No dismissive remark? No disapproving frown? He even smiled at me! Why, I would almost think he found himself agreeing with what I have to say. How rare, she thought to herself, quietly gazing back at the necromancer as he nodded in her direction. With her hands on her hips, Jillian stood back a little and followed the exchange of words between the gathered people. So the person they were looking for was in Jevog Denûm? Of all the places! Who would live in such a desolate place and why? Either this person was not so much a person at all – possibly another dragon – or they really were an insane kind of hermit. She had mixed feelings about the prospect of going there; naturally it is a bit of an exotic locale that not many have the luxury of ever seeing up close, but on the other hand it is most likely a rather unpleasant place, and she would have preferred going somewhere more civilized to get herself back in order, and at the very least buy some clothing. Speaking of buying, where did she put…

Jillian’s heart skipped a beat when she realized that her improvised sack of possessions, which was quite literally the very last object she had left from her old life, was still in Anaxim, now probably burning to a crisp, if it hadn’t been looted by crusaders. As it contained all of her Rodlins, which was a reasonable sum to say the least, she was now essentially without money at all. She had nothing! Nothing but the rags on her body, a majority of them not even intended as clothing. Sticking with these people was not just a choice based on morale, conviction or other such intangible values. No, she was quite literally dependent on them to not die. Pelgaid was not far, sure, but what would she do there with nothing in hand? There weren’t many things a homeless and poor lady could do to stay afloat, and that was not what she envisioned her future to be like.

As she dubiously eyed her to-be-companions, she wondered if setting foot in Anaxim had been a wise decision or not. Ever since Vincent and she had gotten off the ferry, her life was thrown into a never-ending tumult, a maelstrom that mercilessly pulled her with it towards unknown depths. It all happened so fast, it was hard to fathom. It simultaneously felt so recent that she would want to think it were all a dream, a momentary phantasm, and so distant that she could nary remember the details of how it all came to be. Just last night she had been in a dingy little tavern not far from the banks of the Sloth, and now, hardly a day later, she was here amidst ancient dragons and more inexplicable beings. As if it had not been enough already, her allies were not planning on racing to the ashen wastes towards the east, to seek out Spirits-know-what, before blazing across Rodoria again in order to intercept Kevalorn before he can reach the safety of his keep. Sheer madness!

“I’m fine with that,” Gerald announced, almost as if in reply to her inner monologue, "Presuming that everyone is willing, of course."

Am I fine with that? As if I had much of a choice, huh?

A sharp wind picked up and howled past the perturbed witch, causing a scarlet veil to fall over her face, much to the woman’s annoyance. The brief evening gale carried the mute swordsman’s words like a heavenly messenger, conveying his willingness to fight on for these people that he did not know. Maybe he was like her, and also had nothing left. Strange, how fate brought together all those who faced the future with empty hands. Was it fate, or perhaps just a sign of the times?

After the wind calmed once again, and Jillian had hastily shoved those pesky hairs behind her shoulders once again, it was her turn to speak again.

“A small reprieve after all the ordeals I went through would have been lovely,” she admitted, having imagined that they would have been under less time pressure than they were, ”but I suppose that’s a luxury we can’t afford, yeah?” she rhetorically asked, shrugging, “I won’t be going anywhere else, so yes, I’m willing, I guess.”

They sure turned quiet up there all of a sudden, Fixer thought amusedly, shooting a glance over his shoulder back up at the roof where Ixion and his little friend were still watching. He wished he knew what was going through their minds right now; fear? Anger? Some kind of sense of righteous justice? They had to be preoccupied with something, the Sniffer in particular, considering that they had barely even moved from the spot and not uttered a word since he had dropped down here, held his speech for Blue and started basically looting her corpse. He had half-expected at least the Sniffer to take the opportunity and try to ambush him while his back was turned and he was busy fiddling with the woman's belt and scabbard, considering the one's lack of affiliation with him and previously displayed irrational hostility. It would have been a grave mistake to do so, of course - one that would have promptly cost the Sniffer a few internal organs - but he had not been fully confident that even that one realized the true power-gap between the two of them, considering that his soul was deceptively small for one of such a fearsome role as himself; still large by mortal standards, certainly, but nothing compared to an immortal. But then, magic was not preferred mode of fighting, either; he liked being up close and personal, feeling his opponent's skin against his own if at all possible, being able to feel it every time a bone snapped and a tendon ripped. He wanted to feel warm blood on his hands, wanted to see the dread and agony in their eyes as the light faded... He did not usually use his weapons at all, either. It was regrettable that he had had to kill Blue the way he had... no fun whatsoever.
He had to remove Blue's belt entirely to free the scabbard on her right hip - the one that had held her Dirge - and remove it, after which he unbuckled his own belt and attached it to his own right hip, right next to the hoop that held his war pick in place. It was ironic, somehow, that he could kill probably ninety-nine percent of all beings in the Planes with one hand or less, but something as mundane as unbuckling a belt, putting a scabbard on it and holding up his pants required him to use both of his hands. It was only when handling his own belt that he removed his left hand from its pocket, too, and revealed that it was indeed exactly what one would expect a left hand to be: a mirrored copy of the right one, nothing more and nothing less. It was not particularly stronger or weaker than his right one, it was just the one he had picked not to use in order to give himself a handicap against lesser opponents - which was pretty much everyone - to make fighting them last a little longer and provide a little more entertainment. He liked limiting himself in different ways like that; the weaker the opponent, the less of his full potential he unleashed. Against Ixion and the Sniffer up there he would have gone bare-handed and only used his right hand, and probably only used elemental magic if they surprised him. He had plenty more up his sleeve if they turned out stronger than expected, then; his weapons, his magic, his other hand and the additional dexterity that came with it, the secrets bestowed upon him by Lysis, and of course the power he had traded his freedom to the boss for. He had never encountered an opponent that had required him to go all-out, though... but that was the dream. A worthy opponent! A truly exciting fight! Ah, it had been nearly a decade since he had surpassed nearly everyone out there, since last he had a true challenge... He might have considered challenging the Seclyrian Tournament Champion, Samuel Self-Namer, if he had not been on the boss' no touchie-list. Or the one who had just sauntered right into Cave Bear's Keep, insulted and threatened Kevalorn, the vessel of Hazzergash, told him where the Demon Prison could be found and then left; such power a man had to have to possess that kind of ridiculous confidence! Surely this person - this 'Draigen', as he had called himself - would be a worthy opponent if he ever found him.
Once his belt was back in place and his new scabbard resting comfortably against his right hip, Fixer first returned his left hand to its pocket and then sort of crab-walked sideways without straightening to retrieve Blue's demon-hilted sword; her Dirge. No one outside of Corpse Forge and the Oracle knew this, but there could only ever exist fifteen Dirges at once, so new ones could only be made once the old ones were destroyed, allowing the magic in the sword to return to its maker to be infused into a new blade. Each Dirge, despite of them being virtually identical aside from generic wear and tear, was unique and belonged to a specific tool: one for each of the nine tools of Rodorian dukes, Blue, Yellow, Red, Green, Orange, Purple, Pink, Black and White; one for each of the four tools of the Rodorian king, Gold, Crystal, Gray and Grim; and finally, one for each of the two Kirkinian tools, Fersta and Ekunda, or First and Second in Rodorian. Now that Fixer had the Blue Dirge from today, and the Grim Dirge he had taken with him from the time he still recognized Grim Tool as his own name, Corpse Forge would not be able to truly name successors to those positions among their numbers; as long as Fixer had these Dirges, there could never be another Blue or Grim. He was going to collect all fifteen.

Sliding Blue's Dirge back into its scabbard at its new home on his hip, Fixer turned his attention back to his two new friends on the roof. He had a couple of things he wanted to say before leaving, but now that the important business was over with he knew that he really had to hurry a little; Blue had made something of a spectacle of fighting against the two, and while the authorities would definitely do whatever they could to downplay and hide Blue's death to preserve the existence of the tools as a secret, dead guardsmen or civilians was bound to start sowing enmity against him among the populace, potentially making conducting his business in Zerul City much more difficult. He would prefer to be gone by the time additional witnesses arrived at the scene.
"Oy, Ixie," he called, easily slipping back into his fake Kirkinian accent despite having just spoken perfect Rodorian; all tools were multilingual, so speaking one with the accent of another had become a natural evolution of that skill to Fixer, as had knowing when to use which accent and when to speak without one. Accents had a profound psychological effect on most people, he had observed, and were yet another effective way of manipulating them into thinking and feeling exactly what he wanted them to think or feel. "Is the guy tha' pois'n'd ya still 'live?"

---

What a pair of greedy, aimless buggers his new companions were Gerald observed with some annoyance, particularly at Salas' demand in return for his cooperation. On top of it seeming like a mostly unreasonable demand from someone who had just moments ago stated that he would go along with just about anything the rest of them decided in return for him supplying his "knowledge of the use of a sword", the warlock was not even sure that he could teach him at all. He was no elementalist and had no practice in elemental magic whatsoever, so although he had once been a teacher at the Academy he was largely unqualified to teaching that school of magic. Unless he meant for Gerald to teach him arcane magic? But that idea seemed preposterous; a mute wielding a type of magic of which at least half of the standard incantation was in the vocal component was so improbable that it was almost laughable. It took a masterful sorcerer to be capable of reliably casting even simple spells with words or gestures only, so for a novice to hope to be able to use magic with only gestures was close to impossible. Using his wind to produce the vocal component of spells might work in theory, but having a flow of energy feeding his wind-voice at the same time as he was supposed to mold energy into his spell would once again require great skill and possibly necromancer-level control of magical energy.
He did not say anything in response to Salas request, however, but reacted only with a shrug of his bony shoulders; an ambiguous gesture that could be interpreted however Salas wanted. If Salas came along Gerald might try to teach him as best as he could, but chances were that Salas would never learn much from him, and at most would probably end up killing himself by failing a spell.

At least Jillian seemed more willing to cooperate this time around, although that was probably mainly because she had already been promised what she wanted in return and felt that she just had to uphold her end of the agreement, and reiterated how she had nowhere else to go and indirectly how she had nothing but this left in her life. The necromancer was still annoyed with how helpless and weak she allowed herself to seem, especially after all that bravado back in the Anaxim Forest, but he opted to ignore it for the time being. They were coming along, which meant that Gerald's chances of success increased dramatically.
"In fact I would recommend that you postpone your departure until the coming dawn and seize the peace that remains of today to rest," Crone surprisingly replied to the witch's statement, drawing her shawl closer around herself to ward off the chill of evening. "There will be nary a chance to rest once you traverse the ashen fields of the east, and upon your return the confrontation with our infernal adversary will be imminent; now may be the final opportune moment to conjure the strength required for these great goals."
"Very well," Gerald nodded, prompting Crone to look at him instead of Jillian. "We will head to Jevog Denûm tomorrow, then."
"I will not be accompanying you," the old woman once again surprised Gerald. "You will have Renold, so this task of yours should not require my assistance. I shall instead embark upon a journey of my own, to find an old friend who may be able to lend us valuable aid in our battle against Hazzergash. Walking the paths of magic, I will likely conclude my business before you accomplish yours; I will await you here when that time comes, for us to face the enemy."

"One thing," Gerald demanded abruptly, turning to face the Elder Green with a frown upon his face. "I appreciate that you will take us to an expert who may be able to give us the next clue on the Withering, if not the cure itself, but you still owe me the explanation you promised." He crossed his arms over his chest, the necklace with Hazzergash's Demon Prison still clutched in his hand. "The one about why people have been recovering from the Withering in the Anaxim Forest, I mean."
"Yes, I suppose I do owe you that," Renold admitted with a sigh. "Very well, I will tell you what we have deduced, both before you came here and after."
After? he thought, his frown deepening. Had his arrival helped them understand the Withering better?
"In short, the reason that the Withering has been dying whenever it came near the Anaxim Forest has nothing to do with the forest itself," the dragon started explaining. "I originally suspected that it might have been because of the Tree of Life, myself, until I realized that the tree does not possess any properties that should cure diseases like it did. I began to think, and became certain once I heard of your discovery on how the Withering is an affliction that drains magical energy, that the true thing that has been purging the Withering from its victims is not related to nature at all; rather, what has been curing them has been the very thing you now hold in your hand."
Gerald raised the hand holding the Demon Prison, arching an eyebrow at the dragon. "What do you mean? This is the cure?"
"Not exactly; the prison as you hold it now will not cure the Withering in yourself or anyone else, but its taint - the demonic essence that seeped from it over the course of the thousands of years it has been hidden in the Anaxim Forest, which I'm sure you noticed permeated the very air there - was strong enough to overpower the Withering."
The scholar was still skeptical. "How?"
"When two immortal forces clash, the greater force will always overcome the lesser one. I was not sure how it was that the Withering was supposed to antagonize Hazzergash's taint before, but knowing now that the Withering drains magical energy from its victims it makes much more sense. If the Withering tried to draw in the ambient demonic essence in the forest, the taint would definitely react by affecting the plague with an oppositely directed force, and since the taint in the forest was so strong, it destroyed the Withering."
"I see," Gerald nodded, seeing how that could make sense. "So the Withering is divine, then. A god is doing this to us."
"No," the Green shook his head. "I don't think so. If this was a divine affliction, simply absorbing shreds of infernal energy should have been enough to annihilate it. It did not seem like the act of absorbing the taint itself was what destroyed the Withering, but the retribution of the taint. What we're seeing is not divine and infernal energies cancelling each other upon mixing, but of one infernal energy destroying a competing infernal energy."
"Meaning..." the warlock muttered breathlessly, feeling suddenly very ill at the realization of what Renold was telling him.
The dragon nodded. "The Withering is a demonic taint. A demon is devouring the souls of thousands of mortals with the plague... but we have no idea who it is, or how it is doing it."

Ixion still looked down, watching the Fixer's every move. While he did want to serve an opponent of Blue's calibre justice, but with the Grand Master looming over him with the contract in the case he struck down one of his servants, he cannot afford to carry that out. If there was one thing that was easily deductible was that the Grand master doesn't need the souls that he had obtained himself to be forced to his domain by their death and would probably punish the assassin if that was the case. Could he possibly, once he was powerful enough through some other means and another confrontation occurred in the future, hinder the Fixer in some way so that another person could bring him down? Technically, that could be possible as he wouldn't be the one that would do the coup de grace, he should be fine with that method. Would he irritate the Grand Master that he assisted in the downfall of his right hand man? Ixion pushed the thought to one side. Now is not the time to dwell on such thought, he concluded. Much like he had said earlier, now was not the time to do or think on such thoughts as they would detract from his analytical skills that he is currently going through at this very moment.

Despite not needing the demonic sword that Blue had, since he had one himself, Ixion watched as the man below him take the scabbard from the belt and attached it to his own belt. It amused the assassin that despite hearing the Fixer and his terrible power, he needed both of his hands to do something as menial as undoing the belt. Moreover, he carried on thinking about the swords. If he had one sword, why need two? Using two swords and still have the war-pick at his side would be very cumbersome for someone of his abilities. Whatever was the case, Ixion concluded that if she had the weapon and was from a place that was gruesomely called the Corpse Forge, it might have something to do with that place. Who knows, but once the Fixer was finished and looked up at them, she spoke directly at Ixion, still having the unknown accent in his voice.

"Oy, Ixie! Is the guy tha' pois'n'd ya still 'live?"

While the accent didn't phase the assassin one bit, he still grimaced at the use of the pet name. Note to self, need to remove that one weakness, Ixion concluded. That was something that he didn't need; a blast from his personal history to give an enemy an edge over him and his fearsome abilities as any faltering when teleporting would be the difference between executing it correctly and the possibility of damaging, or worse losing, a limb from a bad placement. Once again, however, he gained his composure and thought about the question. The person who had poisoned him? He had thought with some certainty that one of the guards of the murdered merchant had put the poison in the tonic that kept his throat operable. Now pondering on the entire event in his mind, doubt crept in. From me teleporting and moving at blinding speed for those buffoons, there was no way one of them had the time to 1) spot the tonic, 2) had the knowledge of what poisons would affect him in the way he did and 3) be quick enough to insert it into the tonic by the time I killed them. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that neither of them had poisoned him and that there was another force at hand that had done the deed.
He hadn't been surprised at the fact that the Fixer knew about the poisoning, considering he had been in Zerul City for this long just to defeat Blue and take the sword. But if he had seen that, could he have seen the person who had done such a thing? That was an intriguing question and the person who might know the answer to that question, he might be able to get the directions needed to strike back at his poisoner. Without hesitation, he too walked off the edge of the building he was standing on. However, without all of the theatrical acrobatics that the Fixer had showed and rolled away, Ixion landed onto the ground, allowing himself to go into a kneeling position to allow the energy obtained from the fall to dissipate through them. From the years of doing such a manoeuvre, he was used to the pain load that the fall would give him. Getting back up onto his feet, he looked at the Fixer. “It seems that you know a lot about that incident, though I think you have been in this city long enough to witness that. As far as I am aware or thinking of that, the poisoner might still be alive. If you know anything about the details, I'd be more than happy to know of them and repay the favour to them.” While he waited for the Fixer's response, he readied himself for any spoken jujitsu that he might use.

Soojerna, coming to the door moments after the penin's knocking, opened it and smiled, her children at her heels. I'on smiled down at them a bit despite his irritation and tired state. Then he spoke, "Did Draven arrive?" the woman shook her head, frowning, "I'm afraid he didn't. Perhaps his lost his way?" I'on sighed and shook his head slightly. Perhaps they'd connect another day, but it was somewhat unlikely as he felt he might be leaving Zerul for quite awhile soon. A mixture of wanderlust and curiosity with the world outside of this comfortable city. It of course didn't help that it was becoming crowded with all the refugees.

Regardless, he felt the need to depart sooner than later. As if to draw him away, I'on felt a sudden eruption, of sorts, of magical energy somewhere else in the city. His face became something of a deadpan as he looked away from the human woman again and off into the streets. Glancing back at her, I'on spoke, "Well, thank you for looking after the shop in my absence." Soojerna nodded happily, "I'm obviously back now so no need, though I may call on you again soon. We shall see. For now, I bid you a good day," from there the penin shuffled off with the woman looking after him. She thought he looked awful tired and thus wondered why he wasn't heading home for a well deserved rest. With this in mind she called out to him, "Make sure to get some sleep soon, I'on, you look exhausted," she was right, he was. However, it seemed the world had other priorities than his sleep, and he felt inclined to investigate them...unfortunately. Perhaps he was too curious sometimes, or too worried about the well being of others.

Then again, maybe he wasn't worried enough. Shrugging, he continued on, his pace slowing gradually as he neared the location of dense magical energy, which was still fading somewhat even when he'd arrive.

He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there, but he'd figure it out later. One thing at a time, he decided. First figure out what was going on, then react...after he got there. Yeah, that was the plan. Simple, but effective...hopefully.

He really wasn't sure at this point. He could feel his exhaustion beginning to cloud his judgement. I was annoying, so a scowl found itself forming on his face. Today had been one troublesome event after another, and he was growing somewhat tired of it. Perhaps he needed a drink more than he needed some rest, his sleep-deprived mind surmised. Yes, that sounded nice, quite pleasant actually. It might take the edge off of all those walking around, relax his nerves somewhat.

Then again, it might just impair his judgement more. Who know, not him. He was too tired to really consider the possibilities in depth, something that would usually be quite easy for him. Oh well, for now just trudge on and hope his bed lay at the end of this little adventure, if you could call it that.

Yes, hopefully that's what lay at the end. A comfortable bed in his peaceful home. That would be a pleasant way to end his day. Pleasant indeed. So he increased his pace back to the one he'd started at. If he hurried he could get there faster, and get whatever it was dealt with quicker, or at least that's what he thought.

Only time could tell.

The answer from the warlock was not the one he desired, but he had already agreed to go along. If the warlock did not have the knowledge he desired, than this venture might very well lead him to the someone who did possess the knowledge of wind magic. Salas looked around the clearing once more, taking in his new companions for however long this quest and possibly others would take. He knew little to nothing about either of them, but he assumed that the other two knew very little about each other as well. Why would tell each other more than was necessary? Extra knowledge further than that was pointless on the road; it could also get you killed or give someone an edge over you.

