It was all going so well to the last minute plan - the Fixer had landed on top of his ally, giving the vampire a bigger target to attack, the newest member of the brawl of shadows was ready to attack with his magics (or so said the flaring surge of magical energy in the penin's general direction), and Morgan was hurtling towards the grappling assassins at a terrifying speed. 'He is desperate.' Morgan thought victoriously as his target made for a foolishly last ditch dodge, planting himself over the red hood with a single arm. Such a feat of strength was impressive, the vampire could not deny, but as the vampire's legs began to coil for the finishing flying leap, a shadow of doubt floated across his mind, 'Why now would he make such a careless mista--' The vampire's thoughts would be cut short as what happened next, in the midst of the Fixer's action, Ixie's taunting and plummeting dagger, and even Thrainsson's own flying form, caused Morgan's eyes to widen in disbelief and sheer surprise. The Fixer had disappeared; his energy signature, his body, everything -- gone! Only one thought presented itself as the vampire's dark form crashed through the shadowy remains of the legend. 'What magic is this?!'

The vampire's body crumpled into a heap, unable to physically recover with his normal grace. Instead, his eyes remained wide open as the vampire crashed headfirst into the ground's unforgiving surface, his loose clothing easily gather grit and dust onto its brown and green surface as the sniffer skidded to a halt a five or six feet away from the prone form of the sellsword. Morgan would unsteadily rise to his right knee, the sloppy attack brutally punishing his sense of balance. His left gloved hand would rise to head, cradling to dazed skull. 'Did I truly witness what I just saw?' Morgan's hazy eyes darted back to where the Fixer had been only moments ago - yes it was no illusion. Blue's demonic weapon and the remains of smoke were the only remaining proof that their adversary had indeed been there seconds before. Morgan would pull his hand out of the depths of his hood, revealing a wet glove. 'I'm bleeding?' He dabbed more gingerly at his forehead but quickly dismissed it - at worst, it could only be skinned flesh and would recover in seconds. The vampire took up a defensive stance, his legs finding more solid ground as stars in front of his eyes began to fade. Now their common enemy was gone, would his temporary allies become foes? His brows twitched downward for a moment before returning to a deadpan expression under his hooded face, silently waiting for words to be spoken in the aftermath of the Fixer's disappearance.

I'onriyi Stonehand

Making his way towards the new location, as it appeared his target, and the assassin who he'd met earlier, had teleported, I'onriyi again tried to figure out how the man was doing that. The penin doubted that the assassin, Ixion, would tell him even if he asked and this annoyed him somewhat. Nonetheless, there had been a victim and now there was one who he saw as responsible.

Arriving at the new location, having tracked them via their magical energy, the penin was roughly three fourths of the way through his spell, which would have been instrumental in knocking the aggressor of balance. This perhaps would have allowed him to restrain him with a second or third spell while the other two, Ixion and the stranger, distracted the individual. However, as he turned the corner and looked upon the situation he saw that not only would hitting just his target be difficult, but that --miraculously--his target did something unbelievable.

He seemed to almost vanish into thin air. The stranger, who had executed a lunge, flew right through him, and Ixion's attack appeared to fail outright as it met no resistance and thus cut no flesh. So he stood there, mouth somewhat agape, even as the aggressor's energy fled, removing itself entirely from the situation. This left just the three of them: a mage, the stranger, and an assassin. Unsure as to what to do he noticed the stranger move into what appeared to be a combative posture, but nonetheless I'on did not appear to react except for to grip his staff tighter, his knuckles turning slightly white. Grunting from annoyance, and as the wave of physical fatigue began to set in as his adrenaline fell away, I'on walked towards Ixion, appearing to ignore the other fellow entirely. However, in truth I'on's spell remained at the ready, and his senses alert.

He knew Ixion, even if he had been threatening before, but he did not know this other man. It did not help that the man was hooded and his face obscured, as if to make sure that no one could gauge his intentions from his facial expression. Sighing lightly and gritting his teeth, I'on stopped only six feet from Ixion, looking down at him with a look of clear annoyance. In truth he was checking to see if the man was gravely wounded, though he kept his distance as he was not sure if the assassin would recall meeting him. Regardless, it was never unwise to take certain precautions, though in truth the penin hoped that a blast of wind, brought forth through elemental magic, would be enough to deter any assault from Ixion if he decided to turn on him for some reason or another. Afterall, he already had one spell at the ready, and he'd rather reserve it for the stranger as it would be easier to cast on someone further away, rather than Ixion who was only several strides from him.

