Brawls, duels, and all manner of violent single combat before. The vampire had high expectations for both fighters - thrown blades, fancy footwork, an intricate display of footwork, and/or even a sprinkle of advanced techniques of elemental magic. But, out of all of the actions to have happened, Morgan was not expecting such a strong offensive move by woman.

A startled cry came from his mouth as he attempted to jump backward from the blinding blast, but to no avail. For several moments he wouldn’t be able to comprehend to what happened. His eyes had felt as if he had decided to look directly into the sun for several hours. True fear overcame him as he scrabbled away from the edge of the rooftop on his back, desperately attempting to find his surroundings beyond the roof’s edge and to temporary safety. Someone this powerful, to take away his sight - he needed to know what was happening around him. ’How did she summon the sun?’ Morgan knew that he wasn’t burning, at least as far as he could tell - he was in too much pain from the unexpected (and usually avoided) source of light. Would he be attacked? What if he was blind forever? How would he survive?

Panic began to well upside him as the vampire found his staff, which had been let go in his surprised state. A sense of control came and he slowly shakily rose to his feet. Something from the past, a voice he had long forgotten. It echoed through his mind, a distant, comforting memory: Pull it together - you can do this. Remember what I taught you. Morgan’s body, though still shaking, rose to his full height, straightening as he clenched his staff tighter. The trapped animal willl — must be placed under control. Sight is not my only sense.[i] It was a fact that was often forgotten, even though he was well aware that his “gift” had given him enhanced smell and hearing. The panicking animal that had been clawing at Morgan’s mind was calming - at least until an unfamiliar voice came from behind him. A instinctive, terrified hiss was issued in the direction of the voice, trying to make the individual just as frightened as Morgan was. The vampire even blindly swung his weapon heavily at the voice’s origins, though Morgan’s knobbed staff wouldn’t even be close to hitting its target. Despite the sniffer’s offensive actions, the voice’s message came through:

“Flee from this place and tell the Ducal guards that I had defended myself from her brash actions.”

[i]’Flee? Tell the guards? Fright turned confusion - almost in an amused manner. Him? A vampire… go tell the guards? ’No - No, that won’t happen. The man had disappeared, but before he apparently vanished into thin air, he would hear one word, “No.” Morgan’s fright had begun to transform - the animal that had been cowering in the corner, so to speak, was beginning to feel threatened, caged. ’No man is to give me orders - never again.’ A snarl began to form on his lips as he rubbed his eyes, attempting to bring sight back, though it would more than likely not work. But one more thing was clear to the vampire - no more hiding. How dare they threaten him, in his element. Teeth exposed once more as he attempted to hear what was to occur next...

I was mistaken, the woman concluded when the magical senses she had focused on the presumed Fixer told her that he abruptly vanished in a quick burst of energy. He can teleport even without being able to see. That complicates things quite severely... particularly since I can't even tell where he has teleported to.
The most she could do in response to the disappearance of the other was to immediately deviate from her course and remove herself from where it would be obvious to assume she would be. Without breaking her pace the ducal agent immediately veered left, jogging quietly out of the way while staying near the center of the area, since she did not want to go too near the buildings she knew surrounded them and create extremely visible shadows to betray her position. Then, lowering herself into a crouch while holding her unique runesword up high, she endeavored to be as quiet as possible and be as small a target as possible. If her enemy rushed his retaliation against her and targeted where he expected her to be there would be nothing there, since she had already removed herself from that area, and if he was calculating enough to realize that he could track her by the immense source of light that could not function without direct contact with her skin the sword would be located some ways above her and slightly to the right, making the reception of a critical strike unlikely.
Effective as this tactic proved just moments later when she heard the telltale sound of a light, thin metallic object hitting stone - likely a small bladed weapon propelled in her presumed direction that missed - all it ultimately did was to win her a little time. She could still be located by tracking the source of light or by any other senses than sight, and even if she stayed still and quiet someone with superhuman sense of smell or heightened ability to feel magical energy would likely be able to pinpoint her location relatively quickly, even if they were blinded enough not to be able to see where the light was coming from. Luckily she was already familiarized with the other's magical signature from before, so finding it again only took a few seconds; by the time she heard his missed attack hit a wall she had already located her known opponent again, although the other one continued to elude her.
I'll have to worry about the other one later, she decided, bringing her sword down in front of her quickly and pointing its tip at where she could sense the masked man's soul. Hopefully it will be a while before their eyesight recovers even if I disable the Brihjal-seal. Although, disabling that before attacking will leave me vulnerable for a moment while I switch runes... It's better to avoid that window. This will take a lot of my energy and carry a high risk of killing him, but it's safer for me. I must continue to function to serve the master. I will aim at chest-level; that way his eyes might be intact for me to confirm his identity as the Fixer.

Ignoring the pain it caused her to crouch like this, her knees aching terribly from being in this stance, the woman quickly gripped her the wrist of her right sword-holding hand with her left, taking another second to aim her blade carefully before whispering: "Caihl tergrim, harteor.*"
What happened next was nearly instantaneous and barely even perceivable to the human eye, even if the one watching had not been blinded by the light. Upon the release of this new glyph the emission of light from the blade abruptly stopped, shrouding the area in a regular daylight that seemed dark as a cloudy night in comparison to the incredible luminance that had just occupied it.
Only, the radiance did not truly stop being created, but was now merely contained; the blade itself retained an appearance as though it had turned blindingly white, as though the light wrapped around the sword tightly rather than shine everywhere, creating a very compact area of searing light. And then, still within a split-second of the change having begun, the light seemed to rush down the length of the blade, congregating at the tip of it in an even more miniscule point, before shooting outward in a beam that was a fraction of an inch thick, less than four hundredths of it, and moved in a perfectly straight line as an extension of her blade. Aimed at her opponent as it was, this beam was liable to burn straight through his feeble flesh in just a second. It would leave a quite small hole, admittedly, and instantly cauterize the wound for him, but if he tried to evade it as he was liable to upon feeling the pain... it would cut straight through all the flesh it passed across. This laser was immensely powerful; if she maintained it for more than a few seconds she would not only deplete her energy-reserves extremely quickly, but also end up burning through the buildings behind her target and possibly cause undesirable damage to Zerulic property and citizens.

*"Penetration seal, release."

Through half-squinted eyes, Jillian followed the necromancer’s actions – how he utilized magic to heat an apparently pre-prepared mixture of sorts, perhaps tea – and brought it over to her within mere seconds. It was a simple trick, for a magician anyways, Jillian knew, but even so she felt a kind of small happiness inside, witnessing the wonder of magic one more time. Indeed, the mere sight of Gerald activating a simple rune gave her the immediate urge to cast magic of some form, to bedazzle simplistic peasants and experienced sorcerers alike. Only, she was quickly reminded of her sorry state, hardly able to move, feeling cold and in pain, and so incredibly dirty. When Gerald knelt beside her to hand her the cup, she clumsily lifted her upper body and leaned on her elbow, and in that moment she could not help but notice how drenched in sweat and caked in dirt she was. The feeling of shame that washed over her made her unable to look him in the eyes. What a sorry sight she was!

“It tastes bad, but drink it anyway,” Gerald suggested, offering her the steaming cup and apparently not paying any heed to her appearance. It was entirely plausible that he had gotten used to it by now – the Spirits knew how long she had been asleep. She saw that it was evening, but it could still have easily been many hours from when she had last been conscious because it had only been afternoon then.

The witch took the cup in shaky, thin and cold hands and sniffed at the wispy vapors emanating from the watery concoction, quickly realizing how strong and foul it was. What in the planes was that? It looked like tea, but she had never smelled any tea like that before. Perhaps reading her thoughts, Gerald further explained why this drink would help her, and she could not deny that the benefits outweighed the cost of having to drink it.

“Heh, I just puked. Can’t t-taste much worse, can it?” she mused, partially towards Gerald and partially towards no one in particular. Was that even humorous? She did not find it terribly funny. Holding the warm cup made her feel even colder and, with a shiver, she took her first sip – and then Gerald briefly recounted what had happened while she was asleep. They were safe, that was a relief. Pelaid, why? She’d have to ask, that was a long ways from Anaxim forest. But what about…

Jillian almost choked on her drink when he told her that the battle was lost. She coughed for a moment to clear her pipes, then, as if all malady had been lifted from her by a miracle, she blurted out in full force:

“We WHAT?!”

Her voice was elevated, and she was clearly upset.

Jillian’s mind raced, trying to find answers to her many questions. Did the dragons come at all? If they did, how could any mortal hope to stop them? Were her actions, her almost becoming a martyr, all in vain? What happened to the forest, and to the demon prison? And what happened to the dragons if they lost? Dead? Preposterous!

She was more than just confused, she was angry. She wanted a justification for this, she wanted someone to take the blame. She had promised to overdeliver, to show Gerald how good of a sorceress she was and how she would be able to turn the tide of battle singlehandedly, and now someone had turned her victory into a humiliating defeat and, if her worst fears were confirmed, a catastrophe for all of Rodoria. Jillian did not want to stand for it, this was not her fault or her defeat. She did not deserve this, Gerald did not deserve this, nobody did, they had all tried too hard.