Salas watched and listened, two things he had grown accustomed to since the loss of his tongue, as the great dragon spoke yet again. It, or rather he, spoke of how the Withering was unable to affect the Anaxim because of the Demon Prison’s presence, but this only led to more questions and worries about the quest at hand. Could this mean the Withering was indeed a demon’s doing? The nature of the plague would make sense if this were the truth behind it. What other being besides a demon would cause a plague that ate at the souls of those infected? This would also make the plague even more difficult to destroy.

Salas leaned against the tree he had adopted since coming to this clearing. He intended to keep watch over his new companions as they slept. They might not trust him to do this task, but he was the best suited to do so, other than the dragon perhaps. He pulled one of his throwing knives, of which he was now missing one, from the harness around his chest and begin to fiddle with it, throwing it into the ground and pulling it free once more. He would be the mages’ sword on this journey as he said he would be, but he wished to become more than just a sword.

He doesn't even know who did it? Fixer thought amusedly, cocking his head slightly to the left as he listened to Ixion's brief words on the subject of the one who had poisoned him. That's unexpected coming from a man who would boldly state that he doesn't leave witnesses. But then, he hasn't exactly been all that impressive and rather self-conflicting today, so I suppose it shouldn't surprise me. It would've been easier if he knew who it was, though... would've potentially saved me quite some time.
"I'm observant 'n' well-informed, not omniscient," he probably unnecessarily redefined the perceived limits of his knowledge, shrugging with his left shoulder and waving dismissively with his right hand. "I don' kno' who di'it, I just figured tha' if 'e dude's still 'live I should prob'ly find 'im 'n' make an example of 'im, eh? Might still do tha', even if ya don' kno' who it was; I'm real good a' findin' info."
He patted his coat-pocket with his right hand upon making that last statement, as though to use the Necrology as evidence of his proficiency at this particular skill... and to put it bluntly, there probably was no better way of demonstrating how good he really was at tracking down even the most obscure information from the most unlikely sources than that little black book. Ever since he had broken as a tool - which would be a several months before Paul IV realized that he had so, and a similar length of time before Corpse Forge learned of his betrayal - he had been lurking the corners of these northern lands and found every scrap of information he possibly could about the tools and their identities and pasts. The fact that the Necrology contained more-or-less complete information on fourteen people for which Corpse Forge and the governments doing business with them had made every effort to hide the existence of was indeed a quite amazing feat, and he had actually found rather comprehensible information on a number of past tools as well, those who had either died during the fulfillment of their function or had been disposed off once they had reached a point of being incapable of continuing to function.
The only tool he had been incapable of finding any information on - not even the slightest hint of an identity or a trace of a past - was himself. He was the only current tool, or at least the holder of a tool-specification based on its associated Dirge, not mentioned in the Necrology. For some reason everyone had been far more diligent about erasing his existence from the world than they had with the others... it was rather frustrating, really. Not even the Grand Master knew. Only the Oracle could possibly know.
And without that information, he knew that he would eternally remain the heartless, sadistic and violent Fixer. Without reclaiming the spirit that Corpse Forge had taken from him, he could never be a complete person again.
Not that he wanted to be... he just wanted the option.

He wanted to say a little more, addressing both Ixion and the sniffer and letting them know the terms under which he was letting them walk away today without a fight, but even as he opened his mouth behind his mask to speak, the violet eyes in the shadow behind the dark red visor were drawn from the assassin's countenance by the sight of movement behind him. Fixer glared past his fellow contract-bound servant of the Ancient One and straight at a new arrival in their little alley, all amusement instantly vanishing from his demeanor. Time to think fast. The penin was moving in at a brisk pace. He only had seconds.
The first thought that came to Fixer's mind was to simply kill this individual who dared ruin his fun, erasing the witness before any more attention was drawn to what was going on here. He was actually already starting to move, his weight shifting on his feet as he prepared to rush forward and end this interloper so quickly that he would not even figure out what had happened in the afterlife. But even as he started lifting his right foot to take the first accelerating step, Fixer's mind recognized this penin; I'onriyi Grace of Winds, the magus and magical craftsman who was considered of similar standing to most lesser nobles and merchants, and who was a personal friend of the Blue Duke. This alone would merely have made killing the man inconvenient, since he would have had to hide the fact that it was the Fixer who had murdered him to avoid unwanted attention to his workings in Rodoria, but Fixer also recalled that this particular little penin mage was one with a thirst for adventure; in fact he thought I'onriyi was out on an adventure right now and thus away from the city. He would have had to have returned pretty recently for Fixer not to have learned about it yet.
But that was what really complicated things for him; adventurers were people who were liable to acquire quality equipment, powerful artifacts and to eternally improve their skill and strength, and so most non-worthless adventurers were automatically included on his list of people who could potentially make for an entertaining diversion in the future. He did not want to kill I'onriyi now while he was still this weak, considering that he could possibly make for a genuine challenge in a hypothetical future. On the other hand, I'onriyi was not exactly known for being morally ambiguous... and even if Ixion had apparently acquired some misguided sense of honor that had nearly ruined everything just before, he and the sniffer were clearly a bit more tolerant in terms of ethically questionable actions such as murdering servants of the realm. The chances of the penin being any kind of amicable once he saw the dead body with them were not very good. In fact, chances were that I'onriyi would even assume that Ixion, who was standing in the alley as well, seemingly having a friendly conversation with someone as obviously shady as Fixer, was an accomplice to the murder... which was technically true, but would make for some unfortunate circumstances.
Think fast. Dead body behind him, Ixion in front of him, witness behind Ixion. Killing I'onriyi would be troublesome and was not something he wanted to do. Letting him live and escaping would likely implicate Ixion and cause trouble for him. But if Ixion was perceived as not being on peaceful terms with the obvious murderer - if hostile actions were taken between the two of them, suggesting that they were in fact enemies - Ixion might be viewed as someone who had tried to intervene.

Now it's your turn to think fast, Ixie, Fixer thought, his mind having worked so fast that he was still only midway through his first step by the time he reached this conclusion. He immediately changed the movement from a step forward to a forward thrust of his knee, bending the leg as he accelerated, aiming the attack at Ixion's abdomen. If landed the kick, which was likely considering how abruptly he had performed it, he would set his right foot back down and, while the assassin had the air knocked out of him, would proceed to thrust his right hand palm-forward into Ixion's chest with enough force to throw him right off his feet. Hopefully it would not actually injure him very badly, but it would hurt and look good.
Of course it would be even more convincing if Ixion fought back, but Fixer was not altogether sure whether that would be a good idea... Although it would make their performance more believable to I'onriyi, he was not confident that he could fight for any extended period of time without crippling or killing the other.

Jillian’s eyes shifted from the darkly clad warlock to the ancient Crone who supported the witch’s desire for a reprieve, much to the latter’s surprise. She was glad to hear that they might be staying after all; a mere night was hardly appropriate for all the tribulations of the day, but it was better than nothing and would have to suffice. A sigh of relief left her lips that curved in an ever so subtle smile offered to the elder.

“Very well,” Gerald agreed with a nod and declared that they would be heading for Jevog Denûm in the morrow. It was difficult to imagine what the ashen wasteland might be like, for all she had ever known were the houses and streets behind Zerul’s walls, and the fields and forests nearby. In a mere day she would be walking a hostile, alien world, and had she not been as exhausted, had her head not been as filled with concerns and thoughts as it were, she might just have felt frightened by the prospect. As it stood, all she could muster was a weak tingle in her gut. That Crone would not be joining their little journey concerned her very little in that moment. They would not need her, provided that they would not face adversity, and even then they would have a formidable ally in Renold.

Jillian felt she had very little to add, and was about to go her ways to do what she initially set out to do – that was, to clean herself of the grime that accumulated in a day of battle and misfortune – when Gerald abruptly addressed the Elder Green, suddenly demanding to have explained why people were cured of the Withering in Anaxim forest. This revelation in itself was news to her, as she had never heard of any such miracle. All she heard were reports of hundreds of casualties daily, of entire villages wiped out countryside. Was this the reason, then, why Gerald originally had gone to Anaxim? It was a likely explanation. Intrigued at what the dragon had to say, she decided to stay around and observe the dialogue from a bit of a distance, crossing her arms below her chest almost the same instant that the warlock did.

The demon prison? She thought, raising a dark red eyebrow in disbelief. How could that of all things be responsible for healing people of a disease as terrible as the Withering? If anything it ought to cause it, one would think! Judging by Gerald’s reaction, the witch surmised that he was as surprised as she was. Renold continued his exposition and one revelation followed the next, and Jillian could not help but feel a cold chill run down her spine when her fellow outcast concluded that “a god is doing this to us”.

“No,” Renold denied, further explaining why he believed that the energy that caused the Withering was not, in fact, of divine nature, which left very little options for the alternative. A demon was responsible for this monstrous act, which was perhaps not altogether surprising but had terrible implications nonetheless. The Withering was not merely a disease that threatened with the extinction of mankind. If what the dragon said was true, then somebody was absorbing all that power. A man may be nothing to a demon, but the millions of souls that would feed this creature through the Withering… it might just make a difference to tip the scales in its favor, to somehow find a way to break into Rodoria – if they not already have. Ironic perhaps for a witch who could speak parts of the Devil’s Tongue, but the truth was that Jillian’s knowledge of demons was relatively poor. Such was, for better or for worse, not something that teachers taught her much about. She had become quite familiar with Hazzergash so far, and she knew of the Grand Master and Kreshtaat, and had heard of Himyth, but knew of no others by name, nor what their sins might be. Her guess, however, was a good as anyone’s.

“If this is the case, then simply curing it won’t be enough, will it?” Jillian interjected, offering her thoughts on the matter, “If a demon is consciously spreading this disease, then a cure will only delay it. Even if we could cure it for good, if the demon becomes stronger through devouring the souls of millions of innocents, then it might just be too late already to stop whatever nefarious plans are in motion.”

She sighed, becoming aware of the pessimism that coated her words, “I don’t mean to put you down, but if your suspicions are correct, then there’s not much we can do, is there?”

Ixion looked at the Fixer with uncertainty. What he had said to him about the poisoner still sat uneasy with him. The identity was still racing through his mind. He traced his steps back from the hit during the night. He came to the conclusion during the analysis that it certainly wasn't one of the guards that were protected the now-deceased merchant. They were nothing but common thugs, none of them had the intelligence to know what was poisonous or not. They were probably not that quick enough to observe the assassin enough to spot the tonic on his side. This would have meant that the person who had the time to observe his personal effects to spot it. Tracing it back between then and the last time the tonic was made, he could only think of two people that could have done it. One of them could have been the person who had made the tonic, which was back in Pelgaid City. The time that was taken to make the tonic with them was longer than he was used to, especially as this was recommended by the previous contract, who was reliable. His gut instinct was been unsure about it because of the city, but he went with it as he was there initially. If it was them, then the previous contractor had sealed his fate, whether it was at his hand or at the hand of the Fixer. The only other option was the current contractor: a man who was in charge of a small band of highwaymen who were taking their spoils to drink themselves into a stupor. He took the contract on a grain of salt as the leader had said that the merchant was heavily guarded when an organized ambush would have taken those buffoons out. Perhaps he ordered one of his men to observe and place the poison in the tonic? That was a definite possibility. He would need to investigate that when he returns to them. But first, he would need to let the Fixer know, who had said something in the meanwhile. ”... Might still do tha', even if ya don' kno' who it was; I'm real good a' findin' info."

“The more I think about it,” he started, changing his uncertain appearance into a more certain one. “The more I conclude that it it one of two possibilities. I had initially thought that it was one of the people in my current contract that had done it. However, I believe it could be one of two people. One of them being a person who made the tonic for me back in Pelgaid City at Aster's Emporium. If it was them, then Lord Maximillian Hector must pay for directing me to them. The other is a band of highwaymen that currently have me under contract to kill a merchant they they want me to get in this city. As I still got to get my pay from them, I can see if it was them. Aster's Emporium is a good place as any for you to find any information.”

It was a short moment later that Ixion's eyes were opened as the Fixer turned on him. Time slowed down in his mind as he examined the entire surrounding to evade the attack. It was during this time that he noticed a familiar figure: the penin that he was with before he got poisoned. What on earth is he doing here? he thought. Then again, the fight between him, assisted by the vampire, and Blue did cause a magical signal to those who had sensed the magic earlier. The uncertainty of them as an ally could only be determined in the future. If he is going to be a problem, why doesn't the Fixer just kill him. The thought had no feeling as he was thinking about the situation at hand. He then remembered the rune knight that he saw earlier. If he knows the rune knight, that means that he knows a lot of people in the city of notable influence. Then another thought comes to his mind, with all of the variables taken into consideration. Is the Fixer making us look innocent of the past events? If that was the case, then the assassin knew what the Fixer was trying to do.

As time sped up back into reality, Ixion only had a fraction of a second to react to the Fixer's oncoming attack. He knew that the kick was unavoidable, so the kick landed onto his side, partially winding him on the side. All the while, he observed the mercenary's next attack, which was a thrust at his chest. As he was partially winded, his armour dented from the attack, he instinctively reached for his 'sparring' opponent's right hand. If he was able to grab the arm, he would proceed to, with the assistance of the Fixer's momentum, to throw the man to one side and, keeping the momentum up, direct him to the nearest set of objects, which were the crates that he used to protect himself earlier. While he was doing that, he looked at the man and said, letting him know that he knew what he was doing, “Do what is necessary.” As he feared what the necessary was, he would reach for his knife if the counter was successful.

As the vampire stood at the edge of the roof, looking down at the Fixer's final motions for the dead woman's corpse, he could not but wonder a simple fact as "Ixie" followed the Fixer into the alley, "Is this mercenary a fool?" The Fixer had been passive up to this point, not even flinching when both of them had attacked his person. "But even so... There is a reason he has such a reputation. Does he think that he isn't in danger?" Morgan scoffed softly as he watched the red hooded man crunch to the alley floor.

At this moment, a decision was given to the sniffer. On one hand, the familiarity between these two men was unnerving. "How could they know each other? The odds of them having knowledge of a personal level, and circumstantially meeting here are practically impossible. [i]"Unless... They purposefully meeting..." On the other hand, the interest of this currently ongoing scene was beginning to wane for Morgan. His curiosity had been sated and it was honestly becoming dangerous to continue to hang about. Whispers of escape and warnings of caution were urging the sunloather to forsake the unfolding scene and hide away in some shady corner until darkness fell over Zerul. Instinct had already begun to turn the Morgan's torso to lead him away from a legend and a more than likely dead man, but something sharply redirected his attention back to the alley - another presence had entered the equation. At first, his crimson eyes would not be able to see from where the concentrated magical aura was issuing from. A twinge of annoyance pulled his brow as he continued to look, "Cursed Fixer's energy is radiating far too...much..."

But then there it was - coming around the corner. The words of poisoning and the growing worry of Ixion would barely register in the vampire's mind as the scene began to quickly unfold. Almost immediately, the Fixer became fully aware of the new arrival. Energy from all present parties was jumping, whirling, racing. Tension was growing once more, and Morgan instinctively almost shifted into a battle-like stance. But a small smile tugged at his right corner of his mouth, "Thank you, my lord. A second chance had presented itself, one that Morgan was not willing to give up. Staff in hand, Morgan began to slowly and as quietly as possible, walk to a position on the roof that would, in theory, place the vampire behind both sellsword and Fixer once he had climbed downward.

And then it happened so fast. As Morgan's back was turned to begin his descent to the alley, a heavy blow of flesh beating upon metal his ears. Head whirling to the left, crimson eyes witnessed the Fixer's second blow against the mercenary. Urgency filled Thrainsson as his pace became hurried, dropping several handholds at a time as his lithe frame rappelled downward into the alley; his mind was moving even faster.

"The Fixer is a legend, and rightly so. How will this fool even survive for a moment, especially alone? A flashback filled Morgan's third eye: the last magical user that had such a "reading" as the Fixer, it took dozens of men to kill her, let alone capture her. "And here we are, just myself, the mercenary, and..." The vampire grunted as he jumped the rest of the way into the alley, eyes pulling upward to see the two fighting men, only to look beyond to the stranger who's presence apparently had set off the Fixer's violent actions, "My new 'friend."

Time slowed, if not for a brief moment. All the odds were being weighed for the sniffer. Revenge beckoned strongly, as did some sort of justice, satisfaction. But all this magic in one place, surging from the Fixer, from the sellsword, and even from this newcomer... The reality of the situation was it was growing quite obvious that the Fixer could not be defeated. In this instant, the vampire struggled inwardly, his feet moving forward slowly but eventually grinding to a halt, hand clenching to hard, it threatened to damage his weapon. "This is a fight I cannot win through a direct assault." The element of surprise would be key, and if it ever came. Morgan was under the impression that the Fixer was rarely ever surprised.

As he entered the vicinity of the spike in magical energies that he had detected several minutes ago, the penin shuddered slightly, the sensation of a magic user's aura washing over him. Narrowing his eyes as he came into audible distance he heard an exchange occurring. However, he couldn't make out the words and by the time he was close enough to they had stopped talking and, as he rounded the corner to look, he found that one man was attacking another.

In the shaded alley I'on wasn't quite able to make out the victim, or at least he'd thought that one of them was the victim. However, as the man responded it became quite clear to him that he too was a seasoned combatant. Perhaps this was a scuffle that he should not have involved himself with, yet part of him debated otherwise. Perhaps it was the distinct feel of magic in the air. Whatever it was, the use of magic in what had likely been a violent gesture did not sit well with the mage.

Taking several steps into the alley before a figure landed several feet in front of him, the penin, not thinking it wise to be unarmed, reached behind him and unfastened the staff from his back, bringing it around swiftly. The movement was one he had trained, having meticulously done so till his muscle memory was well built up, thus allowing him to execute the action regardless of the situation without distracting his thoughts or other actions much, if at all.

As such his mind kept working, taking in his surroundings so as to adapt accordingly. As his eyes grazed over the motionless body of a woman splayed on the ground, his nose confirming the distinct scent of blood in the air, he knew how to proceed. He was to treat this situation as a potentially life threatening one, which meant he would –quite unfortunately-- probably have to use magic.

While he enjoyed practicing his art in and out of combat, it was always stressful when he had to put his life on the line and once again it was not helpful that he was tired as it is. As this thought came to mind another stranger entered the alley, descending from the roof of one of the buildings. He wore a loose garment, with a hood an cloak. He also noted leather gloves on the man's hands, though he could not see his face beneath the darkness of the hood.

Reacting first on instinct before logic took hold, I'on slid one foot forwards, readying his staff for a swing, before he stopped, considering that the man may have been reacting to the hostilities in the same manner that he was. As such, I'on hid one of his hands behind his side, where the man could not see it, and began slowly and deliberately drawing arcane symbols on the air. “Hurry and speak up, what's your part in this? Are you victim or ally?” His voice was hoarse as he hadn't had a drink in a good while, but nonetheless booming in its volume. It was as if he was both warning passersby away and trying to alert the authorities.

This was a violent conflict in the midst of the city, where innocents could easily get caught up in, in fact it appeared as if one already had, which was not something that I'on was happy about. If Morgan made no move to attack him after several moments, I'on would begin walking towards him, body ready to attack if necessary, though his intention was to simply pass him by. He needed to stop this before the victim took more damage than the simple kick that he had seen. Then he could perhaps save a life and capture the criminal. His left hand continued to weave sigils into the air, though he had already prepared at least two spells at this point. He intended to fully utilize the abundance of magical energy in his surroundings, that was for sure.

Despite his fatigue, there appeared a burning fire in the eyes of the little penin, and a certain grace to his movements. He knew what he was doing. He had been a warrior for much of his life, and a mage for almost as long. He did not stand for injustice, and this seemed to fall right into that category. In fact he was willing to drive himself into the ground if it meant that he could capture the man who had began this violent exchange. Granted, if necessary he would pull back, as he was no fool and he knew when he could go on no longer. Nonetheless, I'on had not used much magic this day and so while his mind was tired and his body did need a good nap, his magical energy was still somewhat plentiful, though he was not at full capacity. He would just have to make do with what he had.