The edge of his mouth turning down slightly as I'on looked at Ixion, the penin eventually spoke, "So assassin, what's all this about?" There was a distinct annoyance in his voice, though it was primarily derived from his wish to return home and rest, rather than any perceived slight from the man. Nonetheless, I'on did consider Ixion at least a small annoyance at this point, for twice now he had caused him problems.

It didn't help that the entire situation was very suspicious. Hopefully the assassin would be able to shed some light on things, not that I'on trusted him. Problem was, he and the stranger were his only sources in regards to what had just happened.

It was unfortunate, but that was the lay of things. So he waited, hoping that neither human would instigate a second bout of combat, he'd had enough confrontation for one day.

Ixion was still pain-ridden from the fall. He knew that him being pinned down was not going to help out much. If it wasn't for the fact the vampire was in the middle of an attack, he would have thought about teleporting shortly after the attack. He thought about it. If the knife got to the Fixer before the man had, he would probably roll away from the danger. He was definitely done with this fight as his body, nevermind the armour that covered it, was spent due to the damage. Fighting up close was something that he needed to work on. The only thing he knew was taking out easy targets quickly, especially people who are unable to keep up with his mental agility and speed. He never expected to be outclassed by someone who was similar in every way like the Fixer. The assassin had the idea that his thought process was the only thing that stripped The Fixer of his only advantage, but that wasn't going to help if the Fixer was vastly superior in one on one combat than he was.

Just as his lack of ability to fighting was apparent beforehand, he felt the pressure increase on his right wrist as the Fixer kicked off to avoid his attack. He felt the tremor on the ground, though whether that was from the Fixer balancing there or something else. He also heard the crack, causing him to flinch. And just like that, the Fixer disappeared. The assassin felt the weight of his opponent disappear completely. That meant only one thing: The Fixer had teleported away from the fight. This was confirmed when the vampire crashed into the ground the other side of him, followed by a clatter of some sort of weapon. Was his opponent's objective done? Absolutely. The penin would likely suspect him as the killer, not the assassin. As that objective was completed, teleporting away would be a logical idea to get away from the area without killing everyone involved, revealing that the Fixer also asked the Grand Master for teleportation.

It was then that Ixion decided to get himself off of the ground. His arms trembled from the weakness that he was experiencing, the damage to his body apparent to the other two. He looked to the right and noticed the hole in the ground. It was then he realized that if it wasn't for the fact that the Grand Master made him untouchable to the Fixer, he would be another casualty on these streets. There was more anger than fear that was inside of him as a result. The Fixer may have signed a contract with the Ancient One, he thought, both of his hands clenching at the thought. I need to get better. He may have gotten the best of me, but he will not escape me the next time. Unconsciously, he muttered under his breath. “And that is a promise I will keep.”

Once he tentatively gotten onto his knees, he examined the area. He first saw the vampire was still in his combative stance. And why not? The trio's main focus is now gone. Would this temporary alliance crumble? Somehow, inside of the assassin's gut, he thought that this was only the beginning of this small group. Despite every opportunity that there was, the vampire still hadn't launched an attack against him yet, despite Ixion acting against him at some parts of the two fights that had occurred. No, he was someone that he could trust, especially as they are capable of the feats that he had seen before. As for the penin? The assassin definitely had to admit now that he was antagonistic in the past towards him, while he was still under someone else's contract, still needs to be concluded and to determine who had poisoned him earlier. At least he needed to make amends to that rocky first introduction to make sure that the penin had decided to not attack him.

”So assassin, what's this all about?”

The assassin looked up at the penin, clearly seeing the annoyance on his face. He clearly was annoyed at the circumstances that he was in now, also considering the events that happened before Ixion was brought to the Church of Reina. Well, what was the assassin going to say to answer that question: Would he blow the entire cover that The Fixer had made to make sure that they were innocent? Would he lie and keep it? He thought about it for the seconds he took to get up. He was in agony for the duration on getting back onto his feet. Once he was up, he finally got the chance to remove the breastplate, damaged from the fight. He looked down at it, seeing that it was beyond useless now and discarded it, throwing it down an alleyway. “The Blue tool of the duke,” he rasped, his eyes now trained onto the penin while pointing at her body. “She confronted me about the possibility of me being the Fixer. I had tried to clear my name, but then real The Fixer, the person who we were fighting, appeared. We both fought him to the best of our abilities, but it wasn't enough. My... friend here, appeared just as The Fixer had struck her down and started to help me out. That was when you came. He did manage to get a hold of one of Blue's weapons, but I guess it was something that he is unable to bring with him.” Technically, he was bending the truth that it almost was a lie. Yes, Blue had confronted him and was killed by the Fixer himself, but he had to cover the vampire's inclusion in all of this. It would, hopefully, show to the vampire that he wasn't going to be hostile towards them. He then limped towards the dirge that was left behind and gingerly picked it up. “If it wasn't for you two, I would have fell to that fiend. And for that, you have my gratitude.” He examined the weapon, looking for anything that would give to the reason why the Fixer wanted it in the first place. Regardless of that, he would need to keep possession of this. If the Fixer is hunting for weapons similar to this, he would need to keep a hold of it to make sure the Fixer returns to him. And the next time they met, he'll make sure he is more ready than he is now.

”So, assassin, what’s this all about?”

’They are acquainted?’ Morgan thought, red eyes looking from the red hood, to the annoyed penin, and then back to the sellsword, his gloved hands tightening around his weapon. On one hand, this could new discovery could be good. ’One one hand, the mercenary — excuse me, assassin, hasn’t attacked me directly, for the moment. But on the other hand, if he were to now…’ The vampire’s stance also tightened at the thought. It was clear that “Ixie” was injured in some way, but the penin was fresh - battle had not worn on him just yet. ’And between his magics and the assassin’s abilities… I may be in trouble.’ The sniffer considered fleeing the scene, but the hoarse voice’s words caused the vampire to stay, relieving some tense feelings in the process.

’Why is he hiding my involvement from the beginning of the battle?’ Another look between the two men before him. ’Is trust nonexistent between these two? Slowly and deliberately, Morgan would lower his stance by the time Ixion finished speaking. If he was willing to speak a half truth to protect him…

“It’s unwise to call someone a friend before know them.” Morgan commented as staff planted on the ground. “…Friend.” It wasn’t normally in his character to partner with strangers, but then again, he didn’t have much a choice. He had seen too much to just simply let go - to face such skilled opponents, especially if The Fixer were to return (which he would more than likely would in the foreseeable future) and to stay as an opponent would also be unwise. ’First opportunity He gives me…’

I'onriyi Stonehand

I'on's head had to arch back somewhat to look up at the human, but his gaze was unwavering. The annoyance faltered momentarily, weakening somewhat in that moment before he glanced towards the stranger. "I see..." the penin's staff grew noticeably dimmer, as he ceased casting his spell. Some of the energy was lost, but the majority of it was pulled into one of the crystal prisons embedded in the weapon, which he put back in its strap, which was located on his back. Throughout the whole maneuver, the penin's eyes never left the stranger's form, and his left arm remained somewhat tense. Only after the robed figure relaxed his stance did the tension drain away from his body. "I doubt he'll be pleased," I'on stated, eyes briefly glancing at the body before flickering away to rest briefly on Ixion, and then the stranger, "What's your name?"

While his guard never entirely dropped, mostly due to his years as a mercenary, I'on appeared far more relaxed now. Nonetheless, he kept his shoulders squared and his hands ready. Despite looking relaxed his tiredness never shone through, making it seem as if he was indeed ready to go back into battle, full tilt if needed.

He wasn't.

He really just wanted to go lay in his bed and sleep at least the rest of the day away. Nonetheless, it seemed he had a bit more business to take care of, important business. Once Morgan had answered, the penin looked to Blue's body once more and his brow furrowed. Marcus would not be at all happy with this, he thought, but these two were lucky he'd been around to see it. That way he could attest to their innocence in the matter, and he knew that the guards, and the duke himself, would trust his word. "You lot are lucky. Even if you'd left her here and had only been passersby, your magical energy might've been picked up and ya could've been tracked. Perhaps by one of the sniffers..." he trailed off for a moment, shaking his head and letting out a sigh. It was a waste of life, Blue's death. Too bad there'd been such an unfortunate misunderstanding between her and this lot. "Now that I'm here neither of you will take any blame for it. I saw the Fixer with my own eyes I did. Tried to kill one of you, and certainly would've done in the other," he nodded towards Morgan. "Regardless, I think the two of you should stick around awhile, just so no one suspects you of something 'cause you left the city in a hurry. I know a cozy little in that'd put you up, doesn't cost much and if you need any help there I don't mind lending a coin."

Usually I'onriyi was not an openly generous man, but in his opinion they had done well. It was the equivalent of alerting the authorities of a murder, and giving a definite subject for them to look for. Though the Fixer was certainly a dangerous man to be hunting, the mage thought. He'd make an exception for these two, if they accepted. All the better that the Drunken Dove was near his own establishment. It'd be easy to keep an eye on them...after he shut his and got a solid eight hours of sleep. Hopefully uninterrupted. The last thing he needed to do now, after they accepted or declined, was actually notify the guardsman and explain the situation. They could pass on the message and then he could go get some shuteye. Yeah, that sounded peachy.

He just hoped that nothing in the planes'd decide otherwise before he slept.

The word "teleportation" was one of the things Fixer had meticulously researched prior to seeking out the Grand Master to make his bargain with the devil, and one of the reasons that it had taken several days of him and the Ancient One passing their contract back and forth, each time editing it themselves and reading over the changes made by the other, before they were both pleased with the terms they reached. Few people put as much thought into their infernal transactions as Fixer had, examining every individual word in the document, every blotch on the paper, and carefully contemplating the implied meaning thereof; he suspected that his tenacity and cunning in perfecting the deal was one of the main reasons the Grand Master had deemed his service valuable enough to trade power for.
"Teleportation" referred to the transference of something - matter or energy - from one point to another without crossing the space in between. This was what Ixion had traded for, and this was the ability he had gotten; it was evidence of the Grand Master's mercy and generosity that the reappearance upon vanishing was instantaneous, as the term itself implied no such thing. It was not what Fixer had bought, though. Fixer was currently incapable of the feat of teleportation. What he had traded for was "dematerialization", which had similar yet different implications. This word was defined as disappearing and becoming immaterial, just as the opposite, "materialization", which he had also included in his deal, was for something to appear and take physical form. Together the two might produce something reminiscent of teleportation, which was useful, but using the terms interchangeably would be inaccurate; Fixer did have to cross the space between two points, even when he used the devil-given ability. In fact he could cross any unoccupied space in this form, rendering him capable of traversing any obstacle that was anything less than airtight or magically sealed... or he could abstain from moving at all, if he so desired. Unlike teleportation, in which only disappearance and reappearance had significance, his ability was sustainable.
To make a long story short: Fixer had not teleported away. As a matter of fact he was still nearby, except that he remained incorporeal. He was dark smoke in the shadows, the dimmer within the dim.

His form being dispersed into particles was not entirely without its own drawbacks, however. He had been extraordinarily cautious in describing his desired ability when he had made the bargain, and although he was indeed in possession of the abilities he required in this form, they were not quite the way he had wanted them. His vision, for instance, was unreliable at best as long as he remained like this. It was difficult to describe, but even though he had been careful to ascertain that he would remain able to see even while immaterial, it was... different. Without the fixed point of an ocular organ to focus his vision, it was as though he was looking in all directions at once, yet was incapable of actually registering anything occurring beyond noting light-levels and sensing significant movement, and even that he had immense difficulty as much as determining the direction in which it occurred. It took a great deal of concentration for him to direct his vision, gathering the sense and concentrating it in one direction, and even then the image he beheld was rather diffuse and monocular.
It was enough for him to witness Ixion go to the Blue Dirge and pick it up, though. I figured that the chances of it just being left there for me to retrieve it were not good. You take good care of that sword, Ixion; if you let it fall back into the hands of Corpse Forge, I will be quite displeased. There was magic in the sword, but it was dormant and would remain so until the blade was destroyed, at which point it would simply transfer the power within it back to the Corpse Forge headquarters. Even its makers were unaware of the hidden power that Lysis would know how to awaken, so clearly Ixion, even with his sniffer-ally, would have no chance of detecting it. He might recognize the black beads embedded into the intertwined twin blades as Stones of the Doom Mage, though, and realize that this made the Dirge a bane-sword. Would he see any value in a weapon capable of wounding the very soul of the one struck with it? Would he be willing to use it despite of this? Interesting stuff.
Most of his other mundane senses - smell, taste and touch - were completely lost as long as he was in this form, but one thing Fixer found that he could do better like this than when physically manifested was to listen. His sense of hearing was unbelievably acute like this, to the point where he could navigate using echolocation instead of his impaired vision. He could easily hear what they were talking about, and although Ixion implicated himself in what had happened more than Fixer would have liked, it seemed as though I'onriyi accepted the explanation and believed in their relative innocence. Good. Then Fixer's work here really was done, and he could leave.

The ability to remain in an ethereal form like this was indeed sustainable, but not one that Fixer felt comfortable maintaining for anything more than brief durations at a time; though it had not happened yet, he was not going to risk himself losing concentration while like this and materializing with some part of him or another missing. He also needed to get a lot farther away from these three before he dared resuming physical form, lest the sniffer sense his reemergence into the realm of the corporeal. He could also hear the hurried footfalls, agitated heartbeats and slightly labored breathing of four persons approaching the alley, guardsmen if he was to judge by the rattle of their equipment. They would be coming to investigate what had happened.
Riding a wind of his own making, Fixer finally slipped away, soundlessly slithering away. As a disembodied shadow, unattached to any surface but never straying far from them as to seem suspicious, he headed for the outskirts of the city. His business in Zerul was done for now, anyways, and it was probably for the best that he kept his distance for a while, until the people here grew less alert... and until he had a new task here.
For now he would simply need to contact his boss and hear what his next mission would be. After all, the Grand Master was always working, plotting, listening... and he did so enjoy having his very own Fixer.

Well… the assassin thought, listening to I’on as he listened to the penin’s response. At least he bought that half-truth. The last thing that Ixion wanted right now was another fight. While his mind was ready to face that possibility, his body and equipment was. Broken ribs and a lack of the breastplate that he had used to protect himself made him vulnerable to physical attacks, so any attacks from the vampire behind him would prove fatal. The good thing that both the penin and the vampire, judging from the slow change of stance, had decided to stave away from fighting each other.

He turned his head towards the vampire to listen to what he had to say. They were reluctant to call him a friend. The assassin thought back to the past events and still concluded that he is someone to look out for, though that idea is going down on the list of priorities as they have made themselves into a sort of ‘group’ in Zerul, fighting with each other to overcome a common enemy: The Fixer. Who was to be the leader of this group? Ixion didn’t know and didn’t mind whatever the outcome. Ixion thought about the words for a moment before responding. “I’ll give you that much,” he responded, his voice hoarse as ever and hinting pain. “Perhaps in a quieter setting, and when everyone is recovered, we need to know each other better.” Once he had finished speaking his part, he thought about how he is going to speak in the future. His voice is very raw and without the tonic to stop it from hurting much, then he is going to lose the ability to speak altogether.

Ixion listened to the penin speak again, saying how lucky both him and the vampire were lucky that a sniffer didn’t find them first. While that was, indeed, fortunate that a sniffer didn’t reach them first, Ixion thought he would probably be able to escape easily, despite the sniffer’s abilities, due to teleporting. However, he decided against it for the reasons that it would make him the culprit for Blue’s murder and everything that the Fixer had done would be for nothing. Besides, he still needs to collect his payment for the previous contract, so he had a reason to stay in the city for a while longer. Then, when the penin had suggested sticking around and staying in the inn that didn’t cost much, that was something that would be beneficial to him, especially to give him time to heal from his injuries and to collect the payment. There is an increased risk of getting captured for the merchant’s death, but that’s a risk definitely worth taking. A simple word escaped Ixion’s cowl: “Agreed.” He had decided to speak short sentences, most often one word sentences. It conveyed his thoughts and enables him to communicate.

While he waited to hear the vampire for his decision to the idea of staying in the inn, Ixion was still on alert. His eyes still looked about the area that they were in, finally focusing on several of the shadows. While he saw nothing in any of them, the assassin had a gut feeling that someone, something, was still watching them. He then looked back at the Dirge again. While he did know that the Fixer wanted the sword, he didn’t know why. There were black stones that were in the intertwined blades and sensed, in the back of his mind, something sinister about them. He had a few theories on what the stones are, with some of those only coming from the word of mouth, but he would need to spend some time researching them. As the penin is a mage, from deduction, he might have a few books for him to look through for him to read on. He then unbuckled his belt and placed the sword’s sheath, close to where the quick-release loop where the kusarigama’s chain resided. As he finished placing his ‘new’ weapon, looked again at the shadows he was staring at before, but the presence he had felt before was gone. He stood there and wondered what it could be, but he finally dismissed the thought as the presence was no longer there, therefore no longer a threat. The only thing that he wants now is to rest and the penin is offering it, so for now, that is his next course of action.

Morgan didn't respond to the Penin's suggestion, nor his generosity. It seemed all too easy - the "forgiveness," the suggestion of staying in town... 'Is he the law?' The vampire thought irritably, his masked eyes giving the short individual another up-down looked. If he were the law, this alliance may be more short lived than Morgan had expected. The penin's affiliation with the Duke only made the candle flame of anger grow more as Thrainsson continued to listen to the unfolding decisions of the group.

The group - it was odd thinking in a group setting now. Morgan couldn't remember the last party. By the planes, he couldn't remember a party he had been a part of that didn't end badly, or even lasted more than a week at that. True, circumstances and the simple want to survive had pushed him into this predicament, but The Wanderer always seemed to want any new found companions ferried to him within short notice. 'Though this group already seems doomed.' Morgan thought drearily. There was no apparent leader, they were bound to be hunted by The Fixer for the sword the red hooded assassin had just sheathed... More minor details of problems could be mentioned, but the vampire cast them off to the side. These members, himself included, seemed to operate alone. Assassins and mercenaries tended never to play nice with others, nor did they operate well in groups, usually anyway. 'Ironic how the lone wolves must now become a pack.'

Morgan stiffened inwardly at the mention of an inn and "getting to know one another." Inns always seemed to spell trouble for him, unless it was for hunt. Someone always seemed to notice something off about him... even if he remained fully cloaked. It seems no one likes a mysterious individual among their midst. However, the mention of a recovery spelled promise - even though he had been napping in the stone archway of some building, the fight had taxed Morgan - apparently, falling into one of his "episodes," took more than he remembered. 'I will just have to be cautious.' The sniffer nodded his agreement after Ixion's verbal confirmation and was about to sound his own concurrence when something drew his attention, snapping his vision to the alley they had rushed from not moments before.

"We have company."

With his combined talents as a sniffer and vampire, it was easy to detect the bumbling, sweating, panting buffoons known as the city's guard. 'Four of them, by the looks of it' Morgan commented mentally, his eyes narrowing, his hand clenching around his studded weapon. Authority - one of the many things the hooded sniffer hated about society. 'The penin's promise better hold truth' Morgan thought, struggling not to snap in a combative stance, 'Or He will be receiving more than just four souls this day'

No words were being uttered as the four members of the Zerulic Ducal Guard hurried down the street, pumping their legs as they ran at a pace chosen as a compromise between speed and endurance, to ensure that they reached their destination relatively quickly without being too winded to handle whatever situation they were urgently need at adequately. They moved much more easily in their padded leather armor than they would have in heavier equipment, and although their brown cloaks did little to keep them warm when they were blown back by the wind as they ran, it did lend them a somewhat theatrical flair that seemed to impress the civilians on their way boundlessly. Startled citizens cleared the way for them as they went, looking more and more unsettled the closer to their destination they got, and it was never an issue to squeeze through crowded streets, even with their halberds in hand. Any normal day without mysterious flashes of light and the like they would only have cleared a much narrower passage, and just ten years ago they would probably have been lucky to get through at all.
Much had changed in all of the chapters of the Ducal Guard in the years since the outbreak of the Withering, and since the death of Paul IV, the Last King of Rodoria. Before then the guards almost never saw actual combat and their duties were much safer than they were today, since whenever they expected a situation to turn violent or otherwise dangerous they would simply call the soldiers from the army to at least support them during the encounter. Back then all guardsmen were expected to do was to investigate crimes that had already been committed, catch the occasional thief and maybe break up a drunken brawl from time to time, and otherwise just act as keen observers to keep the peace. Until the Ducal Army's resources had been redirected to handle the civil war, guardsmen had never needed to hunt bandits or fight off monsters.
There was no denying that the guards were afraid; their jurisdiction was one of the most dangerous in Rodoria nowadays, after all. Some would argue that Nemhim was worse due to crime being as frequent there as it was and due to how few members of the guard there actually cared enough to do something about it, and the argument could also be made that Gilmah or Seclyr were places where assassinations and assaults, respectively, were much more common, but Zerulic guardsmen would pick any of those places over Zerul. They would much rather have to deal with extortionists, smugglers, assassins and muggers every day than face the occasional magical threat here, in the Rodorian center of magical study and research. How were they, ultimately ordinary men and women, expected to face people that could control the elements, raise the dead and conjure demons to do their bidding? They were not trained for that, and for most of the veterans it was not what they signed up for, either. Many had resigned, unable or unwilling to cope with how the world was changing; most had stayed, either because they were dependent on their salaries or because they felt a true sense of duty that would not allow them to turn away from danger only to let others face it in their stead. A lot had been killed. Far too many...
So it was to be expected for guardsmen heading to the scene of an evidently magical occurrence to be absolutely terrified. At least the Blue Duke was sympathetic to their plight, and despite the economy being as fragile as it was he still ensured that the families left behind by guardsmen who lost their lives received some kind of monetary compensation, as well as he had made sure to raise the pay to the remaining guards, albeit not much, but enough to let them know that he was aware of them and that they were suffering from the civil war too, even if they did not have to fight it. Marcus Zerul was a good man; had he been less eccentric about his study of magic and more involved in the day-to-day governing of his duchy, he could have been a great man. Instead they had to make do with the practical rulers being the nobles and merchants of the city, lead by that slick bunch of lard, Remdal. Such a selfish and ambitious prick; the Ducal Guard, especially, hated Dennis Remdal, and although none dared to say it out loud for fear that their words would reach his ears, many wished that he had managed to blow himself up properly back then, or at least that his stepson, Gerald, had had the guts to murder the bastard before being exiled. They all agreed that his son, Thomas, would do a much better job as the duke's right hand man than his father.

Several months ago, at the twelve-year anniversary of the start of the civil war, the guard captain had held an assembly of the entire Zerulic Ducal Guard, as he did every year, although there were much fewer people to gather now than there had been twelve years ago. In his speech this year he had mentioned that more guardsmen of Zerul had been killed in the line of duty during these last twelve years than over the entire last century, but he had also said that fewer guardsmen had died over the last three years than over the first year of the civil war. It was all pretty confusing to them, since none of them aside from maybe a few of the lieutenants had gone to school and been taught any of that fancy math, but the captain had assured them that this meant that although theirs was a dangerous job now, they were getting tougher, stronger and better; that they were adapting well and rising to the challenge, and that their hardships had made them the strongest of the Rodorian guard companies. Said that while they should remember and mourn our lost comrades, those of them that were left had achieved a survivability that rivaled that of the army, if not even the deo'iel.
While Marcus fell just short, the captain was truly a great man. It was him that had convinced the general and the nobles to allow the recruitment of mages into the Ducal Guard, and even now he was trying to shove his way through the tangle of politics to get the duchies to do something about that scourge, the Crusader's Guild. The Ducal Guard was tougher now than it had been twelve years ago, but many of the crusaders were mercenaries; professional soldiers, people who fought and killed for a living. They could manage stopping small groups of them from time to time, or at least manage to dissuade them from causing undue trouble too close to the city, but ultimately the Guild was simply much more powerful than the Ducal Guard. The army needed to forget about the civil war for a while and take care of those ruffians! Why Etlon allowed the Guild free passage across their borders was a mystery, although chances were that they just did not want to provoke their enmity and end up having to fight them and lose resources they needed for the civil war.
In short, the civil war ruined everything, and none felt this more clearly than the Ducal Guard.

It was with dread of a magical confrontation in their hearts and the determination born from a dozen years' fighting to keep the people safe that the four guardsmen entered the alley, already in formation and prepared for the worst. Three men stood in the front, halberds lowered and ready, and a woman was positioned behind them, aiming down the length of a loaded crossbow and with a shortsword at her hip.
"What is going on here?" the middle guardsman thundered, his gaze being immediately drawn to the corpse of the blue-clad woman on the ground. "Nobody moves! You -"
He abruptly stopped himself as he noticed I'on, and he actually moved to a less battle-ready stance immediately, raising his halberd to a less threatening position and staring at the penin with surprise.
"I'on the Noble?" he exclaimed, looking around to see if the others gathered here were of a similar status within the duchy. In truth he really had no way to say whether they were or not, since they both wore masks, which was usually never a good sign. "What's going on?" He looked at the woman on the ground. "What happened?"

Gerald and Jillian may not have seen eye to eye in all matters, but the witch found it quite pleasing that, at least in this discussion, the necromancer had generally shared her view and feelings. What he said about the Crusaders and their efforts in curing the plague made sense, and mirrored Jillian’s own suspicions, but much like she had thought they should, Gerald also surmised that it could not harm to at least try and gain some information from Kevalorn before they would ultimately undo him. Moreover, both of them had lost their interest in further pursuing this discussion, as Jillian could clearly see – it was one of the presumably rare times that Gerald actually showed signs of weariness, his bony shoulders slumping and his posture betraying a feeling of resignation or exhaustion. Not that she could blame him, after the day’s events or facing the prospect of events to come. She too was gravely affected by the things she had seen that day, and they touched her more deeply than even she was aware of at the time. Thanks to Crone’s restorative spell from before, her body may not have shown it then, but her mental exhaustion ran deep and could only be cured by time. And yet, time was not one of the things she or anyone else gathered there had.

The dark magician must have come to the same realization, for he dismissed the elder dragon’s offer to visit Aliostar entirely, and instead pledged his assistance to helping the guardians of Anaxim with sealing Kevalorn away immediately, before the demon lord had a chance to recover from his wounds and rally his followers. There was a certain sense of nobility in how the necromancer said that the cure could wait, Jillian thought, for she knew what implications his statement carried. To postpone the quest to drag one’s own life from the jaws of certain death for any other cause was not an easy decision to make, and the witch knew not if she would have done the same in his place. How long had he been infected by the Withering by now, she wondered? Knowing that the disease was lethal within roughly a week, she could only guess at how long Gerald had been suppressing his inner death. Months? Years? It was impossible to tell, but impressive either way. Perhaps when things calmed down a little, she would find a chance to talk to him about it. He did not seem like the sociable type, and so she imagined that he might never have really talked about his disease and how he coped with it until then.

But only a fool would hope for things to calm down, for that was not a path that destiny had foreseen for the two exiles. For reasons beyond either of the two’s understanding, Crone appeared upset, or perhaps insulted, and produced a spherical piece of rock from the depths of her shawl. Jillian had little time to wonder why she would even carry around such an object in such a place, for she was to behold yet another one of the ancient woman’s little miracles. Only this time, it was not a work of arcane magic or the invocation of a god’s blessings, but something far more sinister, viler perhaps than even the black magic that the witch was so familiar with. As if the inside of the basalt orb were aglow with a miniature sun, golden lines began forming in a specific pattern across the sphere’s smooth surface, almost like cracks that gave way to the light within. At first, she thought little of the lines, unable to recognize their meaning, but after a few moments of staring at their gilded glow, she realized that she was looking at sigils written in the same language that she herself used to invoke her most devastating of spells: the Devil’s Tongue. Equal parts intrigued and wary, Jillian all but forgot to pay attention to Gerald, her attention entirely devoted to the orb of encapsulated evil resting in Crone’s palm.

Lacking the finely attuned senses of her fellow exile, Jillian was notably slower in noticing the buildup of magical energy that accumulated within the sphere and which began radiating from it, touching – or perhaps tainting – the entire area. In a sense, the sheer enormity of this power was not what unsettled the witch; it seemed that whenever Crone elected to work her magic, it simply had to escalate and turn out to become a spectacle of unfathomable proportions. That this latest trick of hers did not deviate from the established pattern was thus not a true surprise. What did bother her, however, was the inexplicable feeling of dread that came with it; dread that was no doubt justified if so much power was channeled into an object that she could only guess would be used for nefarious purposes. Anything that had to do with demons or the Devil’s Tongue was bound to be vile. Maybe the same could even be said about herself.

Dark energy engulfed the meadow like a black star, radiating what felt like pure evil upon the world. Crone’s own face was contorted with fear or disgust at what she was doing, and indeed, even the mighty elder dragon recoiled from the sphere’s unholy presence. When the golden etchings aligned on the stone’s surface, the entire orb turned crimson like a sword put into the furnace. Jillian’s viridian eyes transfixed on the now vibrating artifact and she began inching closer to Gerald without fully realizing it. Just as it turned a deep red color, the ancient woman hurled the stone into the depths of the nearby lake, where it sunk beneath the quiet depths with a loud hissing that Jillian was quite familiar with, having lived in a household with its own smithy. From where the rock had sunk beneath the water, vast clouds of vapor rose and gathered in a swirling whirlpool of smoke, discolored into an eerie red from the glow which still haunted the lake from its bottom. As if a gateway to forbidden planes, the scarlet mist gave way a mysterious figure, tall and ominous in its appearance. At the time, Gerald gasped in surprise or shock, and he might have felt the unfamiliar grasp of Jillian’s small hands enveloping one of his arms. Having moved entirely on instinct, the little woman had placed herself halfway behind the necromancer and clung to his arm.

"So you still possess one of my remaining sigil stones?" the demonic entity asked, Crone, his voice surprisingly smooth for that of a hellish creature – depending on what one might have expected. Jillian had, after all, never talked to or overheard a demon speak, and thus had no real preconception of what they ought to sound like. In spite of this, there was a certain sense of malice in his tone, a difficult to define hint of evil within the speaker that simply carried over in his words. Even if he had not looked the part, Jillian would have quickly suspected a foul character in the summoned creature – a suspicion that, as it turned out, could not have been better placed. Crone, or as the demon called her, Eliza, revealed that she had beckoned forth none other than the Grand Master of Evil, that vile spawn of Ismyel who was conceived many ages ago and who rules over even the likes of Hazzergash.

Something must have snapped within the witch, or perhaps her brain was simply incapable of understanding or coping with the situation presented to her. Perhaps she simply could not fathom such bottomless evil, or perhaps the combined duress of past events had accumulated too much for her sanity to remain intact. Whichever it was, Jillian suddenly ceased to act frightened – instead, she laughed. As if it was all just smoke and mirrors, or a bad joke, she simply laughed as she stepped next to Gerald, her left hand still clinging to the cloth of his arm.

“Can you believe it?” she giggled, “Some people would call me reckless. Hah!”

Jillian looked at the Grand Master, observing his translucent form and finding it odd that he was see-through. It inspired in her the idea that it might, indeed, be little more than an image, an illusion so to speak, similar to the shadow images that Gerald could invoke. It was also unreasonable that all it took was a stone orb to allow one of the mightiest demons to cross the Divide; the more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed that this here was not the real Grand Master at all, and merely an extension of his consciousness, and thus entirely harmless. Evil, certainly, but harmless. Why did Crone summon him in the first place, though? