but had been wary of him nonetheless.
"Are you the one they say have strange powers? The one who does not belong here, and whose magic is beyond the understanding of all?" Those had been the first words Draigen had spoken to him, all those years ago. He had stood before Lu's ravaged naked form, and had none of the fearsome aura he had now... but even then there had been something there, an untapped potential that Lu had immediately sensed. Draigen was unlike anyone else in the Planes... Draigen and Lu were both remnants of things extinct and forgotten, of hidden powers left untapped for untold amounts of time. In this, they had immediately found fellowship.
"I will release you from your chains," he had said, reaching out to do so immediately. "And then I need your help to unlock the power within me. No one else are willing or able to help me, but you can. Aid me in wielding the might within me, and we shall help each other to escape this Spirits-forsaken place."
But Lu had simply slumped to the floor upon being released, too weak to stand, let alone walk. His time of torture and captivity had drained him of all his strength, physical and mental alike. "Amissa anima, I have not the strength to help myself, let alone anyone else. Leave me here so that I might wallow in my damnation - there is no hope of escape. Not for me, nor for you."
"The only time there is no hope is when we stop hoping," the stranger had said then. "What you need is not hope, however, but purpose. You have no hope because you have no objective. You cannot move because you have no direction. You need a goal, fallen one. Find one, and it will give you strength." Such wisdom there were in those words... amazing insight for one so young as Draigen had been at the time. But then again, he had ended up in that terrible place the same as Lu, only not in chains. Whatever had lead Draigen there, it was sure to have aged him beyond his years.
"Have you a goal, then, amissa anima?" he had asked, still feeling hopeless, still not finding the strength to stand.
"I have a purpose, and many goals to achieve to fulfill this purpose. I have a plan, and you are part of that plan. You will help me, and together we will seize the threads of fate and make our own destiny - we will be the lords of our future, and the future of everyone else. We will hold fate itself in our grasp. We will shatter all concepts of what is possible and impossible, and begin a new age for the Planes."
Lu had not understood Draigen's acclaimed purpose then, and still did not understand it now, but the strength and confidence in the other's voice had helped him. Back then, Lu had wept... but he had stood up, with fiery hatred in his gaze. Despite everything, he still managed to find his direction to allow him to move, his destination to go towards. "The Crimson Dawn must be destroyed, and the Grand Master must fall. They will all die by my hand, and feel the hatred burning in my breast."
"Then give me power, fallen one." Draigen had taken his hand, and lead him away from the blood-soaked chamber. "Unleash the power within me, and we shall both see the destinies of our choosing fulfilled. That I promise you."

Although momentarily lost in memories of when he had been rescued and gained a trustworthy friend and powerful ally, Lu instantly snapped back to the present when he heard Usha calling in the distance and, just a moment later, heard her heard her express pain. Immediately Lu stood, the strength gained from Draigen then and later returning to him swiftly to suppress the old weakness that had briefly risen to the surface. Turning quickly, the dark-skinned man ran back to where he had left Usha, only to find her trying to stand, although rather awkwardly, on her rather inhuman legs.
"It is quite all right, mea pulchra," he quickly assured her with a gentle smile as he moved around the cart and approached her, slowing his pace as he got closer until he stopped entirely just a couple of feet from her. Looking at her now, he had to admit that the result was worth the means. With what seemed to have been dead skin and some assorted grime that Lu would rather not guess at the origin of out of the way, this creature's beauty had been enhanced quite a bit. And moreover, part of him approved greatly of the fact that she did not appear entirely mortal. After all, whenever he saw a mortal woman in the nude now, he was reminded of those horrors he had gone through back then. Usha was just different enough that she did not remind him of the people he had seen in the past - as long as she did not go and tear off her skin, that is - and on top of that, she was so very fascinating. A good distraction from the haunting of the past, a present worth living in.
"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his tone worried, noticing how she seemed to be especially unsteady on her right leg. "Do you need healing?" Quickly, Lu looked into himself, and was satisfied to see that his magical energy had been replenished after the night's rest. It had been quite draining to restore such grievous wounds as the ones she had had last evening, especially considering that Lu's magic was not meant to heal - let alone heal demonspawn. But an injury so light that he had failed to notice it until now would be almost effortless to mend for him, nevertheless.
Even now, he could feel the magic within himself, stirring impatiently. The magic not of a sorcerer or a healer, but of a soldier and warrior. Magic meant to be wielded in battle, not in peace.
Magic that had been the key to give Draigen power beyond anything Lu had ever imagined.

[Player2]

Only the deep nodding of Natyr's head was offered as response to Aemoten's wish to place the boys remains to rest that night. There were no other safe choices inside Anaxim, but Natyr had hoped Louis would have recovered from the madness by now. Maybe it was best this way. Perhaps the shock of all that had taken place would blind him from the image of his dead and mutilated brother. If his eyes hadn't spotted the wound of his brother, that would be all the better. To be spared such images of his kin would be good. Those memories didn't sit well in ones mind. Natyr knew that better than most. “I don't really know what the rites are for their god, but I'll carry the body. May want to grab a bite first though.”

In response to Thaler, Natyr simply chuckled. “Just because we're in the wilderness doesn't mean raw wolf should have to taste like raw wolf either. Surprised Olan hasn't picked up a recipe or two in all those places he's been traveling.” The Melenian threw a hand up to gesture at the old Nightwalker, shaking his head as the hand returned to his lap. He went silent for a moment, eyes returning to the fire, then abruptly jumping back up to Thaler as he raised both paws in defense, “Not that I doubt your cooking skills at all, Miss Thaler.” He decided to keep silent before he went digging a hole for himself in this conversation. The jade orbs in his head continued to bounce about from person to person as they traded words though, finally coming to rest on the Daywalker once again as she offered them some tea.