"If our suspicions are indeed correct, and I would be surprised if they weren't, I don't think the Withering even can be cured," Gerald nodded at Jillian's words, one hand playing with the chain attached to the demon prison, the fingers of the other drumming nervously on the shaft of his staff. "At least not in the traditional sense of the word. We can remove the demonic energy from the infected and thus remove the symptoms, but we have no way to get rid of that essence or stop it from draining whoever it enters. We could seal the instances of Withering away individually, but that would be pointless as long as new people contract the plague every day."
Ironic, he thought with grim amusement, smiling tiredly to himself as he slouched where he sat, weak and discouraged. In theory we already have a way to save people from the Withering, which is the Withering itself; I could use the ability I derived from it to draw the plague from others. That should work for anyone but myself... and for every bit of Withering I cured in others, the Withering in me would grow stronger. I am the cure, but performing that role would definitely kill me.
"Which is why you need to see the expert in Jevog Denûm; to find a way to stop the Withering from spreading," Renold reminded them. "We have already surmised a general group of beings that could be the source of the Withering, but we still don't know exactly who it is or how they are spreading the disease across such a large area with no apparent pattern. The planes have never seen anything like the Withering because such a thing was never possible until now... so we have to learn how this demon is doing it. If we do that, maybe we can block that method from working in the future."
"And if such a thing is not an option," Crone sighed, "our objective must be to discover whichever infernal entity is causing this and defeat it. It would be prudent to conclude that the antagonist must be one not hindered by the barrier of the Divide, which would suggest that it must be a demon already in Reniam. The most likely suspects would appear to be the Grand Master of Evil or one of his generals, all of which were once sealed by the Nomad and can be sealed again..."
"That's not it," Gerald shook his head. "The Crusader's Guild is lead by Hazzergash, and they came after me in my home to get their hands on my research. They're trying to cure the Withering as well, and I doubt even Hazzergash would try to ruin one of his allies plots when it's on this big a scale."
"Which leaves only Himyth," Renold concluded. "The most elusive of the demon lords, but also one that was once banished to the Lower Plane but returned. Defeating her here should return her there, allowing the Divide to inhibit her influence once more."

"In other words we aren't looking for a cure anymore," the necromancer said, turning to the witch once again. "We're looking for a way to stop the Withering from spreading... and if we can't do that, we will have to find the demon responsible and defeat it."

---

Ixion was fast, it turned out, and not just at thinking either; his recovery time from receiving a knee in his midsection like that was actually quite impressive. Fixer had thought that the kick would buy him at least a couple of seconds, but the assassin had been able to counter the following palm-strike within less than a second of it. There was less power behind that kick than I intended, he figured, even as his eyes were already following the hand that was moving to intercept his own. If I had meant to kick him from the start of the movement rather than trying to adapt a step into a kick, it would definitely have incapacitated him for several seconds. And without my handicap - if I had been going all-out - it would have killed him on the spot. This is good news; a fight is more fun when it is even. That was why he was fighting with a handicap in the first place, after all.
Quick though he was, the dark agent could not abort his attack and withdraw fast enough to escape Ixion's counterattack, so Fixer just let the other grab him, Ixion's fingers closing around his wrist. It only took a split-second before Fixer realized what his opponent was trying to do, as he felt the force behind his thrusting hand being redirected and amplified. Come now, do you think I'm all brute force? His smile widened behind the mask even as the mask's own only served to emphasize the madness of its wearer.
Rather than losing his balance and footing and leaving himself open to further manipulation, as was likely the purpose of the move, Fixer immediately stepped into the direction Ixion was trying to guide him, moving his entire body so that his movement was equal to that of his arm. If I was using both hands right now, you'd be dead already, he mentally chided his opponent, even if he was happy to confirm that it had been a good decision to restrain himself from using his left hand. It could be difficult to assess opponents accurately at times, but Fixer had gotten pretty good at it; fighting with one hand was his second-lowest level of challenge, higher only to when he fought with no hands.
Instead of punishing the presumptuous move with his left hand - which he had prohibited himself from doing - Fixer twisted his arm around in Ixion's grip and swiftly grabbed onto Ixion's own wrist. It was a painful angle to have his wrist in, but it was just barely possible thanks to his step forward.

Having possibly locked Ixion into place like this, Fixer immediately swung his left leg forward and outward, to the side, drawing a rapid semi-circle before the kick reaching the point it had been aimed at, which would be just below the other's right armpit, in the side of his ribs.
This kick was intended from the beginning, and furthermore was composed of a much more forceful motion; if it hit, bones would be broken. Fixer was holding back from his full potential, yes, but he was fighting to his fullest within the parameters he had allowed himself. If Ixion made the mistake of thinking this was to be a harmless show or sparring match, Fixer would kill him.

Jillian watched Gerald slouching back on the rock he sat on, a weak smile painted on his pale lips, but she knew it to be no sign of joy at all. On the contrary, he had just concluded that there most likely was no cure to the Withering – the very disease that ate away at his own soul every waking moment. She knew not how heavy a burden the plague truly was on him, but when their souls intertwined, she had caught a glimpse of it, and it had terrified her. She could understand the pain and frustration that this realization would put him through, and she felt pity for her fellow exile.

In response to the necromancer’s conclusion, Renold further stressed the importance of seeking this so-called expert – whomever that might be – to learn more about how they might contain the disease, if it was even possible. The alternative, as Crone mentioned, would be to find the demon responsible and defeat it. She certainly made it sounds like a simple affair when in truth it was anything but; yet, who was Jillian to argue, having already agreed to hunt down Kevalorn in the coming days?

Crone suspected that the Grand Master or one of his servants was behind this scheme, but Gerald thought otherwise. He claimed that the Crusaders invaded his home to steal his research, implying that they too were looking to put an end to the plague. Jillian wondered if they really were trying to cleanse the Withering, or if they were simply out to destroy Gerald’s progress instead. Either way, the elder Green surmised that only Himyth would remain as a possible culprit then, being that she was the only other demon who had crossed the divide and haunted Reniam. The witch knew only bits and pieces about this fiend – that she was a female creature who indulged in lust and excess, and that she was the mother of all demonspawn. That must include the strange fellow with the chains, back in Gariel Downs. Dead now, in all likelihood. A shame, for he could have been of help if they were indeed fated to look for his wicked progenitor one day.

Gerald turned his attention to Jillian once more, summarizing what she had already gathered from the discourse.

“I see. I guess our plans won’t change much for now regardless, right? We are still going to look for this ‘expert’ of yours, whomever that might be, and then we’ll deal with Kevalorn. Taking him out will also remove a suspect from our list, and maybe we can even get some information from the old geezer before we get rid of him. If he was after your research notes, then maybe he has a hunch whom we’re looking for and where to find them.”

xion's left side was sore, the dented metal that was his armour still pressing against the injury. At least the good news was that the injury was probably nothing more than a bruise. He definitely concluded that the armour was now useless and he would need to replace it as soon as everything was finished here. That is if he made it through this. Neither the vampire or the penin had the initiative to help him out at this moment in time, which meant his options were especially limited and his survival even less. At least he is making this fight believable, he thought, safely assuming that the Fixer was using this 'fight' to clear both the vampire and the assassin of the murder of Blue.

All those thoughts had changed as soon as his opponent grabbed onto his right wrist. Ixion had assumed that the Fixer would allow him to push him away so that he could arm himself to make the scene more believable. Instead, the legend had countered his counter and was launching an attack of his own. He saw in the corner of his eye that the left leg was swinging towards his right side. This time though, the kick had more menace and had the intent on causing some serious damage. At first, it had worried Ixion greatly. He's got the intention of killing us, he thought, panic almost setting into his mind. He instantly thought then that all three of them had no chance of surviving the confrontation, even if the Fixer had said earlier that he wouldn't harm both himself and the vampire due to the reasons he had forgotten. Luckily for him, he steeled his mind to the task at hand. Now is not the time to panic, Ixie, he thought, erasing the panic in his mind. If you can pull yourself through this, you might have a chance.

The first thought on the matter was how to get himself out of the Fixer's grip. As soon as he is freed, he is free to then teleport, taking advantage of the area around them to create random attacks. As long as the Fixer had a grip of him wherever he went, his opponent would be carried with him. His first observation was that the Fixer now had only one point connected to the ground, making him easy to topple over with an aerial kick, using the awkward grip that the Fixer had to his advantage. However, he instantly dismissed the idea as that alone would be easily countered by the legend, as he had observed before. Perhaps use my illusion with that? If he had poured a lot of his concentration on the illusion, especially since he would be concentrating on the attack in hand, then the aerial kick would possibly work. He also dismissed that as the Fixer would probably assume that and counter that again, since the Fixer knew a lot of things about the assassin. Instead of that, Ixion decided on another option: make the attack as random as possible. With that, he hopefully removes the element of planning and, with any hope, could catch the Fixer out. But how?

Without even thinking of a solid random attack, he instantly flicked his wrist forward, clasping the Fixer's right wrist. Locking eyes on the Fixer's head, he bent his legs, ready to jump for the aerial kick. As soon as he stopped moving, however, he instantly teleported, brining the Fixer with him to his destination. He ended up reappearing two storeys up on the same beam he used to confront Blue when she first spotted him. With hopeful precision, the Fixer should be suspended in the air, already falling to the ground and bringing Ixion with him. Using the coiled legs from before, he pushed hard off the beam, allowing only the Fixer's weight to anchor him towards a central point. This would also, due to the Fixer going down to the ground from his position and the opposite direction he is going, avoid the kick that's placed on his right side. As soon as his arm was taught, he pulled himself forward, allowing his left leg to arc towards the Fixer's back, using all that momentum to drive his foot for the attack.

