The Prophecy

[Hymusia]

It was surprisingly comfortable being carried, perhaps that was due to the simple fact her muscles ached too much to cause any protest and here limp against Aemoten’s strong body her own limbs got a well deserved break from carting around her weight. It was still scary, every sway or slight change made that strange feeling return, like falling off a cliff so strong it was her stomach lurched. Though that also could equally have been the illness affecting her in yet another way, ”and even quadsmen are someone’s fathers, friends and loved ones.” For a moment she felt like a scolded child though his tone belied none of such intent as he spoke to her, it was poorly chosen wording on her part. Of course they were people’s families, her own mother had been a guard after all and yet she had fallen once more into the comfortable false opinion that guard’s men were somehow different from everyone else. “My...my mother was a guard in Zerul.”

Thaler did not elaborate but her tone, through the illness, was one of apologetic nature. Perhaps he would pick up the meaning behind her one spoken sentence however if he didn’t’ she would not go further to elaborate for him. She knew that those who spent their lives guarding others were no different; she’d had firsthand knowledge of such. Further perhaps he could take into comfort that she had finally spoken a little of herself of her own will, rather than deflecting or answering questions without truly answering them.

For a moment Thaler reflected on the information given, indeed children, women and the soldiers had been here. What a horrible fate for their bones to just be burned ere without a care. For their bodies to be scattered, she could only imagine their families back home, the people patiently waiting for their husband, wife or child to come back to them. They’d be waiting like she had before, they’d wait and wait and with every day a little crumb of hope would be chipped away until they stop waiting. They go on without asking the questions because to find out the answers would be too painful. While things were unknown they’d still have hope and yet the not knowing would eat at their souls like an illness more profound and unstoppable than the withering, more painful than any death.

“It’s…horrible.” Whispered as a thought given voice, though like her prior comment there was no elaboration for it was a passing notion. One she had to shake herself free of despite how cloying it was, she could not afford right now to feel the guilt and sorrow for those not here and devoid of the ability to feel either. She was undoubtedly the weak link right now and if she surrendered to illness or sorrow, to which she’d only just shook herself free, she would be an easy mark for the potential enemies around. Right now Aemoten was also largely alone, Jaelnec was in the river, Olan was some distance away and in no fit state to fight. With no one to watch his back and alone with at least one person, a person suspected of multiple magic murders, the only thing perhaps standing between Aemoten and possible death was if she could cast off one of her ‘words’ before the killer could fire a spell.

The problem thus was whether Jaelnec would be back before then or whether she’d need to somehow fish him out. Never before the meeting of this group had she thought about using her powers for anything but subtle suggestions so she might flee. However now she actively wondered what word would be best for dragging someone from a watery grave or to deflect and counter a spell aimed at a comrade. She had known for quite some time the word and even how it was pronounced was important to get the desired affects of the power. For instance the word Sleep was more effective than the word Stop, as there were less ways a clever brain could reinterpret and reroute the command. So if she had to use her gift for either the word had to be the perfect word because there likely wasn’t going to be a second attempt and she had only faint memories of the times her magic had back fired.

Aemoten had spoken more, her mind tried to keep up but it was hard. A fair trial? Her side of events. What could possibly justify the murder of peoples family? She could not begin to imagine what twisted and warped person would even try and justify this kind of massacre. However the vivid memory of that unknown boy’s final words and his last dying breath haunted her as a less than casual reminder of what her impatience and her readiness to end evil could do. Would she condemn this woman to the same fate simply because she possibly, very probably, murdered everyone here? Further who had given her the right to play judge and executioner? It was true, she desired to protect these men and more so than that prove to her grandfather she was worthy of his gaze and his blood. However, was this person a demon? Was this murderess truly evil or simply far too removed from the realm of good to be considered human by normal standards? Thaler could know none of this and so she resigned herself, not that she had a choice, to remaining at the tree rather than charging at the woman to remove her head –which would have been a feat considering she’d left her sword with the horses-.

When she had gently called for Aemoten she was surprised by his equally gentle response, it reassured her to no end that he was still nearby. Even though her feet were on the ground she felt as if she still had ‘sea legs’. The muscles felt rubbery beneath her and she could almost swear the ground was tilting and swaying to an unknown sea’s waves. He spoke of their surroundings but not of the most prominent concern of hers, which was the fate of their former leader, Jaelnec. His lack of inclusion worried her slightly but as the grip on her relaxed, her tired ears managed to catch the sound of a gasp and the running of Olan’s booted feet against the dirt floor. Though she could barely think and it took until Aemoten’s confirmation for it to sink into the Daywalker, Jaelnec was alright! He was alive!

Had she the ability or the energy she may have wept there and then but she had no more tears to shed when she was sweating and feverish. Instead she released her breath in a steady long sigh and closed her eyes lightly for a moment. Which turned out to be a rather larger mistake, she pivoted and had it not been for Aemoten’s arm around her she may have completely lost her balance and fallen. Steadying herself with as much subtlety as she could muster she nodded lightly as Aemoten asked her to listen. She could indeed hear, hear the ragged breaths of Jaelnec and the stranger. Olan’s quiet and gentle breathing and quiet fussings made her certain Jaelnec was fine as the old man would have certainly raised the alarm if he were not.

With a little effort she managed to clumsily slip one arm out of the coat that Aemoten had given her and the sudden weight nearly dragged her aside once more. She paused though as Aemoten spoke to her and made very sure to listen. ”Please be here.” He had said while gently squeezing her shoulder, where else would she go though? Did he mean that from concern for her well being or the need for someone to be concerned about his own? Either way she had had no intention of moving from the tree that kept the world from uprooting her and offered his wrist a squeeze in return. “Be…be careful Aemoten. I’ll wait, so please. Be careful.” Her voice broke and cracked but she forced the sentence out regardless, allowing then her hand to drop so he might move and intercept the murderess.

Resuming her previous actions she, with some effort, managed to remove the other arm of the coat. It was not fully dry, but thanks to her fever and their walking it was nearly so and very warm. Too warm for her to want to wear she realised once the chill brushed against her legs and sent the tails of the shirt fluttering like tendrils of some great octopi about her thighs while the tree’s trunk pinned the rear of the shirt. “Olan.” She called quietly, listening out for the ragged breaths before throwing the precious borrowed item towards the three men’s sound. She didn’t’ dare move to give it to them, her own condition and Aemoten’s plea rooting her for the time being, “Please…to keep them warm.”

[Ashgan]

They had certainly taken their time, but Jillian knew that sooner or later, they would come for her. After reassuring himself of his friends’ well-being (at least he still had those, she thought with envy) Aemoten set into a confident march towards her position, avoiding the most badly burned patches on his way. When she spotted his movement, her eyes met his form again, and this time remained on him to see what he was doing, regardless of how much she wished herself gone from here and him away from her. At the midpoint of his brief journey to the only patch of land untouched by fire – the one on which she was seated – he brandished his sword, as if it were necessary to defend himself from her. The gesture instilled dread in her, and she feared the worst. With fearful eyes, she stared at his silvery weapon that so hideously reminded her of that decisive moment not so long ago, where a black clad inquisitor had brandished his gleaming sword and cut Vincent down in one gracious, abominable movement. The moment that had forced her to do… this. Her survival instinct and her conscience battled one another, leaving her uncertain if she should relax in silent resignation and acceptance of the punishment she has earned, or if she should give in to the primal rush of adrenaline that coursed through her frail body that compelled her to run or fight for her dear life. In the end, she decided that there was no way out of this; in the state she was in, there was no way she could hope to outrun the foreign warrior, so instead she would face him with what little dignity and stubbornness was left in her.

Not far from her he came to a halt, his visage a mask of stone that showed no sign of emotion or intention. His nonchalance appeared almost unnatural to her, and added to her already considerable discomfort. Since he made no attempt to lower himself to eye height with her, he furthermore seemed more like a statue towering above her, rather than a live human being. Slowly and gently she removed her hand from her face, probing the pain it might cause her, and put it to rest on her lap. Though the fresh wind did sting, she found it to be bearable; regretfully she had no mirror with which to take a look at her face, whose right side was notably red and where the skin was cracked along a horizontal line through which she would have bled, had the brief contact with the flames not sealed it immediately. Then, she looked up to him with a moody frown across her face, the sternness of which was lessened by the fact that the last of her recent tears could still be seen.

"Who are you, and what happened here? Why did you do this? I will know if you lie," Aemoten then finally broke the silence that had thus far encompassed the tragic scene. Just as was to be expected from a man with a face of iron, his words carried no judgment, passion or sentiment in them, but still hit her with the severity and hardness of steel.

“I don’t suppose you have a shred of cloth to spare?” she scoffed at him, “If you’re going to play tribunal with me, I’d like to at least not be in the nude, though I won’t expect that kind of mercy or decency from a man.”

She sighed and went on, “Regardless, I am a sorceress from Zerul, and I suppose you are one of the travelers that that lunatic mentioned. So what happened here?”

Her eyes lowered again as she asked herself the same question again that Aemoten had posed her. If he would hand her anything to wear on her body, she would properly thank him and accept it, if not, she would go on, ignoring the state of events and drawing her own conclusions.

“Frankly, I don’t even know. I’m going to assume that you’ve seen everything and heard everything, and since you swing that sword of yours about like a scepter, I’m not going to test my luck by telling you any obvious lies. I’ll just tell you what I know, and you let me live. So, I was travelling with a friend of mine for the past couple of weeks and we decided to use the ferry to cross the border to Anaxim. We barely set foot on this side of the shore when out of the blind, a group of armed men assault us without provocation or warning. My friend was cut down first, so I had the time to evoke a spell before the same fate would claim me. The rest… I’ll spare you of a description that I doubt you’d want to hear. Suffice to know, the magic I summoned was greater than I thought, and I lost control over it. I killed the bastards that killed Vincent, may his soul rest in peace, but unfortunately… well, you don’t see anyone left but me, do you?”

It was the first time she told the account of the tragedy at the ferry to anyone, and much to her surprise, it felt a lot easier to part with the truth than she had thought. In a way, it even felt relieving to share the story with someone, even a stranger, as it had been an immense burden to her, a burden that Brand could not take from her. On the contrary, he only added to her plight. Adamant and unyielding, the Sekalyn questioned her further:

"Have you caused any lives to end before this day? If, then on what occasion, why? Practiced mind-control on people? Anything else you would otherwise hide?"

She could not help but feel a wave of anger well up in her; he was demanding so many things, asking so many questions that did not even matter right now.

“By the gods, could you ask some more questions?!” she hissed, “What next, do you want to know if I’m still a virgin? Yes, I have killed some more since my journey began, and it’s always been in self defense. Everyone in this damned world wants to see me dead because they’re afraid and jealous of me, and I’ve been forced to defend myself time and time again! I tried to escape, leave Zerul behind because it would grant me no shelter, but look where it’s brought me! What do you expect me to do, just give up and let them slaughter me? You’re a warrior yourself, you should know all about this and, hell, you’re obviously a foreigner too so you may even know what it’s like to be persecuted. Look, I know this looks bad, and I know it is, but there was nothing I could have done. I didn’t choose to do this, I just wanted to live! Is that too much to ask?”

Although in a bit of a tantrum, there was a hint of desperation in her words, and above all, they were spoken out of pure honesty for once. Of course, she had felt a perverse rush of excitement when she saw the fatal effect of her spell, and she would never admit this to anyone – barely even to herself – but it was also true that she had earnestly not wanted it to happen. Moreover, she certainly did not mean to obliterate Vincent, who deserved to live far more than she did. It was also true that all the people that had died by her hands had challenged her first, with the exception of the civilian casualties here at the ferry which were collateral damage. The predating events and her monologue just now left her drained, and she sighed from fatigue.

“So, what will you do, stranger? Will you follow the example of everyone else and finish the job? Or will you show me the mercy I’ve been wishing for all this time?”

Whose envoy would Aemoten choose to be? Would he send her on a journey with the Wanderer, or would he grant Jillian the forgiveness of her chosen goddess?

[Dreadlord]

He had turned around before hitting the bottom, and his lungs were almost filled with the blissful liquid, the pain of the burns going away, fading, even as his vision did the same. Far above he saw... something. A winged demon. The light from the sky left the thing's front side in darkness, so all Brand could see was the silhouette, and it was a frightening one indeed. The thing had wings of darkness, and he thought he saw a hood, or maybe it was his imagination... no, there had to be a hood. They always said He had a hood. But who had told him that? Probably some peasant. Or maybe his parents? No, he didn't have parents. Friends? None of those, either. Wasn't it nice down here, at the bottom of the river, with all this water? The fire would never reach him here. Never again. But that thing... He was coming. Death. Come, then. I am not afraid of you, Wanderer. Like you, I have nothing, no one but myself.All of these thoughts flicked around the broken man's head in a second, and the next second he had his hand up, towards the figure - or he tried to. He wanted to stop the creature, but he couldn't... couldn't move... or... or... breathe -

Water sprayed out his mouth and leaked out of his nostrils. His first instinct was to roll onto his side and curl into a ball, trying to fight the cold with water and more water coming from his mouth, followed by stinging bile when the water was gone. His first intake of breath since drowning, caused his eye to diliate immensely as he opened his mouth to scream, even as his hands instinctively went to his throat. The tissue inside was still raw and his lungs, too, and he had broken ribs, though he knew not how that happened. He had a thousand yard gaze in his eyes as he stared at the sky, coughing and writhing in pain. Subconsciously, he noted that someone had put a blanket on him, but his mind was focused on the pain, the pain, the pain. He did so for several minutes, breathing and letting out whimpers, but eventually, he grew used to it, and it calmed down to a painful throb every time he breathed, causing him to wince on every exhale and inhale. Then, he noticed the man standing over him for the first time, wearing the most ridiculous outfit Brand had seen, as well as another man, laying down next to him under the same blanket. It was then that Brand became aware of the fact that he was naked, but something else came into his notice - his arms.

Brand couldn't remember much. His last thought was of a naked girl under a blanket wake up, and a few words exchanged between them. Other than that, his mind was... blank. However, the burned, drowned man did remember that he had been a Cleric of Hazzergash. And one could only be a Cleric when one has..."Wh-"he cut off there, reaching for his throat again. It burned to talk, was like fire, but it had to be done. Water began slowly trickling from his eyes; the broken man had begun to cry, slowly, unnoticed. He had to know, know why these people did what they did. These people, they had... they had... his train of thought faded away as he noticed the man standing over him again. Not just that he was there - really noticed him. He seemed... different. Special. But that thought came and went as quickly as a drop of water in a rushing river. "You... burned... the..." Each word took effort, pained effort, and still the words were barely understandable, let alone loud enough to be heard. He strained to know what had happened, why he was just a broken, burned, drowned man, no longer a powerful believer in the Lord of Fire. And, as if they were but waiting for his plea, the memories of the river rushed back, suddenly, so quickly. The betrayal of his god, the call of the water. And the burned flesh that had made him a Cleric. They were gone. "... marks..." He said the last word subconsciously, as his thoughts had drifted back to that moment, just before he was ignited like a twig. The presence of Hazzergash's attention had been overwhelming, but faintly, there was someone else there. But, who? Was that other the reason that Brand had been tortured so?

His mind on more important things, now, Brand slowly, painfully, tried to rise. His attempt was shot down quickly, and, mind busy or not, He closed his eyelid. Rest was the best medicine, it was said. But the burned man needed no medicine - he had been burned thrice and lived, and had drowned. What more could possibly be done to him?

[Shienvien]

Aemoten was not entirely certain what his opinion on the circumstances was when he walked towards the nameless woman, the alleged mass-murderer.
- The human man did not like what he was about to do: it was never a pleasant task. Most others on those lands probably would not have cared further than that they had located the definite killer, but he was by principle still determined to at least find out the full truth and make his judgment upon that rather than basing it on conclusions derived from mere assumptions. It was what he as a warrior serving as a judge by the right was supposed to do... Nor would his personal morals have permitted executing someone - killing the one outside of defense and not after a battle he or his companions had participated in - where he was not absolutely certain it was, by his definition, justified.
Unfortunately, it meant that he would have to look into the killer's face, quite probably becoming the last person to do so, all the while knowing that the powerful witch was bound to try something to end his life before he got the opportunity to end hers; he knew that this person here was an extremely dangerous one, if the reach of ground behind his back was not enough of a testimony of it to anyone.
Thaler had asked him to be careful before he had had to leave her behind, and that he would instinctively be, even without asking - though being asked to gave him the knowledge that at least someone still cared whether he lived or died. Careful? Behind his unreadable mask, the rest of his body was almost painfully tense and ready to act within a blink of an eye's notice; he was watching the woman's every movement, no matter how insignificant, following her every word, trying to guess what she was about to say before the word was fully formed...
With mages, the only chance of escaping unharmed often was to act before they could complete whatever offensive spell they had started to call upon ... and quick he was as far as humans went, both in reflexes and movements.

The woman looked up from the ground again once she realized he was moving towards her, soon fixing her fearful widened eyes on the silverly cutting-edge of the otherwise black three-foot-long blade of his sword, apparently recognizing its evident threat and probably making her own assumptions about his intentions. She also moved her right hand ... but fortunately did little but repositioned her arm to rest on her lap, with the motion baring the thus far covered reddening skin and fresh scar adorning her face.
By the time he had reached her location and asked his first set of questions, the fearfulness in her face had been replaced by a moody frown, an expression which the Sekalynic warrior would certainly not have expected under the current circumstances. Tears still streaked her face, but as a part of the man pointed out once more, even heartless murderers usually desired to live themselves, and she had been surrounded by demonic flames but a few moments ago - flames which had engulfed their former master while she miraculously remained almost completely untouched herself. It was almost as if Hazzergash had found an object of special fondness in her.
When she spoke up first, it was not in reply, but rather a request of her own - though her tone made it seem more like a retort, or even a demand. The request itself was perhaps even understandable - it would have been more comfortable for the both of them if she had been wearing something -, but her manner of speaking up was not. She was before someone who was ultimately there to determine whether she lived or died, but not even that seemed to instill a shred of respect in her, the same way she had lacked sensible reasoning when she had been talking to Brand. She does not act like a person who has killed many not long ago commonly does, some part of the warrior noted, and for some reason that small notion combined with the fact that he was practically certain she was indeed the killer sent an odd sort of nasty cold feeling spreading in his chest which had nothing to do with his torso being only covered by a single layer of fabric and the weather being cool and windy.
Speaking of which, there were very few ways in which he could have fulfilled her request - his things were several hundred yards away, and therefore the only two pieces of fabric within his reach were the pants and shirt he was already wearing. He would not have dared to leave this person alone for long enough to go fetch something, and though technically he could have taken off his shirt and ensured that they were wearing at least something each, it would inevitably have meant he would have had to let go of his sword and be blinded for a moment. For all that he knew, she could simply be waiting for a long enough moment to cast a spell. In the end, Aemoten did not seem to react at all - his body remained motionless, his expression cold and stern, his left hand hanging by his side and his right clenched around the hilt of his sword in a strong, firm, almost crushing grip.
Only a very attentive person would perhaps have noticed his eyes momentarily widening ever so slightly and his already cutting gaze becoming even more penetrating. It was probable, though, that by now the woman had noticed that the left side of Aemoten's own face had a sizable bruise marking the cheek, although it was no longer fresh and dark but instead painted his light brown skin unhealthily greenish-yellowish. The lesser marks on his neck, left from when the three-quarter-demon had attempted to strangle him, were likewise still visible.
That, and since the near-devil and goblins combined had managed to destroy his boots, he was now reduced to walking barefoot - which was also the most obvious reason why he had taken extra care to avoid still-smoldering patches of ground.

“Regardless, I am a sorceress from Zerul, the red-haired woman finally seemed to yield and started to explain, and I suppose you are one of the travelers that that lunatic mentioned."
"Their leader," Aemoten dully filled in.
"So what happened here?” She seemed to ponder for a moment before speaking again. Apparently, she had decided not to 'tell any obvious lies'.
"You'd better," the southerner quietly muttered in a grim, stern tone. "I am not going to test each of your claims separately, but rather all at once, and thusly even one small lie will mean you have lied as a conclusion. Don't try anything else, either." I'll decide whether I'll let you live once I know for good what kind of individual you are and what you have or have not done.
By claim, she had been simply traveling, and then, suddenly, she and her friend - or perhaps simply the people exiting the ferry, she did not specify - had been attacked. Improbable, but not impossible. All kinds of road-bandits were seemingly on the loose these hard days. And ... according to her, she had indeed ended up killing all the people here. By accident, no less. She had simply lost control of the magic meant to eradicate the men on offense.
"...you don’t see anyone left but me, do you?" she asked in conclusion, and again Aemoten got the feeling that she was not quite acting as a person usually would in her stead. She had killed people she did not intend. Innocent bystanders. By accident. The warrior did not see the kind of remorse most others would feel on that occasion, not even a shadow of it. Furthermore, the fate of the former Cleric of Hazzergash seemingly did not faze her the least. Faintly, it occurred to the Sekalyn that Gerald had also not visibly mourned the collateral human losses much, but Gerald had at least not been half as disrespectful ... and he had had at least one good cause in mind.
The Sekalyn's corner of mouth twitched slightly.
"Besides that poor man who found you before us? No," he muttered in the same voice as before, and then, more quietly and in a harder tone: "So all those people died simply because you are incapable of harnessing your own powers."

It had thusly been the logical conclusion to ask the next questions - accidents happened, even terrible, tragic ones, and Aemoten was not about to kill someone simply because the one left him an uncannily unpleasant, somehow unnatural impression ... or because they apparently had rather nasty temper. It was quite crucial whether she had a habit of using her abilities with reckless abandon, or whether it was just a freak one-time-occurrence. It spoke a lot about an individual ... though so did her seemingly carefree attitude towards the deaths she had caused. A part of the foreigner almost suspected she was only bothered by the death of her friend Vincent because she had considered him to belong to her before he was taken away. As if the man, whoever he had been, was but an object, a thing amongst her other possessions. Did she as much as have a sense of empathy, even rudimentary? What about compassion? Was she capable of relating to others' feelings at all, or did she only have her own in her mind?
The extra questions evidently angered the woman.
"I ask as many questions as I deem necessary," the Sekalyn harshly muttered in response to her hissing, and traces of cold anger could now be spotted in his eyes. For the first time since facing the woman, the foreign warrior was not only feeling unpleasant and being ready to cut her down at half a wrong word or move, but also properly angry in return.
How many of those people you had to defend yourself from you had driven over the edge first by provoking them? If not even the current situation deters you for more than a moment, if not even accidentally killing over a dozen innocents will faze you, what will do either? Once that train of thought had been compiled, another was derived from it - what if the group of armed men had been out to kill her specifically? What if someone had actually paid to kill her? Of course you did nothing wrong, never. The world is what wants you dead. You've no fault in it. Afraid? Jealous?
She is an outlaw, it suddenly furthermore occurred to the Sekalyn, quite unrelated to the silent, irritated tirade in his head. And if she was an outlaw, she probably did something to earn the position...
Warriors kill as a part of their duty. Different thing, the monologue continued on the next moment. I have killed much better people than you in defense of my nation, my kin, myself, I've had to kill people I could have been friends with had it been a time of peace. I've had to kill because the people I am up against are loyal in following the orders given to them and nothing else. War is war - decent people kill other decent people. Never have I shown such disrespect towards those I have had to kill!
And Koraakan knows I am an alien here, but does it mean people hire other people to kill me? No, it does not. And you? You're obviously neither a foreigner nor an inhuman being, what exactly are you persecuted for, I wonder?
By that point the foreigner had worked himself up on the matter, and though he did hear the desperation in her last words, it fell drastically short.
...Look, I know this looks bad? You sound like a child who merely took without permission and lost her mother's favorite piece of jewelry and now wants to talk herself out of the punishment, not like someone who accidentally murdered an entire score of innocent people.
When the woman finished speaking (Mercy?), the Sekalyn, towering over her like he was, fixed his eyes on hers - not her face, as he would have done normally, but he indeed, for once, intentionally formed direct eye contact, and his gaze was anything but kind and understanding. It was as mercilessly cold and stern as before, piercingly intense, and, above all, though the rest of his face somehow managed to remain mostly neutral, it was filled with cold, controlled anger. Back down went unspoken.
"Almost everyone wants to live," the foreigner said, in more or less normal speaking-volume, sounding surprisingly calm, though still heavy and grim. "You, the unfortunate people your ineptitude killed, those armed men who I can presume were ordered to kill you in person for what you have done in the past, almost any living being one might encounter, the worst of the worst of ensouled beings included." There was a short pause.
"There are several kinds of mercy, and even death could be considered mercy where a person has crossed the line of no longer being capable of redeeming oneself. I gather I am correct when I say that you're not merely persecuted, but a sought-after outlaw, and that you would not have had to defend yourself if you yourself had not triggered, done something to call it upon yourself first - and I doubt it was mere jealousy which made people hate you so; fear perhaps, but then already that for ones' lives, dread. If you were a decent person, a large part of the world would have treated you nicer in return - you are a local and a human, too, I can see. I've seen how you treat me, one of the counted few who would at least listen what you had to say and thus give you a chance before deciding for or against 'finishing the job', and I witnessed how you reacted to a person whose only intent was to help you. From here onward I can only guess how you must have treated the majority of everyone else.
Mind you, should I decide that you're worth one last chance at improving yourself and becoming a decent person, that you actually are an empathetic being rather than one who only fears for one's own life, might and possessions, and cares little for anything and anyone else, you owe to that man you called lunatic amongst others, should he even survive."
Aemoten had not had a chance to take a look at the badly burned, near-drowned man, he had not seen the exact extent of the burns, his destroyed left eye and mutilated face, broken ribs, the openly broken and burned-through left arm and the snapped fingers on the same side, but by his estimation, the other had been in fire for long enough for practically his entire skin to become deeply damaged. That alone was bad enough to kill, and the foreigner was not certain he would be able to do much about it without completely wrecking himself.

All of the above was, of course, said only when Jillian, at no point during or after the exchange, drew some unknown symbols anywhere, uttered as much as half a word which was clearly not Rodorian, threw herself bodily at him or did anything else suspicious or startling enough. If she did, the southerner would not hesitate for a split-second, but take half a step forward, and with a turn of his wrist send the sword moving into a diagonal slash running from lower right to upper left to intercept whatever she might attempt. The wound such form of counterattack would leave if delivered accurately by itself would not bring with it the fastest of deaths as it simply would not carry sufficient amount of force to cleave through bones, only skin and an inch or perhaps two of he flesh beneath it, and the angle did not let it to properly hit the neck. It would, however, mean practically certain death within a handful or not much more than dozen minutes if left untended for, depending on where it landed. That, however, would not be waited out - if the situation ended with the Sekalyn being made to attack, he also finished the job by swiftly and skilledly turning the sword in his hands and delivering another blow in rapid succession, this one properly two-handed and already carrying his full strength, powerful enough to halve bones and more than sufficient to remove a person's head (and this time there would not be any restrictions set by the available angle). Alternatively, if the initial weaker strike was somehow blocked - either because it went too deep and hit the ribs or for example one of the woman's arms -, the sword would be forced forward till the blade impaled her, followed by it being immediately pulled out to deliver a more proper finishing-strike.

[Dark Jack]

For what felt like unreasonably long time Olan stood rooted to the spot, staring first at the coat that lay sprawled across the ground before him, then at Thaler on the far side of the tossed coat. Such an interesting girl, he noted to himself once again. So frail and prone to self-destructive behavior, yet possessing such indefinable strength that allowed her to defy the limits that should have been there, like her blindness or, right now, her illness and the cold weather. Although he had a feeling that she somehow managed to convince herself otherwise, it seemed as though her true strength only ever came into play to protect others, but rarely herself... Perhaps that was part of the reason she possessed her pseudo-True Words? Because someone had noticed her nature and realized the power of her compassion? Or maybe... someone who had realized even more than that? Thaler was special, truly - and although Olan was loathe to admit it, even to himself, he was special, too - but just what made them so remained a mystery to him.
Slowly and trancelike, Olan reached down and picked up the thrown coat, though he was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with it - Thaler had said something, but her words had been too quiet for him to tell anything she said aside from his name. It took several seconds before he realized that she meant for him to use the coat to keep the two near-drowned men warm. Such strength, to try to protect others even as she was now...
He looked not at the coat in his arms, but at his hands past the coat, frowning as he did so. He had forgotten... so much. His power was gone because he forgot it, his sword was missing because he forgot it, even the True Words were useless because he had forgotten the source he drew them from. He wanted to help, but somehow he could not... remember. He recalled a power, but not what power. He knew he had had a sword, but whenever he tried to conjure up a memory of it, he could never seem to ascertain what it had looked like, felt like, or even how he had wielded it. By extension of the True Words Olan had perfect knowledge of the arcane language, but he had no memorized spells, and without the right incantations, even the arcane language was powerless. If only he could remember... if only he could help, too. It's gone because I forgot. If I remember it might come back, and I can protect them.

"What? What do you mean?"
Olan turned away from Thaler and faced the two drowned men, brow knotted. It was Jaelnec that had spoken, and although it sounded as though he was quickly catching his breath, he still seemed visibly fatigued. "Huh?"
The young Nightwalker had been looking at the burned man, but now turned his head to look at Olan. "Brand said something," the squire relayed, and Olan felt that he understood quite quickly what had happened - after having been burned like that, it must have been very difficult for Brand to speak at all, let alone loud enough to be heard over the wind. Olan had not even realized that the cleric had spoken, but Jaelnec, with his head barely a foot from that of Brand, had heard.
Throwing the coat over the two men on top of his own robe, Olan asked, "What did he say?"
Jaelnec seemed to think it over for a moment. "Something about burning marks, I think."
Burning marks? Olan thought, his gaze going to Brand's face - or more specifically, his forehead. He calls himself 'Brand', he does - a Cleric of Hazzergash. Only, not anymore.
"It seems that your Lord burned them away," the old explorer told the burned man bluntly, even as part of his attention remained reserved for keeping up with what was going on with Thaler and Aemoten. "It seems he wasn't satisfied with you as a cleric of his, you know?"
Hazzergash the Destroyer, the Lord of Fire, the Swallower of Worlds... such a nasty character, that one, probably the most savage of the demon lords - probably the last deity in the world one would want to get on the bad side of. Still, for him to do something like this to one of his subordinates is quite strange. Not to mention, he should not even be able to do something like that! He was sealed away by the Nomad, captured in a Demon Prison - he should not be able to interact directly with Reniam. He furrowed his brow. He had a bad feeling about this. If Hazzergash could do something like this... what did that mean?
"Seems Arhoun saved you today, though," he continued with a smile, internally adding an 'I hope' to that statement. The alternative was... unpleasant. After all there were two deities of water, not one. "You'll live to burn another day... I think."

[Hymusia]

It was both hot and cold at once but she had dealt with worse before, when she was a child, she could still feel it at times like this. Their damp bodies, their sharp fangs and that incessant noise that drove her out of her mind, that had been worse, that had been far worse. She’d survived that a simple illness would not stop her but if Jaelnec got sick or this stranger barely holding onto life died? She’d break, her remaining hope would shatter like the flimsy glass illusion it was and those shards would splint and shatter until they were nothing more but beautiful dust on the wind.

Between shivering and the loss of all hope left in her damaged soul she knew which was the better choice, offering only a weak smile when she heard Olan move. His attention seemed elsewhere, which was good, explaining anything would be difficult right now, impossible. Her mind once again swam the surroundings, finding she couldn’t concentrate on one event without the complete loss of attention from another. The river, the recently half drowned men, the horses and finally this woman and Aemoten, enough to make her head spin if she tried to keep all of them in focus at once.

Her attention thusly remained on Jaelnec, Olan and Brand for a while longer, waiting to hear what was said by Jaelnec before finally turning her attention away. Jaelnec was alive, breathing and talking, it was a good sign and Olan seemed to have their care in hand, what use was she to them anyway? Her mind forced out the roar of the river to instead turn itself upon the horses some distance away, they were content enough, neither spooked nor bold. It sounded like those that could were grazing on what greenery there was to offer which also boded well for Aemoten’s horse. She couldn’t be certain but she was convinced that there were no horses being left out of this rather peculiar herd, or perhaps that was optimism?