“Oh, are you from Zerul?” He asked, perking up a bit. Every time he set foot in that city he managed to get himself lost at least once. Perhaps she could put him in the direction of a decent armorer or tanner. An irony that, being guided around the city by a blind girl. Then again, she had said her mother 'used to' drink the tea, which either implied she no longer served in guard and needed it, no longer enjoyed it, or was dead. Natyr found himself rather impressed at piecing together that much from a simple sentence, but kept it too himself. He wouldn't have wanted others prying into his past too much either, especially around such often touchy subjects. Instead, he occupied the time between her answer and his asking by looking around for something he could use as a cup. His quick search yeilded little result though, and he returned his attentions to the conversation. He'd have to find a big leaf or something of the sort to get some of the beverage later.

[Dark Jack]

Taking the bundle of herbs from Thaler as she held them out to him, Olan just looked from the Daywalker to the Melenian with a grin on his face that was unusually goofy, even for him. Currently, all nuance and mood in the way people spoke and any atmosphere in the area seemed to have faded far into the background, and as he started to sort through the herbs he had gathered and lay them out besides Thaler, stating their names as he did so, he was constantly grinning widely and trying to suppress a childlike giggle that seemed to incessantly try to work its way from his chest and up his throat, even as he felt his stomach churning.
"This is anise," he told her, finding the name funny for reasons he himself could not even fathom. "It's mostly good for tummy-issues, but you never know, right? And this here, heh, this is dandelion. I'm sure you know it, it's everywhere. And here's some lemon balm... useful one, you know. Knocks you on your ass, heh, heh. Yarrow is good for wounds, you know, and I've got some of it!"

He straightened once he had sorted the herbs, still grinning widely, although by now the keen observer would probably already have realized that Olan had not listed all the plants he had gathered, nor had he given all of them to Thaler, as was apparent by the pale green stain on his teeth and slow dark-green liquid that began to escape through the corners of his mouth and trail down towards his chin. In truth, while the old Nightwalker had been out looking for herbs for Thaler, he had noticed a bit of very characteristic brush less than a hundred yards from the pond, and had went to retrieve a bit of it and chew on it for a while.
Granted, he had had certain reservations against doing so at first... after all, even the appearance of the dark-green, almost black, stiff and oddly segmented Spiderweed was uninviting to say the least, and the fact that they were covered in a fine fuzz was also rather discouraging when it came to stuffing it into his mouth. Add to that the fact that Spiderweed was quite poisonous and could cause coughing, stomach-cramps and diarrhea short-team and cause organ-failure on long-term use - and on top of everything else, it was highly addictive - and any knowledgeable person would probably go to great lengths to stay far away from that terrible, terrible plant. However, Spiderweed was also an effective analgesic, and right then, the throbbing left side of Olan's face very much welcomed any respite from the pain.
The decision to chew the Spiderweed had been even harder. Traditionally, Spiderweed was always prepared somehow first - boiled before being smeared onto what needed dulling, crushed before being sparsely being used in ointments, dried before being rolled into a cigarette and smoked... but chewing it was faster, more effective, and easier to hide from the rest. Or, it would have been the latter, had it not also been a relatively weak euphoriant. Usually, when being smoked, all it did was to calm one down and give one a sense of wellbeing... but in concentrated form, when chewed, it was powerful enough to wipe out any feeble remnant of common sense that was left in the old Nightwalker's mind, reducing him (more so than usual) to a giggling fool.
So even though Olan was careful about taking only a single small segmented straw of Spiderweed, and even more cautious about not swallowing any bits or any of the juice, chewing the weed pretty much throttled his already less than optimally functioning brain. But his face stopped hurting, so as far as he was concerned, it was all worth it.

"I know a few recipes, indeed," he chuckled so merrily that souls in the Upper Plane would have looked to him, envious of his bliss. His breath stank of the pungent Spiderweed, extremely bitter with a hint of something akin to mint and, oddly, a smell of overripe banana, and had he not had completely black Nightwalker eyes, his pupils would also have dilated fully. "Let me see what I can cook up... heh, heh, heheheheh."
It was only then, when Olan was about to reach out and retrieve the herbs meant for cooking that he realized that his younger kinsman had returned, and was actually standing just about right in front of him. Jaelnec was depositing a bundle of wet equipment on a rock next to where he had left his leather gauntlets, and as he stood up, it struck Olan how different the young man looked when out of his combat gear. He was still wearing his hat and boots, obviously, as well as the belt and scabbard with matching Sartal longsword, but even so it completely changed his appearance not to be wearing the cuirass and duster coat. He seemed less intimidating, somehow... yet at the same time he seemed... in lack of a better word, better. His white shirt fit more tightly on his body, making the contours of his muscles more apparent, and he seemed to move more easily and naturally. Even though the ghiril armor was supposedly as sparingly obstructive as possible, it made a notable difference that Jaelnec was not wearing it and the coat. Plus, the fact that Jaelnec had gone from a look that was mostly black in black, with the only breaks being the brown of leather and the golden-purple ghiril cuirass, to a look composed of black and white, made him seem more... iconic, somehow. With armor and duster coat, he looked like a fearsome warrior, someone meant for dealing death on a battlefield. Without it, as he was now, he looked more like someone meant to inspire others to do the same. It was an appealing look... at least, Olan thought so when he was high on Spiderweed. But he did look good.
"I'm back," Olan heard Jaelnec say, his voice soft and gentle as he reached out to pat Thaler's shoulder once. There was a strength there that had not been present before the squire went to bathe, though. The hopelessness seemed a little fainter. "I'll be with you in a moment for that talk. I just have one more thing I need to do."

---

Turning from Thaler once he had let her know that he was done bathing and was back at the camp, Jaelnec decided to ignore the fact that disgusting green slime seemed to be coating most of Olan's chin by then, and faced Aemoten. He felt his stomach churning painfully at the thought of speaking to him, at the risk of facing that betrayal he had seen in his eyes, that uncertainty, that loss of trust and faith. He knew that by facing the southerner, he would risk facing the epitome of his own shortcomings, his own greatest failure, and all the consequences thereof. He was terrified, to say the least, and every fiber in his body and every nervous bit of his soul cried out to him to turn away, to flee from Aemoten and hide from his shame, to bury himself in obscurity as well as possible and hope that as few as possible would learn of his dishonor.
But somehow, he managed to press on, to approach Aemoten despite everything, even as he shivered from both the chill seeping into his damp body and fear.
Who left that message? How did they get there and do that without me noticing? Was it really... Annabelle?
What gave him the strength, he imagined, was the fact that he had a responsibility that had to take priority over everything else, including his own shame. Even if it was impossible, he needed to at least try and do some good, to continue the journey and the quest to end the Withering. He owed it to himself and to Reniam, to justify his failings, to ensure that the sacrifices made by his companions - his friends - had not been in vain. That the trust put in him had not been for naught. Even if it was hopeless, he would try - until his last drop of lifeblood had been spilled, he would not give up.
And unfortunately, the first step on continuing his journey would be to face Aemoten, and face his own failure. As hard and painful as it was, he needed to do so. After all, if Annabelle could accept what she had done enough to apologize to him, did he not owe it to her to accept responsibility what he had done, as well?

After seconds and strides that felt infinitely long, Jaelnec stood next to where the foreigner sat, looking down at him - not into his eyes, but just in his general direction. His agonizing shame was still apparent in the way he angled his head and the way his hands rested on his hips, but there was also a new determination in the way his back straightened, and his shoulders no longer sagged. He was still tired - so infinitely tired - but he needed to do this.
"Aemoten," he said after about two seconds' hesitation, his voice quivering slightly, but as loud as ordinary speech. "I -"
"I am so sorry about everything."
"- have failed. I should have listened to you. Almost from the beginning, you knew what needed to be done, and because of my naivety, Annabelle... Brian... Louis..." He shook his head hopelessly. "I just couldn't stand the thought of having been wrong, to accept that there really never was any hope. I wanted so desperately to be right, I ignored all the signs that I wasn't. And in the end, I was so far gone that I preferred to think that you were the bad guy, rather than... Usha. I couldn't let myself see that I'd failed, that I was wrong."
He closed his eyes. "I -
"I am so sorry about everything."
"- am not fit to lead anyone. If I'm that blind, I can be it again. You saw it from the start. I think... I think it's better if you're the leader, and I... I just follow."
As I used to, as I know how to, he thought grimly. As a squire is supposed to.

[xbriannova]

"It is quite all right, mea pulchra," Lu had said with a smile in response to Usha's apology. It was a reassuring smile, and the three-fourths demoness could not help but to return the smile. It was then that her mind set to work planning even as she listened wholeheartedly to her new companion offering more assistance, as would be expected of a full-fledged lady, which Usha had instinctually grown into as part of her real identity, though it seemed awkward for the time being. What do I do now? "Are you hurt? Do you need healing?"

"I'm fine." Usha said as she regarded the distance between the two. One thing that she noticed was that Lu still seemed a little apprehensive about being a little more closer to her, as if her very skin and blood was coated with poison and disease. It was one thing that she felt need change. She wants to get alot closer to him, she could feel it- she knew it to be her infernal drive, which she still resists, but she also knew herself to feel particularly lonely and troubled at the moment due to everything that had happened, "My ankle's still a little stiff, but I'm fine." She took her first few elegant steps towards Lu, learning as she goes, her arrow-headed tail swaying along with her smoothly flowing body- impressive, but baby walk compared to what else she must learn in order to survive (such as sprinting all the way to using her natural gifts), "Say, since we're... stuck together, why not tell me about your handsome self?" As she got a little closer to him, she gazed at his eyes. In her mind, she was both admiring his beauty and wishing to get much closer to him. In the cave of her brain however, she felt too that it would be necessary that they grow comfortable with each other should they travel together.

Somehow, she knew that she was presently near Pelgaid- for many times now, the unmistakable eternal night over the city of justice had crossed her eyes, not to mention... She must have seen the woods she was in a few times before, though her experience with the local lay of the land was buried by time, other more significant happenings and of course, recent events. Her heart, however, was confused and unset on what she must do at the moment. Her heart was divided between returning to her city, and seeking out Jaelnec again, between the love of her family and her new dedication to this fine specimen of nightwalker she encountered in her wanderings, for whom she had taken to care for and even love, even now as she walks in her demon form, though only time will tell if things would change, or if her heart would be set on one or the other...

[Hymusia]

As soon as Natyr spoke his question to her she realised she had said something she shouldn't have. Of course it was hardly damaging information and so rather than stall and think up a lie she simply nodded lightly and told the truth. “Originally yes. However it's been a very long time since I've been there.” In fact she could remember the last night rather vividly, The fire was intense, it's heat fell around her, warming her cold bones. The day had been chilly and had gotten worse as it progressed, a group of travellers had made a camp fire and were feeding it more logs as they camped out for the night. They were not a day's ride from Zerul yet, and yet Thaler already felt a great relief wash over her. That place had been full of sadness and grief, and while she was certain these travellers were also unfair to her they were quiet in their disdain. All of them were outcasts from what she could gather, either banned from their home towns or considered riff raff wherever they went.
“I would be a rather terrible guide, but if you need any help I shall do what I can.” She offered with a weak smile sent the cat man's way.

Olan spoke up quickly, his voice filled with a dangerous amount of mirth, a laughter that bordered on frightening for the girl who couldn't see that he was simply high. She worried her lip but listened as he explained; the best he could, which herbs were which and how and when to use them. She committed what she could to memory but his laughter was like an ice spike through the middle of her brow. It was worrying, not fully terrifying, but it reminded her of her mother's laughter when she was at her worst. Deranged, detached from the world, “Thank you Olan...” She paused, contemplating asking after his health, but she decided against it for now and Olan was soon offering to cook. This again worried her and she pouted slightly. “Olan, please let me see to your wounds first? I'd rather not have your blood amongst our dinner and the Osier should be ready if you can take it from the fire for me?”

Hopefully this would at least sober him a little, and if not she could at least make sure this sudden further break from sanity was not due to the wounds he had suffered. If she ever had the displeasure of meeting Usha again she'd rip the demon's fingers off and feed them to her. Shaking such hateful thoughts from her mind; because she knew quite well she'd likely run, she sighed and made some space beside her. Fishing around in the bag Aemoten had left nearby for the bandages and gauze and laying them against her legs. As she did so Jaelenc's hand fell upon her shoulder. There was a weight too it that had been missing before, it was hard for her to discern the nature of it and she certainly couldn't fathom the reasoning, but he seemed happier, his voice seemed stronger and she couldn't help a small smile. “Alright Jaelnec.” She responded, letting him go finish his business, while she herself turned a stern – as stern as a blind girl can be- eye back to where she assumed Olan was. “Sit and let me take care of you.”

[Shienvien]

Natyr had only nodded in response to Aemoten when the southerner first mentioned the need to take care of Brian's remains without the deceased man's younger brother's presence or instructions. It seemed that the cat-man understood the circumstances and thusly agreed with the foreign warrior - or at least acknowledged their rather bleak situation with its limited possibilities. It was harder to read the finer nuances of emotions from an inhuman face.
The human man's attention was however drawn back to the Melenian when the hulking fur-covered humanoid spoke at last: “I don't really know what the rites are for their god, but I'll carry the body. May want to grab a bite first, though.”
For a moment Aemoten was almost amazed - and in not the most positive sense of the word - at the ease with what Natyr went from stating that he would offer further help with the funeral to casually talking about eating, but then dismissed the thought. It was perhaps for the best if things were kept as simple as possible, if there was at least one group-member who did not burden oneself with dwelling on their several misfortunes. That philosophy perhaps showed Natyr's more animalistic side, but did it necessarily make the Melenian any less trustworthy? Aemoten's own Etakar was purely an animal, but it did not mean the creature was less loyal and reliable than any representative of the higher sapient races. The human man himself suspected it was quite the opposite - the dekkun was more faithful and undeceiving than most of his fellow humanoids.
"They follow Liya, the Spirit of Life," the southerner finally remarked in response, though his tone fell flat. "They usually bury their dead, if I am not mistaken, but as has been covered, it is not an option here and now. None of us but his curse-struck brother follows the same deity, and even less any of us is a Favored of the Spirit to say the blessings. I might speak a few words, as might any other who wishes to, but there is little else that can be done."

It seemed that the conversation clicked back onto a more mundane track after that brief exchange with the Melenian, as all that Thaler said was in relation to food, herbs, the smaller tasks... The Daywalker had listened in silence through him speaking about the more oppressing matters - she had listened intently, it had seemed, but she never uttered a comment. Perhaps she had had nothing to add, perhaps she simply wished to add nothing.
Now it was Aemoten who mostly only followed the others' conversations, even as his body leaned forward and his arm reached out for one of his knives, around the handle of which his fingers closed before he drew back, removing and tossing the blade's simple leather sheath back onto the spread of fabric on the ground a few feet farther. He had needed something to cut the meat into slices with, and now he needed a fresh stick or two for placing the pieces over the fire... He did not intend to eat meat raw as long as there was a fire or an opportunity to make such.
"I should know the worth of a meal, and I've had to eat things far less appetizing than wolf in my life. - I grew up during a war and have been through a few unfortunate times since, even when I always try to be as prepared as possible," he idly commented when Thaler addressed him in person, more so to signify that he was paying attention than to contribute to the discussion.
It seemed that there was nothing with any semblance to what he was looking for within three yards from him, and thus Aemoten gave up searching it from the vicinity and tried to make his body get used to the thought of it having to get up again, now that it had gotten accustomed to the prospect of settling down for the night, or at least for the next few hours if no more was permitted. The irrational urge to exert himself - do anything that would require him to spend every ounce of strength still left in his body - from earlier had long dissipated.
The man turned his head to look sideways at Thaler, Natyr and Olan, who were still speaking something about - it left the impression - spices and herbs. And Thaler mentioned tea being ready. The southerner's mind interpreted everything at its own sluggish pace, therefore it was only after a short delay that he spoke up, adding his own bits of information to the topic, not all of which were in direct relation to what others were saying, but by extension seemed logical enough to be included.
"I should have crushed dried spices in the bag somewhere - pepper and such things. And salt. I also have a spare cup, and whatever else I have could be used... Who later does not want to sleep on the ground, can lend the tent-cloth - I do not think it would start to rain any time soon, so there is no need to set up an actual tent."
Absentmindedly wondering whether Olan intended to start cooking now or in the morning - if it was the first, there was perhaps no point in preparing a separate meal for himself now -, Aemoten located one of the two cups and put the knife aside without having used it. - He was tired enough to become disorganized to the point where he spent time and effort on doing things which turned out to be pointless a few moments later.
For a moment he paused in his motions, looking sideways at Thaler, who was now speaking something about her mother. The foreigner did not set much significance on the words themselves, however he noted the manner in which she spoke in - had been speaking like for a while. She was being nothing but kind and helpful, however her voice lacked the usual strength and there was a certain languidness seeping into her tone. Every now and then, the blind woman seemed to make an effort to stay upright, her body at times subtly relaxing to the point where it seemed that she might nod forward, only to tense up and straighten again.
He had been right, the man abruptly realized. She was tired and fighting off deep exhaustion under her carefully maintained exterior; she was putting up a front for everyone else's sake and refusing to show any weakness of her own. A part of him would have wanted to tell her that it was not needed, that she should take her own advice and allow herself some respite, but decided against telling anything within the presence of others.
The next the foreigner's eyes fell on Olan, and the look on his face was perhaps even more doubtful and suspicious than the one the older Nightwalker had received before Aemoten accepted his way of doing things in regards to the potion and healing. Olan had always left the impression of being both slightly senile and insane, but in the harmless way - now, the strange man seemed different. This time, his elated insanity made the human man think of someone who had just had a slightly too close encounter with death, or someone whose senses had just crumbled to hopelessness, or - as occurred to the onlooker when he spotted the green slime spilling from the corners of the Nightwalker's mouth - someone who had resorted to taking advantage of some plant with less than desirable effects on the mind. In the end, the foreign warrior decided against saying something about that the same, and simply turned away from the both of them.
"I've been to Zerul a few times, but it has been over three years since I was there the last, and I have never properly gotten the chance to familiarize myself with the city." That was a neutral comment which did not have much to do with either.
The tea probably was ready, the foreigner concluded when he glanced at the steadily bubbling liquid in the larger cauldron, and helped himself to some, retreating to sit on the edge of his blanket with the now-filled cup, even as Jaelnec's footfalls neared and briefly distanced again, Thaler instructed the older Nightwalker to sit down so his wounds could be tended, and the younger of the two Nightwalkers walked back up to him after getting rid of the bundle of equipment he had been carrying and telling Thaler something he did not pay much mind to.

Aemoten did not look up at the Nightwalker when Jaelnec stopped next to him and for a moment simply seemed to look down at him. Rather, it seemed that the foreigner grew entirely still when the other approached, his body tensing slightly, but otherwise remaining completely motionless. His gaze was dully fixed on his cup of steaming tea, held in both hands in front of him as it was, and his face, unlike before, appeared simply blank and emotionless. He could see the vague form of the Nightwalker in his peripheral vision, and it sufficed for now. It was unclear whether he expected the Nightwalker to simply turn around and leave or if he was merely waiting for the other to speak up first.
When Jaelnec finally spoke his name, the southerner straightened in his sitting position, averted his eyes from his cup, and turned his head halfway in the Nightwalker's direction - just barely enough for him to be able to fix his gaze on Jaelnec, but no more. The southerner seemed questioning, and oddly careful, but showed little to no sign of other emotions. He did not know what to expect - or at least he was not confident in his own former judgment and too tired to make new assumptions.
Initially, the man simply listened as the Nightwalker spoke, his posture and expression unchanging. For some reason, he once more felt old, as if the full weight of the dozen centuries since his birth had suddenly decided to settle upon his body, including even those times he had not truly lived. He was old, just his body did not look after it - the fact that he, unlike deigan, seemed somewhat older than a person who had freshly stepped into adulthood only added to the deception.
He did not know whether or what he should respond. It did not feel like an apology - rather, it seemed to be admittance or explanation. Apologies cost and meant little, especially if people continued to act in the same fashion after they had gotten over that small necessary obstacle. - 'Annabelle' had apologized to him for having tried to kill him for the first time, but yet again there were dark marks on his neck, from Usha's blotched attempt at killing him in the exact same fashion.
- Aemoten knew that people could be easily deceived, or even deceive themselves, but saw no point in commenting on it. From the beginning, he had had only words, whereas Usha had had more. That was the reason why good seemed to always get the shorter end of the stick - it did not resort to unfair methods and deception. He could have told Jaelnec what Usha had done before she had become 'Annabelle', but more likely than not, it would, rather than a warning, have been taken as his attempt to portray the near-demon in as bad light as possible. He could not relay the information he had received from the Six-Eyed God in the form the god had given it to him, nor could he ever hope to have the other comprehend the sheer dread and overwhelming sense of futility he had been feeling most of the time the three-quarter-demon had been around.
The careful questioning look on the foreign warrior's face had become more thoughtful and mingled with something undefinable. It was not hostile, but neither was it a positive emotion. One of the foreigner's hands was absentmindedly removed from the cup and it went to the neckline of his shirt, mechanically pulling it back by an inch and rubbing the sharp, dark line a similar shirt had left with Usha's attack with its index and middle finger. It almost looked as if someone had attempted to strangle him with a wire in addition to the fainter finger-marks on the sides of his neck.
The hand dropped limply away when Jaelnec finally got to what had probably been the point of coming to speak to him all along. For a time he just attempted to force his weary mind to function. For some reason, the Nightwalker's suggestion - if it could be called so - did not unearth any dormant feelings or provoke any new immediate emotions. Whether it was because he was too tired to be surprised in any way, or because he had simply not expected anything specific, the southerner did not know, nor truly care about.
A part of him recalled thinking something of reliability and subsequent mistakes himself, how one could not be truly certain that someone who had already done something would not do it again. There was also something about options in a conversation a few days ago - had it been the one with Menepth? -, how one had plenty in regards to any certain thing in the beginning, and how those were slowly reduced to just one possibility.

Slowly, Aemoten set aside the cup he had been holding, and finally, with a significant effort, stood, now turning to fully face the Nightwalker.
He did not know whether it would truly be better if he was the leader, thus he simply attempted to figure what such shift of power would change for both him and the group, what would it mean for either.
This far, he had been the one who was equal to everyone in the group, the odd one out who neither followed nor commanded. He had essentially been free to ignore orders if he disagreed with those and the others had not been obliged to regard what he said as any more but suggestion or advice. He had had the choice to depart after each of the fights once those had been concluded, even if his sense of duty had not let him to leave while the group was in imminent danger (and Usha had been a constant one). That liberty would disappear, and the full weight of the responsibility of making final decisions would be figuratively placed on him. On personal level and in practice, it made little difference whether one failed one's leader and comrades or as a leader and one's subordinates.
Aemoten could lead, that much he knew. He was not fond of the thought of having people once more rely directly on him, but he could. Had. Through his life, he had either acted independently or been the one to command others. He was used to being the one in charge. He knew how to be, and it tended to show through in his demeanor, in how he usually acted. In the end, probably little would change in how the group functioned, for he would still be taking account of others' opinions. He had been saying what he thought should be done until now, and he would continue doing it from now on - only from now on, it would be him who sets things to stone.
Would the people here follow him? Yes. Jaelnec had essentially said he would, and Aemoten did not - he at least hoped - have a valid, solid reason to doubt him as long as Usha stayed off the horizon. It was impossible to simply forget that the Nightwalker had not only attempted to protect the malevolent three-quarter-demon, but outright attacked him without reservations, but still he figured that a fear of something similar reoccurring with someone else was irrational from a strictly logical point of view, even if a part of him could not but remain vary out of sheer reflex. It would not have come down to it if he had taken care of the near-demon at the right time... The foreign warrior did not question Natyr or Thaler, and he did not see why Olan would be more opposed to following him than Jaelnec, even if his apparent insanity might have made him a bit more unpredictable than others. Louis was his own case, but as long as the curse had not completely twisted his ability to perceive things correctly out of its frame... And that was all what was left of their sorrily diminished group.
For a few moments, the foreigner warrior simply looked at the Nightwalker - down at him, simply because he was was taller now that he stood, and at his face and not his eyes. The Sekalyns rarely made direct eye-contact unless they wanted to make a sharp point or were outright trying to persuade the other into something, be it backing down from their stance or something else. When in some places making eye-contact was taken as a sign of honesty, then a Sekalyn would be more likely to interpret an attempt to form eye-contact as a sign of the other person not trusting them, and suspecting they were contorting the truth or outright lying. As such, having gotten used to using it as an almost offensive tool, most Sekalyns had developed rather intense, even hostile gazes, and Aemoten was no exception of the law. After the counted moments had passed, the foreigner fixed his eyes on some point in the distance instead, seemingly looking over Jaelnec's head.
"If it is final, then so be it." Aemoten's voice was unwavering, his tone oddly, even unnaturally neutral, and his face unreadable. The tiredness seemed to have been once more forced to the background, if only for a brief moment.

[Dark Jack]

All the time from Jaelnec having spoken the last bit of what he wanted to say, through Aemoten's torturously slow progress of standing up, seeming much longer to the young Nightwalker than it actually was because of how important this single moment was to him, to the foreigner giving his court reply - all that time stretched unnaturally in the squire's mind, every movement and every little noise made by the southerner making him more frantic and nervous. Why did he hesitate this long? Why did he not say anything? The fear that Jaelnec currently repressed through sheer strength of will reared within him, howling in his ears, and without even wanting to his eyes began shifting, checking the placement and movements of the other's hands and feet, noting where the other had his weapons, preparing his own muscles to defend himself. Did I anger him enough to make him attack me? Is that how he plans to punish me? Or maybe he wants to cement his ascension to leadership by defeating the former leader first, proving himself superior? Or maybe...
Thoughts flitted through his mind so fast that he could barely follow them as the warrior of the south stood up before him, the height-difference making him seem all the more intimidating as he looked down at Jaelnec with that fiercely intense gaze of his. Before Aemoten staring at him like this, all the strength Jaelnec had mustered for this conversation seemed to falter, and soon he found himself involuntarily shrink away from the other, averting his eyes from Aemoten's face, wringing his hands... When he realized what his hands were doing, this struck him quite hard, too. He knew that Roct felt different, but it seemed the difference was strong enough to even break his nervous habit of caressing its hilt.
And then, finally, Aemoten spoke - just a brief confirmation that leadership had fallen on him, and nothing more. The thoroughly emotionless way Aemoten spoke, coupled with his potent glare, struck Jaelnec like a hammer, smashed the little confidence he had rebuilt within himself to bits anew, left him feeling like a worthless piece of trash that had no place here. To Jaelnec, it seemed that those few words carried with them an accusation and reminder of his shame, striking with the accumulated might of all of his countless failures.

But in the end, Jaelnec could only tell himself that this was what had been the very purpose of forcing himself to face his failures, to take responsibility of his actions and accept what to him seemed like the inevitable consequence of his betrayal. With that sentence of his, Aemoten had accepted leadership, as Jaelnec had wanted and expected.
Then why did he feel surprised? He dug down into his own feelings, and realized that he was surprised because he felt disappointed. Why was he disappointed? This was for the best. Aemoten was clearly a more sensible person than Jaelnec, more experienced and far less naïve. He would make a much better leader than the squire. Spirits, after today Jaelnec even doubted that anyone - especially Aemoten - would even consider following his instructions again. He had thought he would be relieved by this outcome. Happy, even. Then why was it that all he felt was disappointment and sadness?
It took a few moments before it hit him: nothing had changed. The mistakes Jaelnec had already made had not been undone, and any failures he would face in the future would simply be to his responsibility as a companion rather than a leader. Even if Aemoten lead them now, their goal was the same, so was the consequences of failure. No matter where the squire turned his mind, he saw that nothing had changed! The weight resting upon his shoulders was the same as before, the dangers were the same as before, his weakness was the same as before...
And on top of everything else, he felt a sharp, painful twinge deep within him at the thought that he was once again a subordinate. After a decade of being considered worthless, this group had been the first time Jaelnec had actually been anymore than an insect crawling in the shadow of another... and although logic told him that this would not be the same as his time with Freagon had been, he could not help but to feel like it was. He had resented leadership every moment he had had it... but apparently, he had forgotten that he resented servitude even more.

"I..." Jaelnec grit his teeth, feeling infinitely small before Aemoten, reduced once more to a child before his superior, a boy before a man, a subordinate before a master. "I just want you to know... that I -"
"I am so sorry about everything."
"- am sorry... I was a fool. I won't doubt you anymore... commander."
Speaking that last word was the most painful of all. It sent echoes ringing through his very soul of all the times Annabelle had called him that. But once again, the will that was the namesake of his knighthood swept the pain away, allowing nothing to get in the way of his resolve. I can't allow myself to falter anymore. Annabelle... if it was really her words back there, she must mean it. And if she is sorry, that means that she admits guilt - that she admits to having done something wrong. That she admits that she was wrong, and Aemoten was right. That I was wrong. It's all true...
He swallowed past his constricted through, still shrinking before Aemoten, his head lowered, gaze averted, hands wringing. And if that is true... Spirits forgive me... then I really will have to kill her.

---

Meanwhile, Olan simply complied with Thaler's requests with a grin so big that it threatened to split his already cut and bleeding lips further. He took off the cauldron the fire, then sat down beside the Daywalker, pausing only a second to spit out the dark-green slimy clump of Spiderweed onto the ground. The chewed-up straws of poisonous grass landed with a disturbingly audible splat, and proceeded to ooze dark-green liquid onto the ground. In a few minutes, any small plants within six inches of the clump would start to droop and grow pale, in an hour they would all have withered, and the next morning a small young cluster of Spiderweed would have started to grow amidst the desolation. Spiderweed was a vile plant indeed... and notoriously easy to grow.
"Go right ahead," he encouraged her, wobbling back and forth at first while he was getting annoyed that Reniam would not seem to stop tipping from one side to the other, until he finally put out his hands to support himself on his seat and let him sit relatively still. "I never knew Spiderweed was so fun, you know? But... heh. Heheheheheheheh..."
After about five seconds of borderline insane laughing, Olan fell silent and stared fixedly and wide-eyed at his own right knee instead, seeing that knee as if for the first time. And to him, right now, that knee was infinitely fascinating.

---

Odd, Lu thought to himself as he watched - not unappreciatively - Usha's obviously intentionally seductive approach. It certainly proved that she was far from crippled and quite unlikely to require healing. The way she looked him straight in his eyes as she approached, her words... everything about her was blatantly seductive, made only all the more effective by her innate aura of temptation, and it actually took quite some effort on Lu's part to hold on to some little shred of reason. Her methods are inarguably rather effective - how can I claim otherwise when I can feel the blood running hot in my veins even now? - but somehow... well, she's just not what I expected from someone Draigen himself has taken interest in. I can't imagine that she's very old, either - strong or not, a demonspawn that obvious and with such a lack of subtlety would have been tracked down and slain before long. Although...
He smiled at her, showing his teeth and angling his face to show her his 'good side'. He was quite aware of how handsome he was, and knew how to use it the best. She wants me to tell her about myself? Actually, why not? It's not like Draigen told me I couldn't, and I don't really mind. The big picture, of course - no reason to worry her with the details.

"It's a long story, my little exlecebra," he said teasingly, not reluctantly, giving every indication of intending to tell that long story. "Tell you what - if you tell me about your beautiful self, I'll tell you about mine." He abruptly remembered something Draigen had said last night - the way he had introduced her. "Why did Draigen call you Annabelle Silversmith?"

[Hymusia]

Thaler was indeed ignoring Aemoten and Natyr's talk of the deceased. That was all she could muster the energy for, to label him as no longer alive, if she gave herself time to sit and think about how grim and upsetting the situation was. How the man she had only met the day before, treated only the night before, had died before she had known him long enough to form an opinion one way or another of him. If she thought about the way he died by his own mistresses hands, full of love and confusion for that very same woman. If she thought about how grim and painful his death was and how people who barely knew him would be the ones erecting and setting fire to his funeral pyre, she was likely to break into tears.

Death was not uncommon for her, in the mercenary's one accepted that they were nothing more than dead men walking. Everyone waiting for their number to come up and awaiting their death, they didn't mourn one another's passing because it was the job. They held brief and quiet memorial's to the fallen and they continued with their work. Such was the way of their band of unlikely friends. With the unsavoury bunch she had once been forced to join with much was the same, one could not expect to live long when one lived outside the law, broke the codes of the people and forced their way through most situations. However in neither company had she ever lost someone to treachery, such a thing was taboo even for people with no morals and fewer concerns.

It was all therefore she could do to think a few kind thoughts about the man she barely knew and then firmly close the door behind that incident and hope that once she awoke in the morning -once she slept of course- that she could then deal with the thoughts and feelings she should have been expressing tonight. After all she would only fool these people for so long, sooner than she'd hoped they'd probably realise how tired she was, how close to just falling over she was. Yet there was still so much to do, and the first of these things was to fix Olan's face as best as she was able, feeling -in some strange way- partly responsible for the fact he was injured in the first place. If only I'd used my curse in a better way. However this too was a dangerous road to walk and she had no time for self-pity or misery. Instead all her insecurities were swept under the rug as Olan moved to sit beside her.

Carefully she turned herself to face him, or where she felt and heard him at the very least. Feeling out with one hand; while the other kept the supplies from falling out of her lap, she found his ankle and traced her hand up his leg until she found his torso. Shuffling -if needed- closer before rolling up the sleeves of the coat and shirt beneath, having no intention of dirtying; any more than necessary, the borrowed clothing. Then carefully one hand sought out the warmth of the cauldron, carefully dancing just the finger tips across the surface of the heated metal before they slipped inside to begin fishing for the edge of a cloth. While she made sure only the tips of her fingers were permitted to touch the water she still had to pull them free and wait for the burning throb to subside before reaching in again. Finding the first cloth on her second attempt she lifted it free from the osier infused water and squeezed it so it was damp rather than soaking. At this point her hand sought out Olan's chest and once again began 'feeling' it's way up his body until she found his face.

Despite her exhaustion the sheer terror at the thought of jabbing the high male; as he had by now revealed the 'wonder' of Spiderweed to her, in the eye or any other place with a hot herb infused cloth was enough to make her force her hand as steady as she was able and will back the sleep deprivation so as not to cause more damage. “This may hurt a little, but...” Well he was high he'd probably not feel it, “But bare with it, if you weren't already hurt I'd probably slap you though.” She uttered in the same soft tone she'd used most of the night, it seemed easier for now than trying to think of how she should be sounding and speaking. “I'm sure you know Spiderweed is not good for you in the least, and if you drop down dead because of your own stupidity well.” She would be really annoyed and probably upset to boot. “Don't forget you promised to accompany me to Zerul. If you break that promise I won't forgive you.” She muttered with a hint of petulance to her tone.

Her hand now rested beneath his chin, acting as a guide for the other hand and stabilisation for the older man's head, the last thing she needed or wanted right now was for the nightwalker gent to find something insanely interesting and jerk away as she was about to apply the medicine. Carefully the other hand moved, the still hot linen reaching her opposing wrist before sliding lightly across the old gent's chin and lower lip. Her sightless eyes were once again narrowed uselessly in concentration on her task while her lips worried themselves into fine lines of utter determination. Carefully she wiped backwards with the linen, sliding across his jawline with a light touch and the soft, heated linen picking up the blood and gore that clung to him. Once reaching his hairline she was careful to remove the linen, fold it over and repeat the process in the same manner slightly higher up.

[xbriannova]

Instead of learning about Lu, Usha has had the focus turned to her. In her identity-confused mind, she rather expected it. Having not been her normal self for some 26 years, her original way of achieving what she wanted remained, for the most part, unused, and thus unsharpened. With the question thrown back at her however, Usha did not think of it as a bad thing even if things did not go as she planned in the short term- after all, she would not be herself if she would not go with the flow, to be more... flexible and open-minded. She wanted to learn more about Lu, get close to him. The three-fourths demoness had many reasons for that action. "It's a long story, my little exlecebra," He had said at first before artfully turning the topic on her. She did not mind at all the twist in the conversation, the rather devious demoness wondering in the meantime for a fleeting moment what exlecebra meant, though she decided the next moment that it was pleasant-sounding. "Tell you what - if you tell me about your beautiful self, I'll tell you about mine." As Lu complemented her looks, she felt indeed... complemented. Her smile widened briefly at him calling her beautiful, however, her smile was not to last...

"Why did Draigen call you Annabelle Silversmith?" For at the mention of her former name, dark memories of her being with Jaelnec and his excuse for an adventuring party surfaced like an ever-vigilant undead corpse just under some dark and murky waters. The upwards curl on her face faded slowly away as the memories shambled back to her. Previously, she had been playing with her tail, swishing it around to get used to moving them again, but upon hearing the name they became limp. It struck her hard initially, the thoughts, and she turned around her right, her face downcast, intending to face away from her new acquaintance as she remembers both her losses and old wounds- it simply would not do to let Lu see this side of her. Her right hand went straight up to her old left shoulder wound as she did so. However, upon remembering her older ways, she reversed her instinctual, pain-struck exit as she was turning right halfway and turned back to face Lu again, putting away her right arm after realising it was there. Worried that Lu might have either perceived her emotional pain or interpreted her wrongly, thinking perhaps that he might have offended her (which would be bad for relationships), Usha smiled briefly to reassure him as she looked up to gaze at him in the eyes again.

"That was my name, handsome, before today, and after I was sixteen years old." Usha explained, her spirit still a little low as memories were still flashing in her mind, though they were not haunting her as badly as when she was having them as nightmares. She paused for a moment, unsure of how to go on, but went on she did, "I used to hate myself for what I am. Maybe I still do now. I am... endowed with many gifts, Lu, one of which allows me to take any form I wish." Another pause as she thought through what she was about to say, drawing into her earlier memories.

"So I took on the form of a human lady, and joined the Pelgaid Order of Liya as a paladin. I called myself Annabelle-" Here, she was about to tell Lu her name before marriage, but decided it to be better that he does not rightly know of her marriage yet, so she went with her married name, "Silversmith. I wanted to be good, Lu, to somehow remain good, but as you can see..." She spread her arms and fingers out to complete her sentence, as what was left to be said lies quite blatantly on her body.

[Player2]

Natyr scratched his jaw and nodded at Thaler's brief response on her knowledge of Zerul. He pondered on whether her brusqueness of her history was due to her not wishing to disclose much on the past, or simply because there was nothing else to tell. His mind did not linger long on the thought though, the thing slipping away as he look to Olan and the green drool which was gathering at his chin. His nose prodded at the air as he attempted to pick up the scent wafting from the Nightwalker's mouth. It was familiar, though he couldn't quite place the name. The scent and the effects were well known to his mind though, as upon one hunt, two of the party of four tended to always drink a small cup of the boiled plant before they took to bed, giggling themselves to sleep. It had unnerved the Melenian for the entirety of the trip. On a worse occasion, when food was sparse, a man he was hunting alongside had insisted the plant could be digested despite it's health effects. Natyr had declined as the man ate a fairly large portion, and minutes later had been forced to snap the man's neck when he'd come at the Melenian with his hunting knife. The smile hanging on Olan's face brought a sense of unease over Natyr, and he watched the man closely as Thaler tended to his wounds.

The antics of the Olan distracted Natyr from hearing Aemoten's words, but the cat-man's eyes darted to Jaelnec as he walked to Aemoten, speaking quietly to the dark-skinned warrior. The Nightwalker's strides were long and heavy, with his face doing little to hide the tiredness that Natyr was sure plagued them all. Judging from the stance the boy took upon speaking to Aemoten, the Melenian assumed Jaelnec was apologizing. A good idea really, seeing as he'd tried to kill the man. Louis had the excuse of magic taking him, Jaelnec, though...Natyr expected the event was weighing heavily on the young Nightwalker. It was a sad sight to behold. Not hours before, Jaelnec had been leading the party, looking proud, strong, and bearing a commanding voice befitting his position. Now, the man looked worn and battered. Moreso than simple weariness of the body would reveal. Natyr had seen others with that look about them. In fact the Melenian had probably borne the look about himself in past years. It was a sorry state to be in, and would Natyr have been the religious type, he would have said a prayer for the boy. But, as he was not, he guessed it would be wise to simply get through the events of the night, and let the man grab a bit of respite from the evening.

Looking back to Thaler, it seemed she could keep control of the man, and so Natyr rose, brushing his hands across his armor to loose any dirt and bark, then headed towards the limp form that lie at the edge of the fires light. “Best do this before morning sneaks up on us,” the Melenian stated with a sigh as he left the fire. Arriving at the body, he scooped him, an arm beneath his knee's and neck, taking to to tilt the boy so what remained inside his head, stayed inside. A few steps had the cat-man panting, the weight of the body and armor, proving quite difficult for his tired limps. His legs shook slightly as he stepped, a grunt escaping every so often as Natyr re-adjusted his hold. He deposited the body atop the pyre with a huff, standing back a few paces with hands on knees to catch his breath as he waited for the others to finish their business.