"Aliostar." Renold's voice was relatively low - which still put it significantly above speaking-volume of smaller beings - and his gaze averted when he spoke that one word, followed by a hesitant pause. The dragon seemed suddenly sad, and somehow the tone of his voice only served to stress just how heavy a secret he was revealing. "The expert I am taking you to; his name is Aliostar. He is a dragon like me... although saying 'like me' might be more than a little misleading in this case. I've known him from when he was just a hatchling; we were nestmates, once. He is more than three centuries younger than me, but he is a Red and by far the larger of us. Last time I saw him he was also driven completely mad with hatred for you little ones, and tried to kill me. He was smaller than me, back then, yet I would have died if I had been alone."
"What makes you think he won't just devour us immediately if we go to him for help?" Gerald asked, quite confident that Jillian was thinking something similar.
"This was more than a thousand years ago," the Green clarified. "Dragons never forget the past, but our perspective on it may change as we accumulate more of it. Aliostar was defeated back then and was forced to go into hiding, but I have been keeping an eye on him, which is why I know where he is. He hasn't touched any little ones in centuries, and to be frank I don't think he has strength left for evil plots anymore. His wounds from that day never fully healed; even if he proves hostile, I think you would be able to at the very least escape his wrath with your lives intact."
The elder sighed. "But the reason approaching him is worth this risk is that he was - and still is - a master summoner, with immense knowledge of demonkind and the flow of energy between the planes. If anyone can locate the source of a demonic plague, it is him."

---

Is he trying to duck below my kick? Fixer thought curiously when he noticed Ixion's form start to lower itself from his previous stance. Surely he must realize that he can't do that as long as I'm locking his arm in place. Best case scenario for him would be that instead of breaking his ribs I would break his arm, which would definitely not serve to even the odds between us. Besides, he's moving too slowly to get out of the way in time, even if I hadn't been holding him in place; my leg has already started accelerating and is gaining speed and power fast, whereas he only just started and, without anything to anchor his feet on, can at the very most accelerate downward as fast as gravity allows. He fails yet again.
But no, that was not it, the dark agent realized the next instant, when he noticed the gray eyes behind the assassin's mask having locked with his own violet ones. What is he doing? He looked down, almost on a whim, and immediately recognized the way the other's legs were bending, not in an effort to crouch, but storing energy for a jump. He intends to jump over my kick? That is even more ludicrous than ducking below it... or does he intend to attack? Has he not even noticed that I am about to kick him in a way that will seriously injure him, or does he think that he can hit me before it hits? Impossible, this is a kick that takes about a second to execute; he will barely even have time to think before I've already knocked him to the ground. No one moves that fast; even aided by Art of the Warden, no one but me would have a mind able to keep up with that kind of movement.
And then, suddenly, the scene had changed. Even Fixer, who prided himself greatly in his nearly unparalleled speed of thought, took a moment to fully comprehend what had just happened. He teleported us? I didn't think he would bother teleporting, since he couldn't do so without bringing me with him.
Another instant, and his perception caught on to the fact that there was nothing under his right foot anymore. We're in mid-air? This was bad; he could already feel himself being pulled downward by gravity. But he did not worry too much about that, since he figured that Ixion would not risk his own life and health just to win this little show of theirs, so as long as he held on to the man he knew that any fall he suffered, Ixion would suffer as well.

Confident though he had been up to that point, there was no hiding Fixer's surprise when Ixion abruptly extended his legs and actually moved through the air as though he had a foothold. Another instant, and Fixer noticed the wooden beam the other had been sitting on and pushed himself off.
How? he thought with widening eyes, his heart beating for the first time during this entire maneuver, but in a way that suggested that its rate would soon be quickening. How could he teleport us somewhere so specific? Wait... he teleported here before, when he fought Blue. Did he remember the mental image from then accurately enough to recall it perfectly in an instant? And in a way that put me in mid-air, and him with a foothold... what is this man? A long time ago, before he had become the Grim Tool and had still been number three, Fixer had very quickly been pegged as one of the top candidates for training as one of the superior tools, the Kirkinian ones or the ones serving the Rodorian king directly, due to his almost superhumanly fast thought-process and reflexes. The sheer quickness of his mind was his greatest strength, and the reason he had never lost a fight before and had not suffered even a minor injury in years. But this... could Ixion think even faster? Impossible! No mind worked that fast!
Luckily it seemed Ixion, while he definitely proved a lot more capable than Fixer had expected, continued to underestimate his opponent. Rather than staying on the beam and simply letting Fixer fall, which might have broken the violet-eyed man's grip on his wrist and enabled him to move freely again, he jumped off. Judging by the arc he used Fixer to draw, he figured Ixion was planning to kick him in the back...
Which might have worked, if he had not used Fixer himself as the anchor to maneuver around. All it took was for the fighter to lock his right shoulder and arm in place, and Ixion's movement would draw Fixer with him so that he kept facing his opponent, and stayed nearly as parallel with him in the air as he had been on the ground. This meant two things: that they both ended up at an angle that was closer to upside-down than horizontal in the air, and that Fixer's kick from before still hit. The aim had been thrown off by the maneuver, landing the blow in the side of Ixion's midsection instead of his ribcage, and it did not hit as hard as it originally would have, considering that he had no connection to the ground and no way to stop himself from being pushed back by the force of the kick as well - which was why aerial attacks, while flashy, were rarely practical - but it hit, and with any luck would at least stun the other.

As they started falling Fixer then threw his idle right leg and pelvis forward, not in an attempt to kick Ixion but to add to the rotation he had already started by leaping off the beam, hopefully enough so that if they really fell to the ground, Ixion would be the bottommost of the two and absorb the impact.

Morgan's thought process was interrupted by a booming, hoarse voice,

"Hurry and speak up, what's your part in this? Are you victim or ally?"

The demand caused the vampire to turn, only to see the gruff voiced belonging to the new arrival. Even in the midst of the tense situation, the sniffer couldn't help but smile inwardly - penin usually had such an affect on him... though his question didn't seem directed at anyone particular. A sudden surge of energy pulsated from the stranger and Morgan immediately recognized it as (possible) intricate spell weaving. All at one the element of surprise had presented itself. 'Surely, The Fixer couldn't fight three skilled warriors at once...

"I am-" A cautionary hand was raised, gesturing that no harm was meant, "I am a friend." The same hand would swing horizontally, pointing back to the fighting hooded men, his red eyes following the gesture, "But he is no--" Morgan would find himself pointing into thin air, only to hear the battle on going in the distance behind him. Turning quickly on his heel, the sniffer would begin to spring out of the alley, the folds of his loose clothing shadowing his speedy actions as he called over his shoulder to the penin, "The bloody smile is the enemy - he'll kill us all unless we stop him!" His heart pounded in his ears as his unnatural speed accelerated his limbs, bound feet racing towards the duel of assassins. 'He needs to follow.' Eyes gathered where the red hooded mercenary had reengaged his quarry - the same place that Blue had conversed with him. The details of the fight were hard to exactly decide who was winning, but if the myths of The Fixer held even a grain of truth... If he doesn't, we will have no chance of survival.

The idea was to get close enough to jump into the fray itself and help the mercenary, but... 'Can I make it? Morgan thought anxiously, almost to the wall... However, the fight had shifted, both figures plummeting towards the earth. The sniffer's body suddenly shifted directions, though the momentum of his speed caused his form to skid across the stoned ground, kicking up dust and some loose pebbles. Morgan's left would prepare itself to make contact with the wall he would more than likely going to collide into. With any luck, the vampire would be able to propel himself from the incoming wall, and begin sprinting once more towards The Fixer. With this momentum, two options could picked from.

Option one: if the Fixer managed to be the one on top once both fighters hit the ground, Morgan would be able to perform a flying tackle, hopefully catching The Fixer off guard and giving the upper hand to the sellsword. Option two: "Ixie" would be the one on top and Morgan would be able to either perform a sliding kick to The Fixer's body, adding more injuries to the one's his ally would more than likely provide or Morgan would be able to pole-vault himself over the pair and let the red hooded man finish the job.

Either way, the vampire rushed forward, his heart still thumping in his ears...

Throughout the entire sequence of moves that got him to the advantage that he now currently has, Ixion was already thinking on the next set of attacks. With the current kick aiming for his back, that would have been close enough for the assassin to have gained another footing on the Fixer himself and push himself off from him, finally removing the grip he had placed on the legend's wrist and forcefully removed the grip the other had on him. This would have then allowed him to grab his kusarigama or knife and followed up the attack, depending on the Fixer's actions afterwards. He didn't hide the fact that the manoeuvre had shocked the legend, probably down to the core, smirking throughout. If there was one thing that the assassin had analytically concluded, it was the truth that the Fixer had finally met someone whose thought process and reflexes were quicker than his own. If that was to be the case, then the Fixer had certainly underestimated him and he would pay the price for that.

However, in another instant, he realized that he had once again underestimated his opponent, though it was probably due to his own lack of knowledge that the Fixer was real to begin with, let alone know of his fighting style. The Fixer had stopped all of the momentum that he obtained from the push off the beam. The kick, the one he wanted to avoid in the first place, landed on his right side. The pain, similar in intensity as the one before, rushed through his body, causing another dent in his armour. Despite this, the assassin noticed one thing during the freefall. The vampire had finally acted upon the commotion that he was a participant of, charging in their direction. However, it looked like they had overestimated something and shot towards a wall. Another thing that he noticed was that the penin was also walking towards them, his staff drawn ready for combat. Finally! he thought, bearing through the pain. My chances of survival have improved.

This thought was short-lived as Ixion felt the Fixer move through the air, placing himself right behind his back, locking his right arm back. And at the rate they were falling, there wasn't enough time for him to do another teleport. Both fighters reached the ground, Ixion hitting the stone ground with the weight of both himself and the Fixer. Whatever pain he had felt from the kick before was replaced with an excruciating one as he felt some a lot of his ribs break upon impact, causing him to yell out in the pain. If there was any consolation in his mind, if the beam he pushed off from was another storey higher, he would have been killed on impact.

Despite gritting his bloodied teeth from the pain, his eyes had noticed that the vampire had pushed off from the wall and was lunging towards the pair of them. While this had meant that the vampire was ready to do whatever they were planning on doing to get the Fixer's attention and, therefore, off of him, his mind thought that the Fixer would probably notice this. Ixion had to think of a distraction long enough for his ally to help him out. The one thing he had realized that his left arm, free from any restraint, was by his side, close enough to his knives. Its do or die, he thought, feeling that his arm hadn't been too badly damaged from the fall and had recovered from the fight earlier. Without any thinking, he spat out two words to the Fixer: “Dodge this!” With fluid motion, he grabbed the knife. Then, his arm acting like a whip, he unsheathed the blade and whipped it back towards his side. The tip of the blade, hopefully, would reach its mark: the legend's left leg.