With the knowledge that the beasts of burden were fine her attention swam back to Aemoten and the Witch. Her pale hands flat against the trunk tightened against the scraggy bark as she felt her stomach turn and flip with the sudden shift of her senses. She had a very real fight to keep the bile in her stomach and her body from giving into the need to fall. Her legs went weak and for a moment she wavered at the knees until she had ‘willed’ them to lock out straight and forced herself to stay upright. Aemoten’s plight was slightly more important than the others, Jaelnec was alive and Olan would have seen to it that that was the case, she had a feeling, but Aemoten was alone with a woman who had killed a dozen people and felt no remorse for yelling at her potential saviour.

Now again it seemed the woman had the manners of a stubborn ox and the gratitude of a skunk. Even she herself had been a lot more grateful for being saved than this woman seemed to be and while it was true Aemoten hadn’t technically saved her from anything, he was saving her now by asking questions rather than simply lashing out as he had right to do. While she hoped one day to call herself a ‘good’ person she knew she would not be patient enough to deal with such a fickle and ungrateful sow.

Thaler wasn’t a leader though, not this unruly bunches, not the people she ran with before, not even the mercenaries she had worked for. She was a follower, making the life and death decisions for someone other than herself? She just didn’t think she could manage it and as such she said nothing as Aemoten spoke and the ungreatful woman sneered. She stayed, right where she was as she had promise Aemoten, the back of her skull against the knobbly tree bark and her lids fluttering shut. Still as a statue aside the light breaths that wisped passed her slightly parted lips.

She tried to feel every bump in the tree, every knot beneath her skin in hopes of keeping her senses sharp enough to move. However this seemed not to improve but worsen her condition. She could indeed focus on the trees bark and even the little ants running between the thin space between her shirt and the tree itself. However she could only make out every other word, muffled phrases but nothing that made any sense. Once again her stomach flipped but she ignored it in favour of trying to focus her attention back on the conversation happening behind her.

”Almost everyone wants to live.” Aemoten spoke wise and true words, everyone from Demon to Niin and everything in between, even some plants had a very clear desire to thrive despite all intervention. Everything that lived had a desire to keep living, she was one of them of course and even Jaelnec and Aemoten. No one wanted death, anyone who said otherwise were too scared of it to truly comprehend the truth of it. Clearly she’d missed a bit before this comment because to her ears Aemoten’s voice had changed. She could almost feel his controlled anger at the woman’s hostility and for a moment she nearly moved away from the tree to see if she could hold him back.

In my condition I’ll be lucky to hold back the contents of my stomach let alone a fully grown man such as Aemoten. Plus she was now certain if she tried to move she would collapse and possibly faint again, illness wasn’t fun. She couldn’t be weak now though, their little group, their tiny little group could not withstand any more losses. It couldn’t withstand the potential problems of her being asleep for a long length of time, it couldn’t withstand the knowledge there was more weakness and infirmity. She may not be the glue that held the group together but she could not appear weak for any of the gathered three men’s sakes. Olan was still injured, Jaelnec was still reeling from his severe loss of more than just friend and leadership and Aemoten, while he bore it well, was suffering his own. She couldn’t make it worse.

A deep breath taken through the nose and released passed the lips helped her, for now, to control the shaking and trembling of her child limbs and also helped her to feel cooler from the incessant heat she felt she was suffering with. She could still just about breath through her nose, the full horrendous illness had yet to assault her sinuses. Swallowing back the scratchy tickle of her throat she turned her attention away from Aemoten and back to Jaelnec, she wanted to speak to him but she couldn’t raise her voice to cover the distance. His breathing was calming and he seemed to be talking to Olan or Brand, she couldn’t’ tell which. There would be time to apologise later, time to make amends, for now though she had to concentrate on Aemoten in case she had to move suddenly.

[Ashgan]

Aemoten’s disdain for the scarlet haired witch was all too obvious in spite of his outward calm demeanor. The look in his eyes when she finished her last set of monologue spoke volumes about his feelings, and only then, under Aemoten’s iron gaze, did she fully realize the gravity of her situation; this man wasn’t just curious about what happened and wasn’t going to back down just because she was a woman or in tears or naked, no, he would indeed not hesitate to kill her right then and there. He was too strong; not only his body, also his will, they were like a fortress and Jillian did not have the strength in her anymore to stand up to him. Faintly, she wondered if she would have been able to even if she had been fully rested and of a healthy mind. When his eyes struck hers so she slightly caved in on herself, her shoulders sinking lower, and her gaze went downwards, at first to the dirt beneath Aemoten’s bare feet, then to some undefined point in the distance behind and between his legs.

"Almost everyone wants to live," he stated in a tone that others might have mistaken for being placid and cold, but she could feel that they were not so. She wasn’t sure if it was through intuition, the vague hints in his voice and emphasis when speaking, or even his pose and demeanor, but she knew that they were there, his anger and spite, in every word he spoke. There was no denying it; he was another one of them. Another one who hated her.

"You, the unfortunate people your ineptitude killed, those armed men who I can presume were ordered to kill you in person for what you have done in the past, almost any living being one might encounter, the worst of the worst of ensouled beings included," Aemoten continued to list the kinds of people that wanted to live, which was somewhat redundant considering that he already did state that this group encompasses everyone. It didn’t matter though, at this point Jillian simply listened and let his words rain down on her like a harsh winter storm while pressing her arms against her cool, naked body in hopes of weathering the blizzard. Out of all the words he said, only one stuck to her mind definitively: ineptitude. Inept? Me? You tarke wouldn’t even know how to write the word magic! Though the insult stung her deeply, she did not show it this time.

Aemoten then went on laying bare the conclusions he came to after his brief interrogation. That death was considered mercy by those beyond redemption was not entirely new to her; she had heard that phrase plenty of times in various contexts, not least of all in stories both real and fictional. It felt odd to her, however; what was redemption, and how to be beyond it? Indeed, she could not help but feel that she was not in need of redemption at all. She had not broken any vows she had personally taken, nor did she lose the favor of the gods she held dear (to her knowledge anyhow). So why redemption? Though the events here were accidental, they nonetheless proved to be necessary to ensure her survival and the continued pursuit of her quest. She did not want to go back and become the person she had once been; that would only mean she would have to go through all this suffering and misery again. No, she wanted to forge on, leave this entire mess behind her, and become the person she always dreamed of being. Her only regret was that Vincent had to die as he did; if it was in her power, she would go to any lengths to bring him back, but alas she could not, and there simply was no point to further dwell on it and the past. She mourned him before and would mourn him again, but that was it. There was no turning back and no reason to stand still.

Next Aemoten voiced his fairly grounded suspicion that she was an outlaw, which indeed she was. He furthermore pointed out that she herself was the cause of this state of events, and the fact that she was hunted and hated. He believed that if she were not of such detestable nature towards others, the world would have offered her more luxuries and respite than it did rather than adversity. Finally, he added that if he chose to let her live (a decision for which she decided she would give everything – she had come too far and sacrificed too much to die here for nothing) she would at the very least owe the fallen demon cleric. Owed what? An apology? A favor?

“You’re right,” she affirmed audibly more quiet than before, obviously bereft of the audacity she flaunted earlier, “I am an outlaw. Zerul has branded me an outcast, and the men that attacked Vincent and me at the ferry were no doubt cut throats of some sort that were sent to get rid of us. However, do you know why I am outlawed? I never hurt or killed anyone before they cast me out; past tragedies have to be accredited to this. It was not for murder or any offense that I was made exempt from Zerulic law, no. It was for my belief, my ambition, and my practices. You’re not going to like me any more for what I will say now,” a slight, self-ironic smile flew across her lips when she said that, “but I am a black mage; a witch. That’s all. They are afraid of me and the power I command, and due to their sheer ignorance and fear – dread as you’ve put it – they made the decision that Zerul would be a better place without me, because they could not control me, and they fear all things they cannot control or understand. I did not even protest, stranger; I packed my things and left. We almost made it. We wanted to reach Gilmah in hopes of not being persecuted for who we are and what we do.”

There was a moment of silence before she continued to speak in the same deflated and tame manner as before.

“…and… I guess I know that… I’m not a good person,” she stammered, this last statement being much more difficult to phrase than she thought, “I mean it’s nothing new to me. I’ve heard people say that since forever, but what can I do? Cave in and suicide? Believe me when I say I almost did. You, stranger. I… my journey has failed, as you can see. I don’t think I can make it to Gilmah by myself and besides, what would I do there, all alone? I would like to make a proposition, if you will hear it.”

She looked up to him, only this time there was no frown to furrow over her viridian eyes. Instead she looked tired, defeated and hopeful.

“I don’t want to die here, stranger, and I have a deal in mind that could satisfy both of us. I can tell that you don’t feel comfortable letting me live, let alone letting me go off on my way, probably to set fire to some villages, right? Not that I would – but here’s the deal: Why don’t you take me with you? I don’t think I can or want to make it to Gilmah on my own. I have no home, and you seem to be at home on the road. I will be at your unquestioned service with my awesome magics and I will be of use to you; some obstacles cannot be overcome with a strong arm and a sharp sword alone, warrior. Furthermore, you get to make sure that I so-to-say behave. As for me, I get a meaningful goal to work for and maybe I can become that empathic being that you would like me to be? I won’t ask for money either.

Alternatively, if you really don’t want to suffer my presence, then I would ask to at least have some help getting dressed and stay with you until the next settlement.

What say you, foreigner? Would it please you to command the most powerful sorceress in Zerul?”

By the end of her proposition she regained her earlier bravado as she eagerly gazed up to him with a sly expression behind which she tried to hide the fear of his refusal that lingered nonetheless.

[Shienvien]

It was only when the cold controlled anger first broke its way into Aemoten's ever-piercing gaze that the woman's arrogant demeanor faltered and she seemed to draw back into herself as her gaze drifted lower, away from his face. Perhaps it was the first time it truly dawned upon the red-haired witch that the foreign warrior indeed meant what he said - that what he was fully ready to do was not limited to being merely annoyed or simply leaving her there without offering any aid, but that he was there in the purpose of deciding over leaving her her life or granting her death. One could have thought the act of brandishing the sword in itself would serve as a sufficiently definite sign of exactly such - and not any less determining - intentions. The sword was not meant for 'swinging about' uselessly - if Aemoten brandished it as the Sekalynic warrior he was, it was for a good reason.
If the witch had acted differently at this point - assaulted him - he would have killed the woman, and without hesitation. Now, however, the warrior from faraway lands stayed mostly motionless, the tip of the great blade still pointing neutrally earthwards and the look in the man's eyes as unforgiving as the dull cold gleam of the weapon's silverly cutting-edge in the faint light of the cloudy day. For now, he was not taking any actions, but indeed only doing what he had told Thaler he would do before making the final decision - listening what the woman had to say on her own part and being the judge of her words.
Still, though she had now drawn back and changed her attitude, Aemoten could clearly recall her reactions to the former cleric, and then her initial responses to him; further fueled by this knowledge, the anger that had surfaced was not too quick to dissipate. He did remember everything she had this far done in spite of the abrupt change, he did remember the uncanny cold feeling he himself had gotten while observing her first reactions, and the woman's unfortunate semblance to a certain another in regards to whom he had had a distinctively bad feeling since the very beginning did not help, either. In some senses she was different, true, let only her nondemonic soul be mentioned, but once having arisen, the disturbing impression that this woman in particular was devoid of some vital chunk of her mortal soul which typically made humans human persisted.
The foreigner was somehow quite certain that ultimately, the change in her had occurred not because she had started to care about what she was and had done or truly understood what he had referred to, but simply because she had begun to comprehend the threat to her very own life.
Almost everyone wants to live, the worst of the worst of ensouled beings included.

“You’re right,” the woman admitted to him when she spoke again, quieter, and, it seemed, defeated. “I am an outlaw."
The Lower Sekalyn simply waited for her to continue, posture and expression remaining unchanged, only the near-crushing grip of his hand on the sword's hilt tightening and relaxing ever so slightly. He had been right in drawing his own conclusions. Was he glad about it? No. Did it serve to testify that he still had a kind of ability to draw accurate conclusions? That probably yes.
However, he had been mistaken before, Aemoten knew it. What was worse, the last time he had not over- but rather underestimated the strength of mind and judgment of another. Perhaps these days the more grim outlook was the correct one, and that that which he had thus far titled as pessimism in his mind - attributing it to himself as one of his base characteristics - was no more than accurate interpretation of the world, pure realism.
What else was he? Angry. Allegedly capable of not acting upon it alone, too. Claimedly furthermore a stronger person than most others. This time around, he refused to let himself turn to the god in order to restore a calm state of mind. It was not necessary. If he were to continue relying on supernatural means to hold himself together, he would likely soon altogether lose the ability to maintain himself on his own, and that would only contribute to his hypothetical eventual downfall. Of the human part of him, anyway - the part which had lost everyone he had held dear in the past decade, the part which had sustained the most damage when he had turned to the god to find out the full truth about another, the part which had been terrorized, been betrayed and lost all faith in the fellow humanoids, and felt utterly futile during it all. The part which desperately wanted things to change and deeply desired to have nothing to do with something of the kind again. Seemed that it was not about to happen any time soon - he was on his own and he had to endure whatever the world was yet to throw at him.
It was probably also true that his temper - held firmly under check or not - was shorter than it had been a week ago. Aemoten's patience had run out about at the time he was dazedly laying on his back and uselessly attempting to restore life to a gruesomely mutilated companion next to him, only to realize that the said was already gone and he had failed his own unspoken oath. Not again would innocent people die because he let someone live he should not have.

She was fleeing Zerul, the woman essentially claimed, and it turned out she agreed it might have been her specifically who was targeted. ...For? She claimed he would not like her any more when he hears the reason for which she earned her status as a hunted outlaw, and in that she was essentially correct. It did not change Aemoten's opinion of the woman at all.
"Magic itself is neither good or evil," the Lower Seklyn spelled out his own belief over the matter, still grim and still notably bothered by the state of things, and once more muttering rather than speaking in the clear tone he had used in between, "magic is simply magic - some forms of it might hold more potential for harm, but in the end it all comes down to how one uses it. Black magic and necromancy are not forbidden or looked down upon where I come from, nor are those in several other lands I've traversed. I dare say I would know to judge the use and not the means."
What they should have been afraid is the power that you quite evidently do not command, a part of him added, but this time around he refrained from referring to the self-nominated witch's to him obvious deficiencies in having control over her own powers which he had but moments ago openly labeled ineptitude.
It was curious, though, it suddenly occurred to the Sekalynic warrior, how the ban over the practices seemed to have worked against its purpose this time around. He had seen black and other as powerful magics being used, and these people had known how to ensure that it did not turn unfortunate nearby souls into collateral damage. In the end, the ban did not seem to keep people away from the practices - it simply turned out to ensure that people who took those up had incomplete knowledge of how to handle what powers they could get their hands on, and thusly they ended up wringing havoc they otherwise would have known to avoid.

- - -
There was a sudden shift - shift in what he could not identify, but it had been there, he had sensed, if not truly felt it. It had been no identifiable jolt of energy running through his body, no movement in or of the world around him, no gale of wind had accompanied it, but yet he instinctively knew something had changed, abruptly and undeniably, and this change, that shift was no good omen.
It had been more out of inertia than conscious thought and intention that he had carried through with the swing of the sword he had already begun and removed his current opponent's head, and from then on those were purely his reflexes that took over; the Sekalynic warrior turned and brought along with the movement the great blade, slicing open the next opponent's abdomen and sending him staggering backwards. It had seemed that the second man did not even try to defend himself, let along press onward with the attack he had initiated prior to the shift.
A sideways glance revealed his companions to be farther away; he had been forced apart from them by the attackers. There was however one more he had not seen before, a newcomer in the distance, standing on an elevated ledge, too far away and too far up to be hit by a projectile cast or shot by those below. The figure was wearing a long black robe and in one hand held raised a similarly black staff, whereas the other was free and in front of him. This was all a single glance had revealed, but still the Sekalyn's weary mind wanted to entitle the stranger as a mage and from there on assumed the figure to be the cause of the shift.
There was no time to ponder over it; came what came, he would not let himself be killed by a common blade simply due to being distracted. Despite his throat being long dry, Aemoten swallowed, painfully, and braced himself. It had been half a second since he had cut down the second man, he had used the time he took to get an overview of the situation to mechanically right his sword again, but every blink of an eye was accounted for. They were still badly outnumbered. He was already tired, he was in pain, he was weakened, the midday heat of the half-desert was as merciless as ever... The heat was however curiously already receding, just as it always did as soon as the sun sunk below the horizon, but on this occasion much more rapidly and completely in spite of the skybound body being still high and blazing.
He was in time to block another incoming strike; the impact of it was jarring and sent a flash of pain through is already battered frame. He then moved sideways, the sword was turned in his hands as he pressed forward to impale yet another, drew back, slashed at the one whose strike he had originally blocked, dodged the one's counter-counterattack, only to be flanked again and be forced to resort to poorly executed half-sideways stab and be dropped to his one knee by the action. It was only very barely that he managed to prepare himself for blocking another swing and then got staggering back to his feet, spun around, rammed the back end of the sword into someone's side while blocking yet another assault from a different person... He would not be able to keep up at this pace for long, tried what he might, and after just one bad mistake his this life would find a quick end. Someone had already managed to graze his back - how badly, he did not know, but he could feel the sharp sting of the wound, and what he assumed was mostly blood rather than only sweat steadily running down his back and gluing his shirt to his skin.
The air had by now began to waver as if from heat and gradually became charged with seemingly originless energy of an unknown oppressive kind. The area had assumed an unpleasant coolness which soon transcended into a piercing alien cold that felt potent enough to shred flesh and splinter bones. If Aemoten had had time to take a longer look around before, he would have realized that those who had not engaged in combat yet had stopped idly in their tracks, watching, appearing panicked, but not fleeing. Perhaps they were incapable of it, either because the ambient energy which now felt almost crushing, the lethal cold, or something else, something which Aemoten could not pinpoint. The unnatural phenomenon had finally done what their opponents had not yet managed to accomplish, and he had dropped to the ground right where he stood. Comes what comes. He was only alive because the adversaries were no more successful in enduring the newfound hostility of the environment.
The downed warrior, unable to eve scream from the pain, could only watch as, one by one, the attackers succumbed to their fates of never living on this plane again. He was almost certain the same fate would also claim his companions and temporarily him, but that was not to be the case. When the last of their adversaries had died, whatever magic had taken them did not move on to them. They all were and remained alive and not truly harmed by the curse - or perhaps several used in combination -, and the horrid cold soon began to disperse on its own, consumed by what was left of the scorching half-desert day.
On the ledge farther away, the robe-wearing figure let the back end of his metal staff fall back to the ground with a dull thud and his other hand drop by his side. The tall, black-haired and black-eyed young man, almost a boy seeming no older than seven- or eighteen, seemed completely untolled by the display of magic. Only the crystal atop of the black rune-engraved staff, positioned next to the base of the upwards-reaching blade-like extension suggesting it could also be used to impale people in the traditional fashion despite its seeming unwieldiness and doubtlessly considerable weight, was now clear without a trace of color rather than the black it had been before its wielder had arrived at the scene. Over the course of the few next weeks, Aemoten could observe the crystal gradually turning from clear to first light see-through yellow, then clear radiant green, then dark midnight blue, and finally the impenetrable black it had been once again.
- - -

“…and… I guess I know that… I’m not a good person,” the woman stammered, much to the present Aemoten's surprise.
“I mean it’s nothing new to me," she then added, as if correcting her previous statement. "I’ve heard people say that since forever, but what can I do? Cave in and suicide? Believe me when I say I almost did. You, stranger. I… my journey has failed, as you can see. I don’t think I can make it to Gilmah by myself and besides, what would I do there, all alone? I would like to make a proposition, if you will hear it.” It was at that point that she dared look up at him again.
Aemoten still bore a somewhat grimly neutral and probably quite unwelcoming expression, but somewhere along the way, most of the anger had faded. Even if he still appeared hostilely tense, now he rather left awaiting - if not more accurately somewhat impatiently enduring - impression.
"Perhaps you could try to figure what it is that usually makes people claim it and alter your actions accordingly," the Sekalyn dully suggested. "Feelings and thoughts are not bound to choice - deeds, as long as one has a measure of self-control, are." There was a barely noticeable pause. "I am listening."
“Why don’t you take me with you?" came the gist of her proposal. Aemoten did not answer immediately.
The road is currently my home only because the last home I used to live in is now without anything I would want to stay there for, his mind automatically added to one of the assumptions the woman made. It was however true that a mage could be useful. As long as she manages not to accidentally blow us up. Goal? She did not even know what they had take up, though meaningful and important - and seemingly quite hopeless - it was. Become empathetic? No, that was impossible if one did not have it in oneself - an actual sociopath (which the woman despite appearances hopefully was not) could at most only learn to act as if the one were.
And from where would he find her clothes over here? Aemoten still had a few extra shirts, but other kinds of clothes were in short supply until they came across someone who could sell them more. Now, there would also be one spare pair of pants if someone bothered to sew shut the gaping hole in those, but... And to think of it, the former cleric - if he was even still alive - probably did not have any new clothes to change into, either. - And save for the aforementioned, the group had no more actual additional clothes as far as Aemoten knew, only a few random pieces of common fabric (only one of which was large enough to be of any use as substitute-clothing as it was), the two blankets and the tent-cloth. Improvise something, most likely, and she had better not complain about having to wear a generic blanket draped over her shoulders for a while simply in order to keep warm.
Hopefully William had done what he promised and they would receive new supplies soon, for they were nearing the depletion of their rations the same... They also had fewer healthy burden-animals than people who were unlikely to be able to keep walking for a day in the run (given that the one who called himself Brand was, if he survived, to also come along - and where in the area could he be left or how manage on his own in the condition he currently doubtlessly was in?).
At this point Aemoten could only mentally curse the more material side of their quest.

For an unnervingly long time, Aemoten stayed silent, thinking, looking down at the woman. By now he was not even awaiting, but had oddly enough assumed a thoroughly blank expression. Briefly, the man's thoughts strayed onto more general matters, but for the most part he was trying to reach a conclusion. If to assume that what she told was true, executing her would not be fully justifiable according to his own morals, he thought, and as much as he had had enough of dealing with one specific unmanageable group-member - though being in a different status in relation to the rest of the group - he simply could not resort to making decisions based on what he was willing or completely unwilling to face again. It was inevitably his duty to put up with anything, and he would never deal injustice based on dislikes and preferences, or simply because someone was an unpleasant person.
And as for her lying... it was perhaps the time to put her words to test. Briefly, the Sekalyn closed his eyes - for the first time in her presence for longer than it took to blink. When he opened those again, he began the soundless request for the verification of the woman's words, spoken in his mind rather than audibly. (Leaving out her claim about being the most powerful sorceress in Zerul. If not true, it was an exaggeration rather than an intentional lie.)
Finished and with his confirmation, he spent a moment longer doing nothing.

"You did not lie." This was an abrupt, blunt statement, a conclusive fact. It seemed that the man had finally, though still partially against himself, decided.
His fingers restlessly realigning on the grip of his sword, Aemoten turned his head just enough to see the direction the others were supposedly in from the corner of his left eye. He could see Thaler, leaning against the tree, but not the others outside of some movement a distance away which might or might not have been Olan. The Sekalynic warrior guessed the others might probably see him, but not this woman here, since he was standing whereas she had remained seated and was thus much closer to the ground.
With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the to him still nameless woman. "If you can and will keep to your words, I will give you the one last chance." Unspoken, he wondered what kind of thing he would now, once more, get himself into, semi-voluntarily on top of it all. He was, however, probably making it quite clear he would not have much patience for her acting out. 'One last chance.'
He paused for long enough to thrust his sword a few inches into the ground, in order to free his hand for long enough for him to be able to pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the woman, only to to grab hold of the weapon and pull it loose from the soil right after. He did not sheathe it, but rather still held it in hand. Aemoten was not entirely convinced he wanted to leave this woman by herself just yet, and making her walk across the field in plain sight of at least the two of his sighted companions where she was already evidently distressed by her state of unclothedness did not exactly match his criteria for acceptable solution. (True, Aemoten's own horse would probably show up if he called for it, but the other two animals would not, and his horse was currently not carrying anything that could be worn by a human - namely, it only had its empty saddle on his back, and nothing else.)
"Know that we are currently headed for Zerul - which I can only presume is unfortunate news for you if you were to come along with us -, but know we are so for a quite good reason. It is no less than the Withering itself we seek the end of, and from what we already know, this is a disease of the soul rather than body. Demonic energy, no less, somehow eliminating magical energy from an affected person's body, faster than it can replenish, and through that causing the rest of the symptoms. If there is a place where further information on something of obviously magical kind could be found on those lands, or alternatively people who might have an use for the information we currently possess, we figured we might just as well start seeking it from there."
That was the brief overview, anyway.
"And, since the situation has not called for proper introductions - my name is Aemoten."
There was a pause where the Sekalyn waited for the woman's reactions, and quite probably her introduction of oneself. The foreigner's face was once more vaguely grim, but this time also observant, thoughtful. He was also still far from fully at ease or happy with the circumstances, but this was possibly one of the fairest courses of action to take. Or at the very least one that was the most certain to ensure that he did not end a life without a good enough reason, though the laws both local and of his own lands agreed that ending the woman's life would neatly fall in the technical category of 'right'.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Can you get up?"

[Dark Jack]

That was unexpected, Olan thought to himself, scratching his stubbly chin with his right hand while he observed the situation over by the others, where Aemoten had just put down his sword in order to pull off his shirt and throw it to the culprit behind the deaths that had occurred here today. The Sekalyn did retrieve his weapon hurriedly once he had done what he set out to do, and refrained from sheathing it, but regardless the significance of the gesture left the old Nightwalker rather surprised. Somehow, the magus over there had managed to make Aemoten feel confident enough in his own safety and that of his companions to make him lower his guard, even if for but a brief moment.
He crossed his arms over his chest, a thoughtful expression on his face. I had not thought that Aemoten would trust a stranger this soon, even if only just enough for him to take his eyes off that person for a second. I would have expected him to have been driven beyond such faith in others after these last couple of days... I thought he would definitely kill that mage. A soft smile spread from his lips and reached his eyes, making the wrinkles there all the more visible. The pale scars across his face felt uncomfortable, unwilling to stretch as normal skin did - but at least the black taint was gone thanks to Aemoten's intervention, and the grayness had faded into regular paleness. I underestimated him. His mind is not completely ruined just yet - that accursed she-demon did not manage to destroy his potential. There is yet hope for him... and if there is for him, there is for all of us.

With that, Olan ceased reserving the larger portion of his attention for their leader and the mage, as he figured that once Aemoten had come to the point where he would lower his guard, chances of this encounter coming to a bloody end were extraordinarily low. He shot a glance back at Jaelnec and Brand, making sure they were both okay, before he started walking away from them.
As he went, Olan made sure not to disturb the ground where he walked and left only faint footprints in the burnt soil while he avoided going near anything that looked like humanoid remains at all. Walking amidst all this burnt-away carnage, the explorer's smile soon faded and was replaced by an expression of worry. Although his five normal senses rendered him incapable of hearing what Aemoten and the murderer were talking about from the distance, his unusually sharp sixth sense to feel magical energy told him everything he had needed to know: that beneath the taint of Hazzergash's fire was a faint residual energy from the spell that had done this, and that that energy came from the person the southerner was talking to. It was that simple - he could sense that the mage was responsible, simple as that.
But... there was something amiss, something that made him frown as he went and shoot sidelong glances at every pile of desecrated remains he passed. The magical energy he sensed here definitely came from that mage, yet there was a difference to it. The residual energy here had a definite sinister feel to it, one that could be recognized even past the malice of Hazzergash. No matter what kind of spell that mage had cast here, it should not have altered the moral alignment of the magical energy. Moral alignment came from the Seeds of Good and Evil, and always reflected their balance, but in this case it was way off. While the energy was definitely from the mage, the mage's soul felt somewhat balanced, whereas the residual energy felt almost sickeningly evil.
This is not good... not good at all, he thought to himself, even as his smile returned as he approached Thaler. This is the result of more than just a spell. For some reason the energy here feels downright wicked. No, oh no, nowhere near good. This is very, very bad.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, crouching beside Thaler until his face was in level with hers. He started to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder, but then reconsidered, recalling how she had been avoiding touching any of them these past couple of days.
He let his hand drop down his side, and tried to convey the full extent of his concern through his voice alone, sounding more like a nice old man than ever. "It's okay, we're here. We're all fine. Now is the time to worry about yourself for a change, you know?" He paused hesitantly, indecisive about whether to speak or not. If he was not interrupted in two seconds, he would add, "It's okay to depend on others once in a while, lass. At the very least, you can depend on your friends."

[Hymusia]

Quietly she was waiting, for any confirmation from Brand, Olan and Jaelnec or Aemoten and the Witch. Any sign she'd have to move and hope to the spirits she was able to be help and not hindrance to their group leader. Or dart to Jaelnec, Brand and Olan's side to aid the elder Nightwalker in their care.

She had attempted to swing her focus between the two groups and keep tabs on the river and the horses but every shift of her attention made her stomach lurch and her mind briefly cloud over with the most painful throbbing. The disorientation that followed meant it was even harder to stay focused and as a result she was missing things despite herself. She couldn't even tell what Aemoten and the Witch were talking about now, or how Jaelnec and Brand were faring after not having heard their voices for a while. She assumed though that all was okay or the old man would have yelled, just as she assumed that by the fact Aemoten's voice still carried to her he wasn't in immediate harm.

It seemed though that this would be 'brief' conversation was taking a rather long time to clear up. Perhaps the Witch was not as guilty, or perhaps Aemoten's kindness was once again working against his better judgement. Not only did she not have the right to call out and question the happenings but she truly did not have the energy too. She would, she decided, settle for snagging a moment alone with the woman and allowing her to fully realise the gravity of her situation and what happened to people that went against the group. That way she wasn't truly being aggressive and violent but she wasn't allowing a clear threat to run amok her friends as they had done the three quarter demon.

Once again she realized her senses had shut down when she did not even hear the old man approach her until he began speaking. She visibly flinched, causing her nodding head to crack against the tree bark. Wincing she cradled the back of her skull and gave a nervous smile and light laugh, it hurt but she could tell she wasn't really injured as such. "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't hear you come over." Which in itself, judging by her tone, was a painful confession for her, she did after all rely rather heavily on her ears to guide her and warn her in place of her eyes.

It took a moment for Olan's words to register and a further moment to contemplate her answer. It was strange but she had no desire to lie to the old man, she would not lie on things that 'mattered' to any of them, but with Olan she always wanted to be thoroughly honest. "I am tired and my muscles ache. It's not serious." As he offered her words of encouragement to rest and catch up to herself however she shook her head and half fell half leaned forward until her head met his shoulder. "I can't, they have enough to worry about, you have enough to worry about. Without me causing you any more trouble. If I don't stay strong for them, Aemoten and Jaelnec, I think they'll break under the pressure. I need to be the one thing they don't have to be concerned about or doubt." Her voice was naught but a whisper against his shoulder blade, the quiet muttering much more comfortable than attempting to speak normally.

Her eyes by this point had closed, the subtle warmth, the ability to relax, it was all too tempting. Though surely there was something she was supposed to be doing, something more important than merely sleep. Olan continued to speak and she was roused by the kind old man's words, a small smile flitting over tired features but hidden due to remaining against the mans shoulder -or the floor had he not allowed her to rest on him-. "I have not had friends in a long time and those I did have are not like these two and you. I'd do anything for you three and it terrifies me." She bit back a yawn but the gesture still escaped against the man's shoulder (the floor) as she nuzzled his shoulder like a cat getting comfortable upon a pillow. "If I ever lose you three...I'll become something awful, probably do something awful to the reason I lose you. I've lost so many people I've loved, so many..."

With a great effort she lifted her head from Olan's shoulder, attempting to focus and gather enough energy to check his old face for those wounds. She didn't have the energy to even raise a hand to do it the old fashioned way and the energy she did have was reserved for the scene happening behind her. Aemoten asked her to wait for him, she couldn't sleep yet she was waiting and the Witch had to get the semi-friendly warning that was owed to her since she seemed to still be alive.