“Lost? Lost how?! I almost died over there to save our hides and you’re meaning to tell me they somehow managed to hand the battle to the crusaders anyway? It was a success Gerald, I did what you asked of me! The dragons were supposed to come, what about the dragons, Gerald?! Surely those bastards could not handle at the very least three dragons that I know of?! What happened? How could it go wrong? Gerald, tell me!”

"I will," Gerald replied to her calmly, his voice its usual penetrating hiss that seemed too easy to hear compared to the volume with which was spoken, and slowly patted the air with his right hand. Once again this was about the reaction he had expected, and one that was similar to though less restrained than his own immediately after their escape. After it had seemed like they were safe once again and the necromancer had time to think about anything other than his own survival, he had been furious as well, outraged even. He was still angry even now, but he knew that it served no purpose to rage over the injustice of what had occurred. 'Time Is Absolute', the Fourth Law of Magic said, and there was a cruel truth to that; what had happened, happened. It was unfair, considering how hard they had tried and how much they had sacrificed, but nevertheless it could never be undone.
"We did well..." he assured her after his promise that he would explain, and he actually meant that. He was fairly sure that his strategic decisions had been sound, the situation taken into consideration, and he had accomplished not one, but several magical feats that had never been attempted before, successfully. Even if they lost in the end he could still take pride in the fact that he had achieved within just a handful of minutes what an entire Plane of magi had been incapable of for millennia. And Jillian... she was wild, fierce, unpredictable, impulsive, reckless, but she undeniably possessed some significant innate magical power. She had been careless and flamboyant about it, but she had followed his instructions and accomplished what the combined forces of the Anaxim Forest could not.
"We did well," he repeated, more softly this time, and sighed. "The plan worked just as it was supposed to; after you annihilated the wyverns and cleared the sky, the dragon sisters came and decimated the crusader forces. Their army was practically defeated, but..." He shook his head regretfully. "Even in the chaos, no one managed to reach Kevalorn. Too many of the others had died, and no one was strong or quick enough to get to him. And then..." He made a single quick wave with his hand, a simple turn of the wrist. "Even limited by a mortal vessel and still being partially sealed, Hazzergash's power was unreal. He picked both of the sisters out of the sky in an instant, and then eradicated the defenders that remained... it looked so easy, as if he wasn't even trying." He remembered that Jillian had arrived with one of the dragons, and decided that he had better explain their fates a little better. "By the looks of it there is little doubt that the Red was killed by Kevalorn's attack... the Green managed to protect herself with a barrier, first, but it was shattered; I don't know if it was enough to save her life."
Gerald nodded in the direction of the sleeping Elder Green on the opposite side of their lake. "When it became clear that the tide could not be turned back in our favor Renold over there came to save me, and I had him save you too. He carried us here and has agreed to help me find a way to end the Withering."

Hesitantly the warlock decided to stop his explanation there; he had left some things out of his recounting of events - quite significant things, even - but he had already answered several questions that Jillian had not yet asked, and opted to let her arrive at those questions herself, rather than just pelting her with all the answers immediately. She had just been comatose from magical exhaustion and had just a minute ago mistaken him for someone else; she would need time to process what he had just said, or none of it would really sink in. Luckily now, unlike any other time since Gerald had met the girl on the battle-ready Gariel Downs, time was something they had, not that they sorely lacked. They would need to move on, but for now the night was theirs, peaceful and undisturbed, void of urgency and danger.
It was now that questions would have their due answers and important decisions would be made. It was just a matter of what information he should volunteer, and which he should wait for her to request... He should probably tell her that her magic was greatly weakened right now, even if her magical reserves were fully restored. But not just yet. In time.

I know we did bloody well! Tell me who didn’t, and how! Jillian retorted in thought, contending herself with sourly frowning at him. Though calm and detached, as she was used to his demeanor by now, Jillian interpreted his words and gestures as speaking of regret and bitterness. She knew his kind; he would be too proud, too concerned with efficiency to openly show his anger, but it was there, hidden inside of him like the Withering was. It was the reason he had assured her that they had done well – not only to let her know, but to reassure himself. They were both victims here.

She listened to his tale with great care, at some point electing to vacantly stare into her cup while reconstructing the events that he spoke of in her mind. It was difficult to imagine, by his account Kevalorn surpassed everything she knew. She had met powerful wizards before, but even they were in all likelihood dwarfed by the dragons, but Kevalorn… he apparently had the power to pluck the same dragons from the sky without a second thought. To think that he did so while being restrained in multiple ways, it was terrifying. How does one fight such an entity? Who or what can stop a being of such awesome might?

Gerald’s tale of the dragons’ fate was disheartening. For reasons beyond her understanding, she felt a strange kinship with the dragons, and even though she had never met the Red, she mourned his loss. Yet, to think that Lailonsaire might have been destroyed so easily made Jillian feel quite empty inside. She felt no urge to shed a tear, or to lament, but there was a sobering void inside her bosom that reminded her she should feel sorrow over the fact that this once magnificent – if arrogant – creature was in all likelihood no more. She would not be able to speak to her again, to quarrel with her in a way that felt so very human or to ride above the clouds.

Jillian’s eyes turned to Elder Renold when Gerald mentioned him. He was an impressive creature, his mere size was far more imposing than Lailonsaire’s had been; there was no doubt that his power was equally greater to match. His name was familiar, she recalled, as the Green had mentioned him fleetingly. She had been seeking his affection, was that not it? At least, in a way that dragons did. Was he mourning the loss of the sisters too? Did dragons feel the same way about the death of their kin as humans did? Jillian skeptically eyed Renold for a few moments longer before reverting her attention to the necromancer again.

“End the Withering? What about Kevalorn? We were trying to keep him from his demon prison, were we not? If he got his hands on it, there won’t be a point in curing a disease. We’ll all be butchered like the dragons were,” Jillian argued, speaking much less agitated than before. She energetically took a sip, paying little attention to the taste, before going on:

“Besides, don’t you want to get back at him? That troll-faced bastard has much to answer for and deserves to be put down for what he did – and could still do.”

That was a noble goal, wasn’t it? If she could prove victorious over Kevalorn, revealed to be none other than the demon lord Hazzergash himself, then there would be no doubt of Jillian’s might and expertise. Every duchy would hail her as not only a heroine, but a paragon amongst mages. Not long ago, all of this would have been but a mere pipe dream, but after today, Jillian felt like it was somehow all possible. She had done the improbable, even the impossible, and her dream seemed more in reach than ever before. As terrible as the day’s events had been, she began to see a silver lining around it all. What did not kill her would only make her stronger, and that is what she had always desired. As for Kevalorn… the matter between him and her had become personal since the day began. Her meeting with Brand had been a significant portent of things to come. She had defied him, just as he had defied his master. The world had gone up in flames, only she was spared. The significance of it all was elusive to her still, but since that moment, she felt as if under the gaze of Hazzergash, a gaze that she imagined would linger. Jillian waltzed with an open flame, and there would come a time when she would have to face the god of fire again, of that she was certain.

“He’s not going to disappear like a bad dream, Gerald. I understand you want to sever the grip that the Withering has on you, but I see Hazzergash in our future. We have to be a step ahead of him if we want to avert disaster like we could not today,” she explained to him, surprisingly spirited and serious. Whether it was merely her dream talking, or if her prediction held true, none could say, but one thing was for certain: Jillian’s flame burned on.

Morgan knew that rubbing his eyes would not help his sight return - but yet, he continued, whether from a need to remove forming tears from his irritated, stinging eyes or if he was really trying to see if there was something in them. However, one thing would be clear - his animalistic instincts and senses were kicking in. A vampire is well known for having heightened senses, well beyond those of an average human. It worked nicely with this training as a sniffer when hunting for prey, but here he was angry. Rational thought was not a part of the equation. Here, the beast was about to be released and it had begun to stalk its prey.

As blind as Morgan was at the moment, the sniffer would have no trouble finding both parties. It always seemed the characters of the world, whether it be a fool or badass, always had an unique scent (perhaps it was the many paths followed that came with their job description) and their distinct scents were not far from his position. Of course, there were three stories of vertical space between his wrath and their doom, but nothing a little climbing wouldn't fix. Crouched and moving swiftly, his strong legs began to move his low figure towards where believed the edge was. A gloved hand began to feel for the edge until his perked ears heard the uttering of three words:

"Caihl tergrim, harteor."

At this moment, it was clear the light was gone and something more familiar, more friendly appeared. Shade - darkness. A grin of pure tainted joy came across the vampire's face as his eyes, though fully not capable of sight yet, began to adjust to the new found shade of light. Dark, blurry shapes began to form, the crimson eyes finding comfort in the sudden shift of lighting. Below, he would be able to see what appeared to be the hooded mercenary, but his true quarry remained unseen, at least at this point in time. She was definitely down there, and it was enough proof for the vampire to grab hold of the roof's edge and began a hasty descent, artfully jumping from ledge to hand hold in a fevered pace. If he made it to the ground uninterrupted by an attack, his vision would reddened, as he followed his nose to the blue coated woman...

However, if were to be attacked by projectile or magic during his downward climb, Morgan would waste no time seeing who attacked him. If his attacker was close enough, the vampire would take the offensive leaping from the building and attempt to pounce onto his prey. But, if the drop was too far and screamed for retreat, the sniffer would give a spine chilling hiss as hand made over foot back to the roof top to safety...

Well, at least it seemed that Jillian was recovering from her ordeal relatively well, probably hastened in the process by her fury as much as by the curiously regenerative natural energy he had infused her with. Gerald could not help but to feel morbidly amused by how the witch apparently wanted the three of them to turn back and face Kevalorn immediately rather than take a little while to regain their strength, all while at the same time stressing how the demonic Lord of Fire was capable of butchering them as easily as he had the dragon sisters. Emphasizing the danger of an action and encouraging it almost in the same breath. She must know that it would be downright suicidal for just the three of them to assault Kevalorn, especially in their current condition. True, this would probably be the time he was the most vulnerable, with nearly the entire force of crusaders escorting him having perished during the Battle of Anaxim, but that also meant that he would be the most cautious right now; their chances of being able to reach him were practically nonexistent without some kind of distraction... which would likely mean the death of the said distraction. He needed Renold for his search for a way to end the Withering, and Gerald himself was too important... did Jillian realize that she was the prime candidate for sacrifice if they were to undertake the task she would have them go on?
She was right in most regards, though, especially about him wanting to free himself from the Withering. Useful and unique as the abilities controlling it gave him were, even the contained Withering would ultimately kill him. Granted that the woman did not know the full horrid truth of what happened to those who died from the plague, she must still realize that the Withering was ultimately much more dangerous than even an unleashed demon lord; one could hide from a demon. Never from the Withering.

It was when Jillian spoke of having to be a step ahead of Hazzergash that Gerald could no longer contain himself and actually broke into a wicked grin, chuckling darkly as his left hand went to the side of his neck, as if to rub it.
"We will face Hazzergash again, there can be no doubt of that," he said, still smirking with amusement. "But luckily we've been a step ahead of him since the very beginning."
As he spoke his left hand rubbed down the side of his neck, then slipped down the collar of his robe and hooked his thumb around his silver necklace. Pulling his hand up and out from his clothes he drew the chain with it, gradually revealing the piece of jewelry while he felt the pendant moving up his chest towards his collar, until it was finally revealed as well, dangling between his neck and upheld left hand. It was a splinter of crystal, about the length of one of his fingers and looking small and fragile, but glowing with a faint inner light in fiery red.
"Hazzergash won't get his hands on his Demon Prison because we took it with us. It has been with me the whole time." He chuckled again, gleeful at the fact that another of their plans had worked out just as intended; if they lost the battle he was supposed to keep the prison away from Hazzergash. It was a failsafe, and a necessary one, it seemed. "What, you thought I was actually so conceited as to announce myself as most important simply because I am me?"
Ah yes, there were few things Gerald enjoyed more than outsmarting his enemies.

Cautious, viridian eyes followed Gerald’s every movement; even though Jillian’s frame was sickly and emaciated, her gaze was as unyielding and vigilant as it had always been. What was he grinning for? It wasn’t the first time he had done this. Furthermore, with his hand reaching to his neck, she would have almost labeled him as being embarrassed, but that too was not it. He knew something she did not, and Jillian did not like that. Had he not spoken up when he did, she would have certainly urged him to.

“We will face Hazzergash again,” he agreed, strangely amused by this – perhaps he felt the same kind of exhilaration that she did? – and claimed that they had, in fact, always been ahead of the demon lord.

“Didn’t seem like it in Gariel Downs,” Jillian dismissively quipped back at him, even though she knew he would prove his point somehow. When the little crystal slipped out of his clothing, the woman’s inquisitive eyes widened with a mixture of surprise, relief and desire. She immediately knew what it was without him telling her.

The necklace! That son of a tarke had it all along! I’ve seen the stupid chain even, but never would I have guessed… he should have told me!

“Hazzergash won't get his hands on his Demon Prison because we took it with us,” Gerald told her, confirming what she already deducted. Apparently he was so pleased with himself that he could not withhold a chuckle – something she was certain was a rare sight for him. While she was glad that he had kept the prison safe, she was bitter about having been kept in the dark all the same. For the moment, Jillian said nothing, her eyes glued to the crystal and her lips glumly pressed together.

“What, you thought I was actually so conceited as to announce myself as most important simply because I am me?” he asked, further rubbing in the salt. Her eyes, laden with poison, met his.

“I won’t lie; yes, I did. I know a lot of people who would have done that, and I still think at least a part of you also did,” Jillian admitted, then let off a sigh to calm her nerves.

“Look, I’m relieved to see that not all is lost, but why did you not deign to tell me sooner? It would have been better if I had known your intentions; do you not trust me?”

Jillian shifted her position, sitting up completely and putting the cup in one hand while resting it on her lap. With her free hand, she brushed her messy hair behind her shoulders, making a grimace of disgust as she did. She knew she was catching a cold already, but it would not stop her from plunging into the nearby lake later. She already began fantasizing about washing off the dirt and sweat that she had accumulated in Anaxim. On that note, she wondered if Gerald had any intentions of cleaning himself. He certainly looked raggedy enough not to care too much about cleanliness, but he had proven already to be more than meets the eye on multiple occasions. At the very least he did not smell significantly worse than she did at the time; she could only hope it would stay like that.

Gerald's smile widened slightly at Jillian's confession that she really had thought him selfish enough to be willing to sacrfice anything to save himself. Of course she had thought that; that was part of the plan, after all, that anyone uninitiated in the change of whereabouts of the Demon Prison would simply think that the obviously sinister outsider and necromancer was just trying to save his own skin. Ah, and an excellent plan it had been; with Hazzergash's foul energy having seeped from the crystal over the millennia and tainted the heart of the forest to the point of total corruption, that area would radiate Hazzergash's evil much more strongly than the actual prison itself, which by its very nature contained the demon's essence as much as possible. Combine that with the fact that the Anaxim Forest was so thoroughly permeated with ambient magical energy that it was difficult to sense much of anything, and Hazzergash could have been standing mere feet from Gerald without ever realizing that the thing he sought was within easy reach. There had been more to the plan, of course, but the way things turned out it had never become relevant.
It was not that the warlock was not a selfish man; he was, and he was aware of the fact. How could he be otherwise, when his personal goals involved immortality and supreme power? All beings were selfish at their core, but there were things in the Planes important enough that even the self had to take lower priority. What was the point of surviving, after all, if the world one inhabited became a living nightmare? Why live if life became impossible? Preserving Reniam itself was Gerald's foremost objective, since failing that would remove the value from all others. It was simple logic.

Pleased as he was with having been able to predict Jillian's actions and reactions thus far, however, he was slightly surprised at her first question after the revelation of this secret he had carried against his chest. Her immediate thought at this was to question why he had not told her? He was a little disappointed at that. This woman really was a prideful one, to prioritize the degree of trust she held with him over more obviously interesting things, such as how he had come into possession of Hazzergash's Demon Prison in the first place. That was what he would have asked, but then again, he was by far the more rational of the two.
He did pause a moment upon her asking, thinking, before he decided on an answer. "I do trust you," he finally stated. "That is why I show you now. Before the battle I had no reason to, and during it, mentioning the subject was too dangerous. As for my intentions, I did tell you about them; if it looked like we were losing, we'd flee. Whatever happened I had to stay alive. We had to reach Kevalorn. I told you all these things; I only abstained from specifying the reason for them."
He met her viridian gaze with his amber one, a gleam in his eye and a light smirk on his lip. "Can you not believe in the credibility of my intentions without knowing the reason for them? Do you not trust me, Veldaine?"

“I do trust you,” Gerald admitted after a while of, according to Jillian, being busy with being pleased with himself. Of course he would say that, never in her life had Jillian been told by a man – or heard of men telling other women – that they do not trust her. In that sense, the answer was almost irrelevant, her question rhetoric in nature. Regardless, she could hold him accountable for deceiving her in the future, which was what mattered to her, no matter if he meant it or not. He went on to justify himself, how it would have been too dangerous during the battle (how?) and unnecessary before (why?). Furthermore, he demonstrated that he had been open about his intentions, and merely kept his reasons veiled in secrets. While Jillian could not deny this, she would personally consider the reasoning behind a given intention to be an integral part of the whole, something that Gerald obviously saw differently. So far, Gerald had done what she expected to see, which was to somehow explain himself and justify his actions in ways that she did not quite agree with, but then Gerald once again proved to be a little more ingenious and different from the men she had spoken to previously.

“Can you not believe in the credibility of my intentions without knowing the reason for them?” he asked her, almost deviously and still smirking, clearly aware of the weight of his words, ”Do you not trust me, Veldaine?”

That he would take her very words and turn them against her so hit her like a stab from a lance. A certain warmth welled up inside her, the kind of which precedes anger, but she was too surprised even for that. He had the gall to talk back at her like that! Vincent never had, always the yes-man. The little witch felt oddly enticed by this, and fell silent for a moment, enough time to lean back and lean on her left hand, still holding her cup with the other. As she did, a kind of grin appeared on her thin, colorless lips as well.

“Oh, Glass,” she began, delicately and almost seductively pronouncing Gerald’s surname and drawing it out, “how can I trust someone who does not even address me by my first name? There’s a gap between us, and you’re unwilling to close it. How can you expect me to?”