Something heavy weighed down upon the great, elder dragon who appeared full of melancholy all of a sudden as he placed a single, foreign word – or perhaps name – into the void of silence: Aliostar. Indeed, his voice conveyed feelings of sadness or regret when he revealed unto the renegade sorcerers just whom he was to take them to in the far reaches of Jevog Denûm’s volcanic spires. Jillian had long suspected that their “contact” could by no means be a regular person, or indeed a human at all, and was thus not entirely caught by surprise that it was nothing less than another dragon that they were seeking out. This Aliostar sounded like an ominous kind, one whose ire was more deeply rooted and of a darker nature than the mere hubris of Lailonsaire with which she had looked down upon mortals like Jillian. Defying the latter had probably earned the witch the dragon’s respect, even if it would never admit anything of the sort, but standing up to this Red sounded like a particularly foolish idea. In fact, visiting him at all seemed a terrible idea, and Gerald must have felt similarly, for he voiced his concerns without delay. As he had practically taken the words from Jillian’s mind, she did nothing and simply looked at the old dragon expectantly.

His explanation was unsatisfactory for the witch. Having been defeated and forced into hiding would surely serve as a catalyst for the old Red’s hatred, rather than dull it down over the centuries she imagined – she knew firsthand just how prideful dragons could be, and although Renold had not said whose held he had gotten when he overcame Aliostar, she suspected it may have been humans, as humankind had once hunted down many of the great beasts. Whatever wounds he might have suffered that day were surely all but insignificant compared to the scars they must have left upon his ego. Relying on the hope that he was too lethargic to attack them, and too weak to actually kill them before they could escape, seemed like too many uncertainties to count on. Moreover, she harbored doubt as to their actual necessity of needing his expertise in particular, because there must be others with similar abilities. In fact, they probably had one amongst them right then and there!

“The reason we’re looking for this Aliostar is because he is a summoner?” Jillian asked, slightly irritated, “Why him? I thought Crone was supposedly the mistress of all known kinds of magic and such. Surely summoning must be amongst her list of masteries, no?” she continued, casting a glance at the ancient hag, “If it is, then this entire undertaking seems like a very dangerous prospect for a dubious gain. Call me a pessimist if you will, but I don’t think he’s going to help us. He has no reason to. Even if he would, there’s no way to be sure that he even could give us an answer.”

Jillian shrugged and sighed: “I’m not liking this.”

To say that it was surprising that Ixion did not have the basic insight to copy Fixer's own maneuver from just before and lock his arm in its current angle would probably be inaccurate, his previously observed failings considered, but it definitely was disappointing after his trick with the teleportation and subsequent jump. As it was, it appeared that the additional acceleration that came from Fixer's quick swing of his lower body, in combination with the rotation Ixion had already started, was enough to put Fixer on top of the other's back, and the other face-down on the ground. It also somewhat lowered Fixer's awe at the other's abilities that he did not teleport them to somewhere softer once he must have realized that he would be the one to take the punishment for it. In general, this little assassin only continued to confuse his fellow infernal contractor with his wildly varying quality of performance. When Ixion did poorly Fixer would probably place him at a level where he could beat him without the use of either of his hands, but when he did well it was at a level where he would need both hands, and probably at least some elemental magic as well, to keep up with him. This man was dangerous, certainly, but his performance was far too erratic for him to represent a considerable threat; he had the potential to be a nice opponent in the future, once he had the experience to get rid of his low-level performance moments, and maybe gained access to some powerful artifacts or at least better weapons and armor, but now? Right now he was unworthy.
He was entertaining, though; Fixer could feel his heartbeat quickening even as he landed on top of his opponent, and while it would be easy to interpret his widened eyes that were visible past the mask as a sign of shock or fear, that was only because they could not see how widely he grinned behind the bloody smile of his persona. Fixer knew of several entities, which included more than just what could be termed "people", who were so powerful or skilled, or both, that they considered themselves invincible; who had bested so many challenges so great that they no longer imagined that they could be defeated. Such delusions were a weakness, however, and Fixer knew this. He had not traded with the Grand Master for invulnerability, longevity or indestructibility, even though these were qualities that had precedents that evidenced their validity as a possible buy exactly because he never wanted to forget the fragility of his own existence. All it would take would be for him to lower his guard for an instant at an inopportune moment and a blade finding him during this time, and Fixer would die like any other man. He wanted this. And he wanted to increase the odds of it happening. He wanted to feel the thrill of knowing that he could lose at any moment.
After all, you needed to have a chance to lose for a game to be truly fun... and it was never more exciting than when the odds were even.

Sadly it seemed that the fun was about to end; even without needing to follow Ixion's gaze, difficult as this was with Fixer looking at the back of the other's head, he had already noticed the sniffer darting at them, and had additionally sensed I'onriyi starting to mold magical energy - and if he could sense it with his modest ability, it probably meant that the penin was almost ready to cast a full spell. As amazing as it would have been to fight these three at the same time - a teleporting assassin, a sniffing vampire acrobat and a powerful penin warlock - he had to remember the rules. Ixion was one of the untouchables, and the two others had real potential for a future fight... if they stuck together, these three might someday even allow Fixer to fight to his fullest ability! But the fact that they were all targeting him, now, at least arbitrarily accepting each other as allies, meant that his job here was done. Blue was dead, he had her Dirge, and it appeared that he had successfully made himself the prime suspect in the tool's murder. It was time for him to leave.
His legs, with the knees planted on either side of Ixion's body - he had not wanted to kill him, after all, and made sure to spare him some of the impact - felt the assassin's arm moving even before he foolishly spoke his taunt previous to his surprise-attack. He smiled. Before he left, he would make sure that at least Ixion understood what the outcome of this fight would have been if it had continued. He quickly kicked off with his legs, raising his entire body up so that he did a fully vertical handstand on just his right arm, hand still planted on Ixion's wrist. He held pose for a moment, staring at the back of Ixion's head, and Ixion would probably notice a very slight tremor in the ground, the feeling of tiny bits of gravel prickling the side of his head and a sound similar to that of a cracking whip directly to the right of his head. The wide legs of his trousers started falling back from them being pointed directly upward, revealing that his legs were wrapped in cloth similar to that around his midsection, once more preventing the exposure of his skin. His violet eyes almost seemed to glow as he turned his gaze up, facing the vampire that was practically flying straight at him.
Smiling, Fixer flicked an internal switch he had constructed in his imagination, and where the sniffer would have violently collided with his undeniably unstable stance he found no resistance, but merely passed straight through. Ixion, likewise, would notice that the weight of an entire man that had previously been weighing down his right wrist suddenly disappeared.

There were many things a man like Grim could find very useful, and which would make him all the more dangerous as the Grand Master's Fixer. Teleportation was an obvious and popular thing to ask for, considering how useful it could be both in combat and in infiltration to be able to move instantaneously from one place to another, but it had obvious flaws: one needed to have seen one's destination, for one, and one had to very clearly define in one's contract exactly what circumstances would allow for additional objects to be teleported along with one. Formulate the deal too loosely and you would bring your opponent with you when moving, and being too careful might mean that you showed up at your destination naked and unarmed. The drawbacks had been much too significant for Fixer.
So then what? He wanted to be able to move quickly, unseen and unheard, to be able to infiltrate places that he could not necessarily see and to, in an emergency, escape harm in the last instant. The solution Fixer had arrived at had been to be able to disintegrate and rematerialize himself at will, including in this transformation only that which he was touching and he had marked with a special sigil that was either carved or sewn into all of his belongings. And so, when he flicked that imaginary switch, his dark-clad form abruptly turned into a silhouette of smoke the same color as his clothes, and when the vampire passed through it, the smoke he touched scattered as one would expect smoke to do. Bits of crusted blood drizzled onto Ixion as the mask's smile crumbled and fell away, unmarked by the sigil as it was, and much to Fixer's annoyance he also heard the dull thud of Blue's Dirge falling to the ground, likewise unmarked and not included in his transformation. Oh well, as long as Corpse Forge did not have it, he could always reclaim it later.
The wind moved, guided by Fixer's will, and the smoke gathered itself anew. Slithering away like velvety darkness it blew into the shadows, where it was virtually invisible.

And to the right of Ixion's head, but a fraction of an inch from where his ear had been, he would find a hole that was an inch wide and four inches deep carved straight into the cobblestone.

---

"Me neither," Gerald nodded his approval at Jillian's dismissal of Renold's plan. "Though I will concede that my..." He paused for a moment, trying to think of the best affiliation to state between himself and the witch. Colleague? That would suggest her being a necromancer and him being a witch, neither of which was true. Fellow exile? That sounded so distant, as though there was barely any association between the two of them... which was technically not far from the truth, but nevertheless felt wrong. Apprentice? Did she even still want to learn necromancy, or had she been distracted entirely from this goal by the promise of greater mastery over black magic? Friend, then? No, that was too sentimental. Ally? Not sentimental enough. In the end, he settled for: "Companion, she did ignore the bit about this Aliostar's knowledge of demons and the cross-planar flow of energy, it still seems like too much of a long shot. I mean, the way you describe him it seems as though we would be as likely to get the information we need from Hazzergash."
"Did we not just attain certainty that the Grand Master and his generals could not be the source of the Withering?" Crone wanted to know, her tone slightly impatient. "And that Himyth would be our most likely culprit? The minions of the Crimson Dawn would not even have awareness of this plot, let alone be in possession of useful clues that would lead to its origin. If they had, would Hazzergash himself not have directed his crusaders to bring an end to the malady already?"
"Hazzergash is also unambiguously our enemy," the Green added. "As is most demons, for that matter. More importantly, Aliostar is not immortal, and as such vulnerable to the Withering himself. I'm not counting on him helping us out of the goodness of his heart, but to save himself."
"I have also beseeched summoned demons for answers before," Crone finally pointed out, "but no matter how much I subdue their wills, how fiercely I enslave them with magic and bind them to do my bidding, they have all refused to reveal that particular piece of information... which means that a will and power greater than mine has already been forced upon them all to prevent its revelation. Summoning alone is not sufficient; one would have to be able to either sense it oneself, or be considered trustworthy by the demons.
And Aliostar is both."

How delightful! Jillian thought sarcastically, as she was surprised that Gerald found himself agreeing with her, rather than refuting her opinion and explaining why she would have been completely wrong. It seemed that the two of them could at least sometimes agree, which would certainly help them in the future. Her emerald gaze sought to make eye contact with the necromancer but her attempt was fruitless, for he was caught up in thought and too preoccupied to share the moment with her, apparently searching for a word. What word? A very specific word. A designation for her, suitable to his point of view. The witch nary had time to consider his options before he settled for the term “companion”. Huh, a suitable word, she supposed, for that was what they were. She wondered why it took him so long to call her that, however. Friend would have been an option that no doubt crossed his mind, but it might have implied a closer bond than which they currently shared – a bond that he was very intent on keeping loose, for whichever reason. In spite of this, he chose to begin his phrase with “my”, rather than just calling her Veldaine or something impersonal. If he were given the chance, she imagined he might have wanted to change this and indeed omit the possessive article, but alas he did not have that chance. No, she imagined that the way it turned out was because of a whim or impulse, which in itself was a window into his actual thoughts and feelings as opposed to those he wanted her to think he had. Whether truth or wishful thinking, Jillian was convinced that Gerald actually desired a closer relationship with her, but forced himself to prevent this for reasons she had yet to uncover. The latter would only be a matter of time, she thought, discreetly staring at him from in between unkempt strands of scarlet hair.

Following the exiles’ thoughts, Crone and the elder dragon insisted on why this other dragon of theirs, dangerous as he may be, was to be their only hope. Jillian could not help but feel as if they were almost scolding the two of them for criticizing their plan, which in turn made her feel upset to an extent. Perhaps her reaction was a product of her naturally rebellious spirit, for she certainly was not used to being put in her place and having to accept someone else’s authority.

“I would say that, even if the Grand Master is not the source of the Withering, to claim that he and his minions are ignorant of this ploy and have no information on the matter is perhaps a little narrow-minded. We have clear proof that the Crusader’s Guild is working towards the same goal as we are, at least in this matter, which implies that they are aware and concerned, and who knows what the other cults are up to, right? What I’m trying to say is that, since we already promised to go after Kevalorn while he’s vulnerable, we should not entirely discard the possibility that he or his crooks could be of use to us. That said,” she added with a shrug, “he’s probably about as reliable a source as a man-eating dragon, so you people take your pick.”

After sharing her piece of mind, Jillian was not even sure why she chose to argue at all. She was not going to sway anyone not to visit Aliostar, and in truth it was unlikely to be any worse than having a chat with Kevalorn. Maybe she wanted to defend her position in spite of the odds. Maybe she wanted to assist Gerald in his reasoning. Maybe it was simply an expression of her not wanting to do any of the tasks set before her. Whichever it was, she lost interest in further discussing the matter, and would concede to whichever retort Crone or Renold were going to make. As she let her impression set in with the gathered people, she again focused her attention on the necromancer, her eyes analyzing his every movement with great care, almost like a scientist would observe an exotic creature. While Gerald may or may not have harbored a concealed interest in the witch, it was undeniable that she was enraptured by his secrets.

I wonder how many heirs there are to the Veldaine-name? Gerald idly mused to himself, seemingly looking at Jillian attentively as she spoke but only listening to her words with half an ear, since he had already arrived at a similar conclusion, and since going with Renold would not offer an immediately applicable solution to the Withering anyway then the urgency in getting there suddenly fell short of that to strike at Kevalorn... or whichever vessel Hazzergash had replaced him with, if the human had indeed expired. I know they are wealthy and possess notable influence in Zerul City, and probably some in Relimon as well, but I don't think I ever actually met a member of the family before, and if I did I'm sure they failed to introduce themselves as such. And I wonder if Jillian would be among the oldest of those heirs? She certainly does not seem to have the patience of one who was nursed as a future head of a major business, yet she is showing a surprising amount of common sense when it comes to chasing different ventures in terms of risk versus gain.
Personally he was starting to lose interest in the discussion of whether to seek out this malicious dragon, though... and though he was deeply ashamed to admit it recent events had greatly dampened his own enthusiasm about most things. Ever since he had contracted the Withering - no, even before that; when his wife had contracted the plague had been when the obsession had first taken hold in him - he had always felt a sense of urgency and importance when it came to his research into the plague, knowing that every minute that went by while the Withering still raged was liable to cost another life, and knowing that every day brought himself closer to incapacitation from the darkness that fed on his very life force.
But now, having learned all that he had learned and feeling as though he lacked just one more clue to be able to purge the Withering from Reniam forever, he could not help but to let realism give way to pessimism as it seemed more and more unlikely that this final clue could be uncovered in time to save himself... and even if it could, how likely was it that the Withering could be ended before it finally overpowered him and his efforts to contain it?
He always had a plan, always knew his next goal and usually the one after that, too. Knowledge, immortality, power, the ability to resurrect the dead and restore his wife to life; none of these objectives meant anything if the Withering ended him before he could end it.
So they had to visit a dragon that might kill them, or hunt down demon-worshippers, either of which might and might not have the answers they sought. Statistically he would estimate that their chances of success, especially if they ultimately explored both possibilities rather than limiting themselves to one of them, were good. The chance of them succeeding before his soul was swallowed by whatever demon had inflicted this vile illness upon the world was significantly less so.

"Considering how aimless their efforts have been," he muttered once the witch finished, sounding perhaps a little more dispassionate than he had up until now but still intent on investing himself fully in this endeavor of theirs - at least for as long as he had left, "I doubt that the crusaders or Hazzergash know more than we do, or even as much. Still, considering that wherever we find this information will probably send us on another chase, this time probably after Himyth - who has been hiding in Reniam successfully for millennia - it seems as though hunting down Hazzergash is the most urgent task at hand. We might as well ask him before we seal him away, but I doubt he knows anything." He shrugged before letting his shoulders sag, feeling suddenly even weaker than he did before.
"But Aliostar may actually have the answers you seek," Renold insisted, but the warlock silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"We were going to visit this expert of yours because of me in the first place," he pointed out grimly, scowling slightly at the dragon's persistence. "I'm saying that there's no point to wasting two days on that trip before we hunt down Hazzergash when all we'll really be doing is giving the Lord of Fire a head start and more time to recover." A sarcastic smile found its way to his lips. "That's what you wanted to begin with, wasn't it? You should be happy. I'll help sealing Hazzergash. The cure... can wait."

But just when Gerald figured the debate would be over, Crone surprised him by abruptly snapping. "You think beseeching a dragon for aid is perilous?" she spat tartly, abruptly sending her right hand shooting inside her shawl to rummage through her clothes for something. "You desire to waste no time but to face the greater risks this poses, both as the sun turn its cycles and you seek out even viler sources of information?" She withdrew her hand from her clothes, now holding what appeared to be a perfectly spherical piece of basalt, slightly larger than the woman's fist. "Very well, then I shall certainly spare the waste of time and offer an alternative."
Gerald opened his mouth, about to sneer at the woman for her impertinence toward his sacrifice and the irrationality of her prioritization, when something made him forget what he was about to say, making his open mouth instead simply hanging agape in shock of what he was witnessing. Visually what happened was less than imposing, with what appeared to be five randomly doodled little glowing golden lines seeming to spread up the stone, originating from about where the necromancer would estimate the center of Crone's palm would be, and combining at the opposite side in what appeared to be a five-pointed star. A scholar like Gerald or a witch like Jillian, however, would recognize that the doodles were far from random, but rather were sequences of words written in the Devil's Tongue. Realizing this made what was happening unsettling in and by itself, but it was not what had astounded Gerald so.
At the same time as the golden inscription appeared on the sphere Gerald had sensed magical energy - a neatly ordered flow of it, too, demonstrating that Crone definitely had not just been boasting when she claimed to be a necromancer - move from the old woman and into the artifact, which seemed to make the artifact itself start to emanate energy on its own. It was only a little at first, but the farther the golden etchings spread across the sphere, the greater this aura seemed to grow until it seemed absolutely overpoweringly huge. The sheer enormity of raw power radiating from that little piece of rock was very intimidating, even without considering the sense of foreboding that came with it and the primal dread it seemed to cause. Even Renold recoiled from its presence, Gerald noticed, and Crone's own ancient features were contorted in fear. There was just something about the atmosphere coming off this rock... something wrong.
It was not until the golden markings had fully formed after a period of maybe three seconds or so, when the dark rock turned crimson, that he could put a word on just what was so wrong about the feeling: it felt evil. Absolutely horrendously, unambiguously evil.
Then, as the crimson orb in her hand started to glow in addition to its markings and actually seemed to start shaking violently, Crone turned her wrist and threw it into the waters of the secluded lake next to them. There was an instant hiss and an explosion of steam the second the stone touched the water, as though it had been extremely hot despite of the fact that Crone's hand seemed unharmed, and then all that could be seen of the orb was the red and golden glow that lit up a small portion of the water.

The atmosphere did not fade, however, but only seemed to grow in intensity. It was hard to breathe through the sheer presence of this power, and Gerald felt his heart start beating irregularly, threatening to give up. Then the steam, which had hung over the area as a shapeless mist until then, seemed to whirl around a common center and gravitate towards the middle of where the light was coming from, and was dyed by the infernal glow of the stone.
The necromancer actually gasped once he realized what was happening; before their eyes the mist was forming a tall crimson figure, clad from head to toe in ominous robes. The figure's hands were long and slender, its head clad in a hood that put its face in shadow, but which bulged on top as though poked from the inside by horns. From the shadow within the hood nothing could be seen but blackness... that, and a pair of blazing red eyes that glared at them with displeasure.
Apparently standing on the water's surface as though it was solid ground, its form slightly translucent and seeming unaffected of the wind, this ethereal figure did not move from the spot.
"So you still possess one of my remaining sigil stones?" came a calm, smooth, almost suave voice from the entity, sounding disdainful and decidedly male. "I thought you would have destroyed that a long time ago, Eliza. A very long time ago."
"Grand Master of Evil," Crone said, apparently to no one in particular, completely ignoring the visage's question, "this is Gerald Glass and Jillian Veldaine. They have something they would like to ask you."