Her voice was soft and feminine, and her eyes danced between Gerald’s and the ground between them; she fully intended to play her part in this. There would be no better time to draw Gerald out of his closet than now, and he had set the bait for it himself, practically handed it to her. She was excited to see how the necromancer would react to this sudden shift in her demeanor.

Playing a game like this, a game of arguments and counter-arguments, turning her own logic against her, Gerald had anticipated various possibilities for her next move as any chess-player would have. He was confident in his superiority in a duel on reason such as this, fencing with words as more brutish men did with swords; he was an intelligent man, after all, and a scholar to boot, whereas she was an impulsive and emotional kind of person. After this he expected Jillian to become angry with him, maybe drawing away from him and resorting to sullen silence, maybe rebuking him for his insolence or thrusting some hasty and unfinished counter-point back at him.
The use of his own last name was noticed, but not particularly reacted to; it was a game he was quickly becoming used to, since this woman apparently took extreme offence to his unwillingness to use her first name. It was nothing new and something that could be predicted and generally disregarded. However...

Gerald's smile vanished as Jillian spoke, and his expression turned suddenly blank and impassive. His left hand remained raised as though frozen in place as he simply stared at her in silence for several seconds, his gaze void of any intensity... only, perhaps, betraying a tiny bit of disappointment. His right hand first lowered, then fell down his side entirely, hanging there limply. Finally, after about ten seconds of pregnant silence, the man - without taking his eyes off Jillian - stuffed the crystal pendant back inside his robe, then stood up before he finally turned away and walked back towards where he had been sitting earlier.
How could she trust him when he refused to use her first name, indeed? That was why he did it, just as she had deduced herself; to keep others at a distance, to isolate himself and detach his fate from that of others. To be able to do what needed to be done for the good of Reniam, no matter what he had to sacrifice. He had forgotten that, had started to get attached to this girl... she did him a favor by reminding him that there were more important things than the two of them. Then why did it hurt so much? Was it this painful because he had to draw away from her again, after having let himself get a little closer? After having said he trusted her? After having risked himself to save her?
But he was accustomed to being alone by now. It was better if she did not trust him... that meant that she was more liable to survive if he ever had to actually betray her. And even if he could manage to force himself to be indifferent about most things about her, if he had to, he still wanted her to live. That one thing he could not change, yet he renewed his resolve that he would not allow that desire to lead him astray; it was painful, but necessary. His path was one of darkness, loneliness and unhappiness, he had known that from the start... but that did nothing to ease its burden.
One day, my love, he thought mournfully, one day I will bring you back, and we will live together forever in as good a world as I can keep it. I will make us immortal, and this world will be ours. I will see your smile for eternity... for such a thing, I must be willing to sacrifice everything. I must.

"I stole energy from the forest itself to restore us," he told her once he was back at their fire, blankly changing the subject. "I had nowhere else to take it from. It seems that its energy makes us heal faster, but weakens our magic. It will wear off."

The change was subtle at first, Jillian noticed, how Gerald’s smile slowly vanished, how the light in his eyes gently died, how his limbs became frozen in motion. The sudden coldness that reigned in Gerald’s heart also chilled the air around him, and Jillian sensitively took in the frigidness; a small shiver ran down her spine and her smile left too.

Gerald?, her voice echoed in her mind, sounding lost and confused. What did I do wrong?

They had been playing thus far, passing arguments and accusations almost like an old couple might have had, but this was no game any longer. Gerald was sincere in his disappointment and apparent shock, and Jillian could not understand what had caused it. How could she, after all? The necromancer had argued moments ago that he needed not share the reasoning behind his intentions in order to make the latter clear, and that same philosophy held true, for he would certainly not tell the witch of his tragic fate, not yet, not now, and still she would have to suffer the repercussions thereof.

In this moment of petrified silence, Jillian felt as if she were a mere girl again, perhaps twelve of age, being caught doing something she was not supposed to. It was an uncomfortable, cold void within oneself, a feeling of dread that came from the expectation of dire consequences for actions that cannot be undone. Gripped by a very similar feeling, she stared at Gerald, waiting for… anything. Would he reprimand her? Explain himself? Would he beat her? Yell? Would he do nothing at all? It was impossible to tell, and it frightened her.

Eventually, Gerald abruptly stuffed his pendant back into his shirt, still eerily staring at the witch with an expression she could not interpret sufficiently, before simply getting up and leaving. That was all: he turned his back to her and left, saying no single word. It was the height of impoliteness, and Jillian could not even bring herself to feel upset about it, the entire situation felt too unreal and disturbing to worry about such trifle things. She stared after him for a while, until the voice in her mind left through her frail lips:

“Gerald?” she asked, confused and almost frightened. He did not respond, too caught up in his own mired thoughts. More, painfully long moments went by before Jillian’s voice was heard one more time, this time more vehemently and authoritative:

“Gerald!” she yelled firmly, abandoning the role of the lost child to assume that of the scornful mother. He, in turn, sat down by the flickering fire, taking his place amongst the dark shadows dancing all around it like outcast spirits who found companionship amongst themselves. Only then he elected to speak once more.

“I stole energy from the forest itself to restore us,” he admitted soberly, bearing little emotion or judgment in his words. He briefly summarized what said energy would entail for them before falling silent once more.

She did not want to just let it go and talk about something else, not after he had cut her so, but she also knew that the window had closed, and there was nothing to be bargained for at the time. You have a lot of skeletons in your little closet, necromancer, and I’ll tear them from it one by one if I have to, she ambitiously and bitterly thought while glaring in his direction. Although this new information which he divulged was also interesting in its own right, there was no room in her head for it right now. Playing the offended, Jillian took one last, large sip from her cup before setting it down and getting up, still wrapped in her blanket. Annoyingly she did so a little too quickly, and she felt momentarily so dizzy that she was afraid of falling, but was able to stay on her two feet for long enough to adjust after a bit of swaying.

“I’ll take a bath by the lake,” Jillian announced, her voice sounding offended and harsh, “and I suggest you do the same before we break camp.”

With that, she trotted off towards the lakeside where Elder Renold still lay, pulling her blanket over her shoulders.

His reaction to being reminded of the way he had chosen to live his life clearly upset Jillian, probably in more ways than one, but ultimately it was unavoidable; he had grown too lax in his own policy not to allow himself to care about anyone, so pushing a person who had forged bonds with him in the fires of battle away was bound to be painful for both parts. Unlike before, though, Gerald did not try to predict her reaction, nor did he try to guess what she was thinking; doing so would entail understanding the person one analyzed, and right now he was intently trying to force the creation of a chasm as wide as possible between their souls. She sounded scared at first, he thought... then angry, and finally insulted.
If he was lucky, he thought sadly, this would be enough to sow bitterness towards him in her, ensuring that she herself would work to maintain distance between them. They had known each other only for a few hours, and even if they had shared a common destiny through a fierce battle in that time they were still little more than strangers to each other. She might come to hate him yet, as most people did; disgusted by his disregard for the lives of innocents, his usage of the forbidden arts, his thirst for power... all because of their inability to see the significance of his actions in the greater scheme of things. Sacrifice a village to protect a country, and seize power and skill so to use to protect reality; even if that power was obtained by sacrificing others, it could save many more if used right. Ever since he was exiled from Zerul, Gerald had only ever been the object of others' hatred... Dennis Remdal's hatred, the Zerulic's hatred, the villagers of Shrubnest's hatred, and even that of those adventurers that had come to him under the leadership of that foolish Nightwalker. But in the Anaxim Forest he had not been hated, but welcomed; the defenders of the forest had craved his power to aid in their desperate struggle, and Crone had wanted his ability for her plans. Could that have been the root of the problem? That he had let his heart warm to the feeling of being wanted, and thus accidentally letting go of his resolve?
Maybe Jillian would leave now; there was no reason for her to be here anymore, unless she wanted to help with his quest to end the Withering. Why did she seek him in the first place? To learn necromancy, was it? They were in Pelgaid now, just a short trip from Pelgaid City and the Land of Eternal Night. The Black Tribunal would surely be much more desirable teachers than him, and have far more resources at their disposal to use in the bestowal of knowledge.

Sighing to himself, ignoring the witch's suggestion for him to bathe, the warlock reached his right hand down beside the rock he was sitting on and quickly found Omni in the shadows, picking it off the ground and placing it in his lap. He had thought about destroying the staff many times, an artifact of Delian Gilmah as it was, but somehow he could not bring himself to do it... nor would he have had the necessary power to do so, for that matter. Powerful magic resided within it, infused from Delian herself long ago, and even if it was badly damaged the abilities of Omni would allow it to mend itself if it was supplied the magical energy to do so.
But now... Raising his gaze to stare over the rocks that surrounded them, Gerald's left hand went to his chest once more, clutching the form of the Demon Prison that rested there. A gentle warmth radiated from the crystal along with, he could tell with his great magical proficiency, a small but steady flow of demonic essence. The seal on this prison had deteriorated too much since its creation, which was what had allowed Hazzergash's soul to escape it in the first place. He had not yet dared to let his senses peer into the crystal itself too much, but even without doing that he could sense a truly monstrously huge amount of power locked deep within its confines. Part of Hazzergash's power was in this crystal... using the Withering, Gerald suspected that he could tap this power if he really wanted. Not that he was foolish enough to attempt such a thing; immortal energy was detrimental to a mortal soul, everyone knew that. Besides, drawing upon the demonic power within the crystal might accidentally weaken the seal enough to allow the rest of Hazzergash to escape, or at the very least let the Lord of Fire sense the location of it. The power was tempting, but ultimately too dangerous to use... for now.
Hazzergash... yes, they would have to face him again, in that Jillian was certainly correct; the Demon Prison would be needed in order to reseal him, after all, and Gerald was potentially the single being in existence best suited for trapping the demon back inside it. Who else could rip the soul from its vessel and convey it elsewhere but someone who had learned to wield the Withering itself as a weapon? And although Jillian and himself, and almost certainly the surviving Guardians of Anaxim, considered the Battle of Anaxim a loss on their part, Gerald very much doubted that Hazzergash would see it as a victory. He may have destroyed the Anaxim Forest, but he had lost nearly half of his Crusader's Guild doing so, yet had failed to retrieve the prison that contained his body and the remainder of his strength. On top of that he had been pushed to the point of having to act personally, using Hazzergash's power excessively to wipe out the defenders... and since Hazzergash was the aspect of rage, chances were that discovering that he had been tricked and that the crystal had already been taken away would send him into a fit of blind fury, unleashing even more of his power to vent his wrath. Immortal energy was harmful to mortals indeed, and Kevalorn would have to be an extraordinarily adapted host to have lasted this long as Hazzergash's vessel... but wielding demonic powers wantonly like that was liable to be an extreme strain on his body. If they were lucky Kevalorn may even die from Hazzergash's power, if he had not done so already.
Regardless of whether they would face Hazzergash in a new host next time or in Kevalorn, his power would be much more severely limited by then than it had been this time. A new host would doubtlessly be less compatible than Kevalorn had been, and Kevalorn would be on the verge of death after this ordeal. Next time, maybe they would stand a chance... assuming, of course, that he did not have the entirety of the Crusader's Guild surrounding him at the time. Maybe now was the time to attack him...?

While Gerald pondered these things, Jillian's approach seemed to stir the sleeping dragon, who let out a low-pitched croon as his head first tilted to the side, then the other, before he slowly opened his grand yellow eyes. He shifted his massive body around from side to side a little, restlessly, before he swung his head around to look at the woman directly.
"Ah, you're awake," Renold noted, his voice deep as the rumbling of the earth itself, but at the same time with an almost eerily melodious quality to it. He beamed her a friendly smile, but his eyes still betrayed the sadness that haunted his heart even now. Gerald observed it from the other side of the lake, secretly curious as to just how she would react to him. The first time he had ever seen her she had been on the back of a dragon - another Green, even - but Renold was in a different class altogether than the green dragon sister; even compared to the larger Red sister, the elder was colossal. "Well met, little one. I am Renold. How -"

Renold abruptly stopped himself in mid-sentence, his body suddenly going rigid and his eyes leaving Jillian and darting off to the side, staring at something off in the direction behind Gerald, to the left of the witch and the dragon. There was nothing to see there, but it only took a second for the necromancer to realize what had caught the Elder Green's attention, as he began sensing a gradually increasing eruption of magical energy there as well. More and more energy surged through the fabric of Reniam itself, and as it converged, a beautiful chiming noise began to reverberate in their bones and the rocks around them; indeed, even the surface of the lake could be seen trembling at the single drawn-out tone. Along with the noise arrived a light that rapidly increased its luminance to that of a blinding intensity, bathing the area in a magnificent radiance that seemed to contain all colors in existence at the same time.
Just when the shining brilliance of this visage seemed to reach its peak, it changed; the light drew back into itself, forming a black globe hovering just above the ground, so dark that it seemed as though it absorbed the all light around it, trying to swallow the world just as it had its own light. It was a deeply unsettling sight... like looking into Stupor itself, the orb gave off the impression of devouring everything while being nothing itself but an infinite darkness. Power also kept flowing from it and into it, as energy was displaced through space and time, fueling this spectacular magic...
And then it disappeared. The blackness dispersed in the blink of an eye, and the chiming noise vanished along with it. But where it had been were now two figures, one lying down and the other kneeling beside it. The one lying down was the man Gerald and Jillian had met briefly in the Anaxim Forest, who had made the wind his voice; Salas. The other...
Beside him kneeled a human woman who looked incomprehensibly ancient, her countenance as though made up solely by deep furrows and wrinkles, her frame even smaller and frailer than Gerald's own, but with eyes that brimmed with ages' worth of wisdom. Huddled in dusty-gray scarves and blankets, wearing a thick woolen dress, this woman certainly earned the name she had made herself known by. The name Renold and Gerald exclaimed in unison upon realizing it was her, the dragon with joy, the warlock with shock:
"Crone!"

Jillian sulked as she marched towards the pond and the elder dragon on dirty feet, not once deigning to look back. Her steps were determined and quick, uncaring of the weeds and grasses she unwittingly stomped into the ground. At one point on the way, she had to halt her single-minded advance to let out a painful cough, so violent it almost made her heave again, followed by a foul curse under her breath. She spat on the ground and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before resuming her journey, now less hasty and furiously.

She had gone too far, she thought, and now reaped the consequences of her exertion. Draining one’s reserves to their limit once was harsh enough an experience, one that made most mages wary of falling into the later phases of exhaustion again, but what Jillian had gone through trumped even that by a large margin; she had entered third phase twice in the span of less than twelve hours, enabled only by Gerald’s miraculous ability to replenish her quicker than should be naturally possible. Alas, the body is not as quickly replenished as the soul is, and with a body already as frail as hers, Jillian could consider herself very lucky that she would only suffer from painful coughs and what felt like she was about to catch a cold. Little did she suspect that the primal, nurturing energy of the Anaxim forest played their part more than luck did as far as her health was concerned.

Meanwhile, her approach, unsubtle as it had been, awoke the dormant dragon who slowly came to, certainly intrigued to learn who this woman was he was asked to rescue. In spite of his enormous size and fearsome appearance, it seemed that Jillian was either unafraid or simply ignorant to the danger that Renold posed, for she approached the creature almost casually. When the Green swung his head around to face her, she was standing by the lakeside between the water and the dragon’s flank, appearing a mere dwarf next to the majestic beast. Just as he was curious about the little red-haired woman, she too wanted to learn more about this dragon; ever since her encounter with Lailonsaire, she had felt oddly drawn towards their kind, as if feeling a kind of unusual kinship with them. Simply looking at Renold’s grand visage fascinated the witch, her viridian eyes eagerly studying every curvature and feature of the dragon’s face.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the Green remarked, his voice so deep and powerful that Jillian felt the vibrations of it in her body. In spite of the rumbling, earthen sound that his words made, she could not help but feel that there was an underlying harmony to them. Not quite a melody perhaps, but a rhythm and flow that was absent from a human’s words, one that she found pleasant to listen to, calming even. It helped to ease her mind of the distress that the insolent necromancer had caused her, and forget about her miserable condition at least for a moment.

As Renold spoke, he made an attempt at a smile, one which to most would have seemed friendly and warm, but to Jillian felt immediately off and empty. She knew this kind of smile well, the kind that one wears to obfuscate one’s true thoughts and feelings. Lords and ladies, magistrates and merchants, the rich and the famous; they all learned quickly to wear this smile as one would don a mask at a masquerade. Nobody should know that their lives are just as dirty as that of a peasant, if not worse; stained with sins, mired in worry and regret, weighed down by guilt. Smiles like Renold’s hid many ugly things, and Jillian had seen some of them, for she knew how to pry open sealed hearts. In this case, she did not have to guess what it was that stung Renold like a thorn – it was the demise of the dragon sisters, a tragedy that caused her grief as well, though doubtlessly not as much as it did to the Green. Thinking of it, she did not actually know his relation to Lailonsaire, and the other dragon that she had unfortunately not been able to witness. Were they his mates? Daughters? Distant relatives? Both he and Lailonsaire were Greens so, she assumed, it would not be unthinkable that they were related. No matter what kind of bond they shared, she could read the pain from his great yellow eyes like lines from a book.

“Well met, little one,” the elder dragon continued, not dwelling on his sorrow, “I am Renold. How-“

He suddenly interrupted his introduction, his eyes torn loose from the tiny witch to gaze leftwards, in the direction of Gerald. For a moment she wondered if that one had done something to catch the dragon’s attention so vividly, a suspicion that she believed almost confirmed when she began to sense magical energy emanating from the necromancer’s general direction. Wanting to see what was going on, she hushed past the great dragon’s side, stopping by his right paw to inquisitively peek past Renold’s enormous body. She was just in time to realize that it had, in fact, not been Gerald’s doing, but something else entirely, something far more powerful than even the seasoned necromancer. A blinding light spawned from nowhere, bathing the rocky meadow in its arcane luminance while a monotone noise seemed to penetrate everything. Shielding her eyes, Jillian had no idea what she was looking at; the only thing she knew for certain was that great magical energy was contained within this light. As for where this energy came from, and why, no answers were to be found yet.

Then, in a sudden twist of fate, the light instantly disappeared, only to be replaced by its polar opposite; a globe of immaculate darkness, so deep and hungering that it felt not only deeply unsettling, but also… familiar. A shiver ran down Jillian’s fragile spine as she thought about the darkness contained within Gerald’s own soul, the Withering. If she were to visualize what she had felt in their moment of spiritual unity, this would be it. This orb of devouring blackness was the perfect representation of what the Withering was. Instinctively, Jillian shuffled closer to Renold’s massive paw, putting a tiny hand on his wrist and feeling the rough surface of his ancient scales. Lacking the finer senses of a necromancer, Jillian could not feel the flow of energy from the orb out of it and back into it; she merely felt that energy was present, and in large quantities. With every second that she peered into the bottomless dark, she became more distressed, further until she thought she could no longer bear it and had to do something about it – scream, run, hide, or cast spells into the gaping maw of shadow. Alas, she did none of that, and was stumped when the black sphere vanished in the blink of an eye, as if it had never existed, along with the piercing noise that she had almost forgotten, and was only reminded of by its sudden absence.

It took a second or two for her to realize that, as certain as the arcane phenomenon was gone, something else was present that had previously not been. Where the spectacle had unfolded but a moment ago, there were now two persons! Before even inspecting the unexpected guests, Jillian came to a startling realization that filled her with awe and excitement: teleportation! She had just witnessed a spell of teleportation! It took an enormously powerful magus to successfully execute such a spell, not only because it required monstrous amounts of energy, but because so many things could go wrong in the process. Only very few individuals in Rodoria would be capable of such a feat; Jillian strongly doubted even Gerald could do such a thing. Yet here she was, a witness to the incredible miracles of magic once more - it seemed she was destined to encounter greater magics than her own ever since setting foot outside of Zerul. One thought echoed in her mind as if spoken aloud in a great cavern: I want this. I need this.

So awe-inspired was she by the events before her that she did not notice her mouth standing agape, and it took a while before she caught herself enough to actually look at those responsible for this most mesmerizing of magical displays. The first person to catch her eyes was Crone, a person aptly named as she would find out, as it was the most withered and ancient-looking person Jillian had ever seen. Wrapped in gray, woolen tatters, she knelt beside a wounded individual whose features she could only vaguely make out from this angle, as he lay in the swaying grass. She could not quite put her finger on it yet, but his features seemed familiar. Maybe one of the defenders from Gariel Downs, whom she had caught a glimpse of? She would find out soon, certainly.

Jillian knew not who these people were, unlike her companions who both exclaimed the woman’s name in unison:

“Crone!”

Crone? Jillian thought. Who goes by such a name? Her eyes narrowed down, focusing on the elderly woman. I guess it’s a descriptive name, but still… it’s awfully surreptitious. Someone who can teleport at will certainly has much to hide, I imagine. Just who are you, Crone?

The witch retracted her hand from Renold’s leg and cautiously approached the pair, still keeping a respectable distance to them.

Crone... Gerald had only spent around a day or so in the Anaxim Forest before the Crusader's Guild invaded it, but during that time he had spent most of the previous evening and night with this woman, desperately spilling his own secrets to her while learning very little about her in return. In fact he had learned more about her from the other guardians then he had from herself, although even the information they had revealed ultimately seemed far from satisfying.
According to what he had been told the more permanent residents of the Anaxim Forest were referred to it as its 'guardians', and these guardians were arbitrarily ranked by the forest itself, being placed above or below others in authority and importance depending on their level of power. For most part this ranking was ultimately irrelevant, since the vast majority of the guardians were so equal in the extents of their strength and abilities that one could hardly be called superior to the other, even if Anaxim's advanced senses allowed it to differentiate on even the smallest scale. The exceptions to this broad equality among the guardians turned out to be the top three rankings, which were all greatly superior to their colleagues and even had large gaps in power between themselves. The third highest ranking guardian had been Alamon, the Gazzeral he and Jillian had briefly encountered earlier before he was lost to the battle; he had been an incredibly powerful water-elementalist, and on top of that he was also the second oldest resident in the forest, actually old enough to have experienced the war against the Gazzeral that preceded the foundation of Rodoria and southern Wegam Fermos. His death was a sore loss to the scholar in Gerald... all of that history and knowledge, just gone for no reason. How many civilized Gazzeral were even left? According to Alamon he had not met another like himself for centuries, at least. Then there was the second highest ranking guardian, Renold the Elder Green, with both physical and magical power that far exceeded that of the Gazzeral, even though Renold was younger than Alamon - considerably so, in fact. It seemed pretty natural that an elder dragon should hold a high position within any arbitrary hierarchy like this, probably even the highest, but the highest guardian was nothing like one would expect. The highest ranking guardian of the Anaxim Forest, whose sheer magical power was incomparable even to Renold's considerable might - the one who was also the single oldest resident of the forest, despite seeming to be, for all intents and purposes, fully human - was Crone.
Arcane arch mage, expert necromancer, monstrously powerful elementalist, potent summoner, High Priestess of Reina, and quite possibly the single most knowledgeable and dangerous witch in Rodoria, if not all of Reniam; this was who Crone was, a woman who had an impossibly wide capacity for magic that allowed her to use even schools thereof that should, logically, have been incompatible... Had she devoted herself to just one or two schools of magic, Gerald dared not even imagine the heights of mastery she could have achieved. No one knew how old she really was - though Alamon had mentioned that she had been in the forest for even longer than he had, and had been old even back then -, where she had come from, how she was able to ignore the established limitations of magical practice or, for that matter, why she was even still alive to begin with. She even refused to tell a single soul her real name, going solely by the title of Crone.

Even now just being in her presence was enough to send shivers down the necromancer's spine, because even if she hid most of her magical energy - if she had not, Gerald suspected that she might accidentally kill less powerful people just by being near them - his senses were sharp enough to at least get a glimpse of what she was trying to hide. This power... was not normal.
As it would happen Crone did not even acknowledge anyone else at the lake right away, but instead seemed to focus her attention solely on the man lying on the ground in front of her as her eyes - the right one seeming to shine the firelight significantly more than the left one, he suddenly noticed - roamed over his body, clearly suffering burn-injuries at the very least, all while quietly rubbing her bony hands together. A thin mist of smoke rose from both of them but quickly dispersed, most likely not actually coming from them but having incidentally been brought along from their initial location when they teleported here.
Such a flashy teleportation spell, grimly Gerald noted to himself, it's tasteless and wasteful. When I obtain the power and ability to do something like that, I'll definitely find a subtler way to do it. Faster, too, if at all possible.
"Reina, Lady of Mercy," Crone dryly squeaked, finally parting her hands hand holding them out towards Salas, "I beseech You to heal this man, that Your will may be done."
And just like that her hands began emanating a soft white radiance, bathing the wounded man in that rapidly mended his wounds wherever it touched, and as she waved her hands up and down his body, Salas went from incapacitated to uninjured in a matter of seconds. By the time the light stopped shining from Crone's hands, all but the man's clothes had been restored completely; not even a single cut or bruise was left on his form, and even the smoke had been purged from his lungs. Even his magical energy had been partially restored, and anything that was not outright detached from him had been regenerated, so while his tongue was still missing his scars had become significantly fainter; even the cavities in his teeth had been fixed, and irregularities in his vision had been corrected. This was the power of a High Priest of Reina, the most potent healers in Reniam; the power to restore anyone even from the brink of death.

"You should be fine now," Crone told her patient as she stood feebly, her huddled form hunching even when fully erect, making her seem even smaller than she really was. "This place is safe, and your wounds are no more. You are fortunate to have survived; none others shared that fate."
She looked up then, her gaze going directly to each of the three others present, calmly looking each of them in the eyes as if she already knew exactly where each of them were, without even needing to look. "At least, none others that remain in the forest."

Darkness was all that surrounded him, was all that he knew right now. He didn’t remember how he had gotten to such a strange place; all he could remember was the smell of smoke and pain. He felt as though he had been drifting in this space for an eternity before there was a sudden light and a voice. The voice spoke of Reina, Lady of Mercy and of healing a man, but who could this man be? Could it be him? Was this place limbo? The light grew brighter and brighter, until it overtook him and began to lift him up. Salas’s pale green eyes snapped open, and he jerked upward, his hand flying to hilt of his sword before he realized he was in no immediate danger. Then an ancient voice spoke above him.

"You should be fine now. This place is safe, and your wounds are no more. You are fortunate to have survived; none others shared that fate.”

Salas looked up to see that the voice belonged to an ancient-looking woman with wrinkles as deep as an ocean. Her gravelly voice definitely matched her appearance. She had a hunch to her that made her look small even when standing, but despite her appearance, this woman had a power about her. Salas looked himself up and down, too focused on examining his own body to catch the crone’s next words. He was completely fine, even his scars seemed fainter, like shadows of themselves. His armor was scorched and torn in places from his near escape from Anaxim Forest. He sat there on the ground for a moment, trying to remember what had happened to bring him to this place, all the while looking around the area; his confusion increased as he saw the warlock he had met just a short time ago in Anaxim and the witch who had been with him and next to the witch was a green dragon.

Salas stood before the hulk of a man known as Wyrmslayer, ready to at least slow him down. He had guarded himself against his ranged attacks by raising his shield up in front of himself. That only left the option of using his saber and a dagger in his offhand to try and get behind him in order to strike at any weak points he could find in the man’s armor. He was formulating his plan of attack when the man simply began to walk away from him; he had taken far too long in his formulations apparently. Salas made to follow the man, but was blocked by more of the crusaders, who were hellbent on destroying the Anaxim Forest. There two of them bearing down on him, swords drawn. Salas drew his saber in his left hand and his dagger in a reverse grip in his right. The crusaders surged forward at him; Salas parried the first crusader’s blade and managed to escape the second’s with a slash down his arm. A grunt of pain escaped him as his drove his dagger into the side of the crusader that cut him. He yanked the dagger free from the man’s side, causing a stream of blood to issue forth from the wound.

Salas swung his saber at the first crusader, who blocked it and kicked Salas in the stomach, forcing him away and onto his knees. The second crusader lay on the ground, clutching his side just as Salas clutched his stomach with his right hand. The first crusader came forward, swinging his sword in an arch from over his head down at Salas, who took a knife from his harness and threw it at the man’s hands in a clumsy fashion do to his disorientation from being kicked. The knife cut across the back of the man’s hand, causing him to release the grip he had on his sword partially. This allowed Salas to swing upward and knock the sword off course enough to strike the dirt next him by inches. Salas jumped upward in the crusader’s moment of confusion and slammed his head into the crusader’s nose, knocking him back away from his weapon. Salas found his dagger and resheathed it as he walked toward the crusader with a broken nose. Salas stood over the crusader with his blade poised to strike at the man’s neck, intending to finish him clean and fast. As he started to bring his blade down, though, a sudden heat washed over him a split second before a fire spell hit the ground a few feet from him and exploded in a wave of flames. He was knocked to the ground, burnt by magical fire. The last things he remembered were the thundering footsteps of an army and a shadow over him before he passed out from the pain of being burnt over most of his body.

The shadow he saw must have been the ancient woman who now stood over him and had told him he was healed now. She must have also been the one to heal him. He didn’t know where he was though; he just knew he was in the company of his savior, the warlock, his witch companion, and a great green dragon. At least he was no longer on a battlefield, but he didn’t know how safe he was in these people’s company, as he barely knew them at all. Salas closed his eyes and concentrated on the magical energy within him and then opened his eyes as a wind picked up around him. The wind began forming sound patterns and then spoke for Salas, sounding wispy and high pitched.

“Where are we exactly? What happened with the battle?”

The clattering of the knife as it fell onto the ground after his throw indicated that the woman had sussed out Ixion's counter to the light that was emitting from her sword. If he was able to sense where the woman was, the pain from the light that affected his eyes was making it unnoticeable. However, he didn't have that ability, so the pain was the only thing he could feel. With him out in the open, he had no idea if the woman was able to see him. Then there was still the other man that was watching from the roof. It didn't appear to the assassin that he wasn't here to help any of them, but to observe. Well, the thought of the observer meant that this was an 'even' fight, despite his condition. He was able to function without any worry, but he still was not 100% as his alertness wasn't there. This was proven to be the case a moment later.

His eyes, sealed shut by the searing light, suddenly was no longer in pain, his eyes seeing nothing but darkness through his eyelids. Realizing that the woman had cancelled the light coming from the sword, so he left no chance to try and open them. His eyes stung when the influx of cool air washed over them, causing him to strain his eyesight. The blurred vision could see something completely white in the distance. Assuming that it was the woman's sword and was about to send a magical attack his way, he rolled right. Had he remained there a tiny bit longer, he concluded that he would have perished as the sword shot out a piercing light. However, he was not quick enough to realize this in time as the light went through his left shoulder and left a neat cut through his armour, flesh and bone. He gritted his teeth and suppressed the noise that was about to erupt from his mouth due to the new pain. When his vision cleared up enough to make out shapes, he saw that he dodged behind a couple of crates and barrels that were stacked near an alleyway. If there was any blood that came from the would, he wasn't able to see it beyond the crimson pauldron. While pain was first and foremost through his mind, his second thought was rage. This woman had appeared out of nowhere, demanding something from him that, in his mind, he was obliged to ignore, even if she was working for the Duke of Zerul. Now, she had attacked him because of his refusal and has left him injured. All sense of remorse and mercy that he had for her was gone. She had just signed her death wish and her damnation.

Just as he was about to appear out of his hiding place, he heard the other figure on the rooftop climbing down from where he was perched. At last, he thought, seeing the outline of the man, the details now coming back to his vision, the observer has become the participant. And the one thing he noticed, which pleased him the most, was that the man was charging in the general direction of the woman, though whether the man knew this or not is another concern. This was his opportune moment to strike as well. Not even the most skilled fighter was able to hold out against two warriors, especially when one of them was able to teleport with ease.

With full confidence, he stood up from where he stood, capturing the image of the area around him into his mind. His eyes were fixed murderously on the woman, a scowl shifting the cowl that covered his face. His left arm, despite his intimidating pose, was hanging limp by his side, though he was able to clench his hand into a fist around the chain of his weapon. “The time for mercy is over. Now... you DIE!” he roared, disappearing as he finished speaking. He appeared on the beam that was directly above the woman and, without skipping a beat, did two things simultaneously. Firstly, he launched the weighted end of his weapon up into the air, allowing the full weapon to soar into the air above. Next, he jumped and teleported, appearing at the weighted end of the weapon. His left hand clenched around the base of the weight while his right was further along the chain. Then, biting through the pain in his shoulder, he swung the weapon with all his might in an arc. Much like before, the timing for this attack was spot on so when the wicked blade on his modified kama was directly below him, the tip would be directly at the woman's back, between the shoulder blades.

Jillian eyed the new arrivals with caution and skepticism, not knowing what to make of them. Renold was apparently familiar at least with the elderly woman, from which she concluded that this ‘Crone’ must have lived in Anaxim, or at least have been a regular visitor. Thinking about it, she faintly recalled having heard that very name before while she was in Gariel Downs. Gerald must have mentioned it in some context she failed to remember. Perhaps she was one of the forest’s guardians as well, as it turned out; she certainly seemed powerful enough to be in such a position. It would make sense, then, that she would have fled the doomed forest to meet up with the elder dragon, yes. That still left the question as to who this wounded one was that she was tending to. Another guardian? Was he equally powerful?

“Reina, Lady of Mercy,” Crone uttered, beseeching the goddess of humans for a miracle. Jillian’s eyes narrowed, her body becoming rigid, as she anticipated what would follow. This Crone had proven her skill as a magician so far, no doubt, but this was no sorcery. Simple prayer would not help this man, so could it be that she was a favored one? It was not impossible, even if unlikely, but at her age… well, she certainly would have had the time to master multiple disciplines, if she still had the presence of mind to remember it all. Could she do it, Jillian wondered?

As the witch took another wary step forward, a soothing light began to shine from the old woman’s hands, glimmering from in between her shriveled fingers. With care, she bathed every inch on the man’s body in this light, as Jillian had seen the priests and priestesses of Reina do before. She held the acolytes of Reina in high regard – their work was a good one, pure of intent and purpose – even if she was not destined to be one of them. It seemed that Jillian simply lacked the compassionate and nurturing nature required to mend the ailing of others, for the only thing she had ever shown competence for was the art of destruction. She broke friendships, she broke hearts, had burned things and burned people, and to this day she felt not a tinge of regret; at least, none she would admit.

Before long, the ritual of healing was complete, and the man’s wounds were no more. Crone rose up from the ground, not significantly gaining in height because of it, and began to fill the man in on what had happened to him.

“You are fortunate to have survived,” she told him in that creaky voice of hers, “none others shared that fate.”

Then, for the first time since arriving, she acknowledged the presence of others on the scene, looking each of them in the eyes in turn – Gerald, Renold and also Jillian. Her gaze was calm and lacked the curiosity and severity that was present in Jillian’s own. It was as if her old eyes had already seen everything there was to see in this world, including the three individuals present. It was strange feeling that Crone evoked, but oddly disarming. Somewhere, Jillian wondered if this too was some kind of spell, or if she was merely becoming paranoid.

Meanwhile, the healed one slowly came to his senses and sprang to life. His first reaction was to reach for the hilt of his weapon, before coming to the realization that he was in no immediate danger and calming down again. Ignorant of his surroundings for the moment, he first inspected his own, regenerated form before eventually becoming aware of his company. Oddly, he made no sound, nor spoke, until a strikingly reminiscent howling in the wind brought for a sudden realization.

“Where are we exactly? What happened with the battle?” a disembodied voice asked, an unseen specter in the evening gust.

It’s him! Jillian thought, finally recognizing Salas for who he was. It’s the wind mage from Gariel Downs! That raggedy vagabond, I wonder how he made it. Saved by Crone to be sure; perhaps she did all the work for him. What happened to the battle you wonder? We lost it, is what! No thanks to people like you, I’m sure.

“Not far from Pelgaid,” Jillian chimed in, having gradually approached the pair over the past minute, “and the battle is decidedly lost, I’m told. The forest is in flames, and everybody died, including the crusaders. You’ll be pleased to hear that everybody important is still alive, however, and that Kevalorn did not get what he came for.”

Jillian’s tone was sharp and condescending as she spoke, standing not too far from Salas with her blanket wrapped around her meager shoulders. She was evidently still upset over what Gerald had done moments before, and it poisoned her attitude.

“Now that that’s out of the way, I’d be happy to hear just why you insist on using your silly spell to talk. And while at it,” Jillian added, her voice becoming gentler and her eyes shifting to Crone, “just… who are you? Unlike the others here, I am not familiar to you, and I’d very much like to know more. And I don’t mean your name.”

The witch’s eyes remained fixated on those of the ancient one, as she shuffled yet closer until practically in arm’s reach.

He dodged it? the woman wondered as she quietly muttered the arcane words that would re-seal the magic into her runesword, immediately ending the spell after barely letting it manifest rather than trying to follow her enemy's movements with it. No, the ray touched him for an instant, on the shoulder. He reacted extremely quickly to avoid being hit in the chest; the delay from extinguishing the blinding light to shooting out the beam was less than half a second. Just what one could expect from Grim. But why dodge? Had he teleported instead, with that timing, he could have escaped completely unscathed. Is his teleportation not as instantaneous as it appears? And why retreat behind cover? Surely he must have realized how exposed that attack left me; if he had appeared behind me just then he could have targeted my back. Of course if this is Grim, he would know that I anticipated that vulnerability and was prepared to counteract an exploitation of it...
Straightening back up, sword lowered by her side, the blue-clad ducal agent stared at the wooden containers the presumed Fixer had dived into cover behind. Though she did not actually have visual contact with her target hiding back there she had once more locked on to the signature of his magical energy, and could tell that he had not teleported away yet. What is he doing? A trap? I could easily attack him through those containers, and there is no way I would not know that he was there. Must be a trap. I won't fall for it. Wait.
There was noise above and behind her; not the loud noise of something hitting a wall, but a relatively muffled noise of something just shuffling against it. Climbing. She could hear approximately where it was coming from, but for some reason she could not sense the source of the sound even when she focused her magical senses on the location and scanned it thoroughly. It was probably the second character, she figured, trying to sneak up on her or at least descend onto the battlefield. Why could she not sense this person? She was the best at sensing magical energy among the twelve, a specialist magical tracker capable of identifying even scraps of residual energy left behind by the caster of a spell and sensing most necromancers, so who was this person whose soul was so thoroughly hidden that she could not detect its energy even when concentrating on it?

Her opponent stood, not only revealing himself to her eyes once more but also exposing himself completely. Once more this man's actions were perplexing to her; why would he do this when he could have teleported away from behind cover, which would have tricked anyone incapable of actually sensing the teleportation itself? Another piece of evidence that this man must truly be the Fixer, for why else would he do this but if he knew that she would sense him teleporting? This must be another trap; he wanted her to try to attack him and expose herself so that he could teleport close to her and deliver a strike from a vulnerable angle. Mercy? Threats? What point was there to try to confuse and distract her anymore at that point? She had already concluded that this was an ambush, and that this man was the Fixer, and though his words had done nothing but attempted to sow a mix of doubt and suspicion in her mind, his every action had proven his identity as her target.
Finishing his last word the servant of the Grand Master vanished in a burst of magical energy, and the woman immediately spun around herself, her sword raised and ready to parry and counterattack the instant she located her adversary, who she figured was certain to try to use his instant movement to attack her from an angle. She did not spot him, but only a heartbeat after the first teleportation she sensed the energy of another, this one directly above her. Raising her sword even higher to guard against an aerial assault, she was met by the sight of the man practically hanging in the air some ways above, and barely even had time to realize what was happening before it had already occurred.
Her guard was too high, the other's attack was too quick; she could not block or evade. All she could manage to do was to start moving away from the trajectory of the curious bladed weapon while simultaneously turning so that it would hit as little of her as possible and carry as little risk of killing or crippling her as possible. The result of her desperate maneuver was that rather than being immediately incapacitated, as the attack doubtlessly would have accomplished, the blade of his weapon only caught her by her right side, slicing just below her shoulder, across the side of her ribcage and some ways onto her right breast before she slammed the pummel of her sword into the chain connecting the weapon to its wielder, disrupting its movement and saving her from even deeper lacerations. Flinging the chain and weapon away from herself with a quick flick of her wrist the woman retreated backwards and away from her airborne enemy, first in a long backwards leap and then several quick running steps before she became motionless again.

She grit her teeth but kept her posture straight despite the pain, even as she felt blood soak her clothes on her right side, turning her blue garments red. She did not think that any muscles had been severed, though; it felt as though she could move normally, painful though it might be. Her ribcage had also prevented the blade from cutting too deeply; she suspected that several of her ribs had been notched, but her vital organs were intact. For the moment she would continue to function, and it was the purpose of a tool to continue functioning until it broke.
There would be reprimands for this wound, however... The master would be compassionate, as seemed to be his habit when she was injured, but some of the other nobles would be less merciful, as they always complained when she got a new scar, particularly one that extended onto her breast. They found the sight disturbing, and punished her in addition to demanding intercourse with her as they often did. She suspected that the master did not know that she was being made serve in this way, but his advisor and second-in-command knew and had confirmed to her that she was supposed to comply with requests for such and do whatever the nobles asked of her. She... did not like that. It was an irrational and emotional response that she could not logically justify, but though she ordinarily felt nothing, that in particular unsettled her. She would have to go to the Church of Reina and see how well they could heal the wound later; if the scar was not too visible, maybe she would not be punished as harshly.
That was for another time, though. Right now she was wounded and still engaged in a battle against an opponent capable of instantaneous movement and another that she could not sense. From this angle she actually saw this second character for the first time, although this did not reveal much to her, as the person's outfit completely concealed the person's body, leaving not even a single patch of skin visible to try to analyze its nature.
I need to be careful, she thought, raising her sword in a defensive stance once again, ignoring the searing agony in her right side. That attack just before was dangerous; had his second teleportation not revealed his location to me, I would definitely have been incapacitated or killed by that. Why does he stay at a distance, though? Grim always preferred melee combat, but this man has only attacked from range, despite that Grim would know that I have the advantage at medium-range.
"Would you say," she suddenly shouted, though without losing focus of what she was doing or dropping her guard, "that these are 'desperate circumstances' for me?"

The crimson liquid was visible at Ixion's high vantage point. While it was not what the assassin had intended to happen to her, but it was a good consolation, especially with his observations with the attack. The way she had reacted when he first teleported and then noticed him when he teleported a second time. It was at that point that he realized that she was sensing him out. That was why she had been able to react to this attack. Was it also the reason that she was able to find him in the first place? It was at that moment in time that a lot of the pieces to the puzzle of this woman was able to fall into place. If she is good at detecting magical presences in her immediate vicinity, he thought as he slowly fell towards the beam he was on a moment ago. Is she capable of creating wards to detect people capable of magic? If that was the case, then she must have created a ward specific on picking out the Grand Master's presence in him. And if there was one ward... He then realized that even if he had retreated from this area earlier, he might have triggered another one of her possibly-many wards. There was no way for him to leave without being detected at least once.

As the woman dodged the attack and flicked the chain further away from her, he instantly tugged the weapon back up to him, the weapon flicking back up into his right hand with the tug. As the blade was too far away from the woman, the blade was unable to inflict any further damage. Instead of teleporting, he wanted to see what the damage was on the woman. As he landed onto the beam, he inspected the woman further. The kama had struck her on her right side, leaving a nasty gash across the rib cage. While the would could have been more severe, it could be a problem for her if it continued to bleed. That would be something for him to exploit or for him to consider as he attempts to damage her further. After all, there must be a limit that she has before she has to back off from this fight. Obviously, due to her being the aggressor in his opinion, even if she was to back down, he would not. Even if it means angering the Duke of Zerul, she will perish at his hands.

The woman had moved further away from where she was, presumably further away from where he was to avoid further attacks. Not that it mattered to him. The second figure had finally reached the same level as the woman. She surely must know that he is there in the case this figure was able to use magic? Whether this was right or not didn't concern him. There were other things that should be pressing on her mind, such as the assassin himself. Then she did something that he didn't expect. ”Would you say that these are 'desperate circumstances' for me?” Now what did she mean by that, he wondered. Well, no matter the case, he made the assumption that if he said yes, she would launch a more devastating attack against him, if not both of them. He would certainly not be coy to that. His mind was made up. The time for deception and intimidation was long over. Now it is for action.

“No,” he retorted at the woman, his hand gripping the kama's handle firmly. “This is not a desperate situation for you. Your actions have gotten you in this situation and the consequences are ongoing.” The chain that was around his left hand started to fall, the weight resting on the beam while the chain dangled off the beam. “And when you beg for your life, you will know that it is this face...” With his free hand, he reached for his cowl and pulled it down. Underneath it was nothing but scarred tissue, in some of the places there was nothing but bone, but even that was damaged in one form or another. Most of his nose, although it appeared as intact, was also disfigured, with the fleshy tip and nostrils being non-existant. Although most of his neck had been covered by the now, but the extent of the scarring was visible to extend down to his neck. “This face is the one to send you to the damned afterlife you deserve. No... this is not a desperate situation for you. This... is your retribution.”

He teleported again, this time behind the woman. The instant he appeared again, he swung the weighted end of his weapon towards her at neck height. He was at the right distance that not even dodging backwards was going to avoid the weight at the end of the chain. If she was going to be relentless when she wanted to examine his eyes, he was going to be unabated in his attacks. He was going to make her regret in confronting him after his final refusal.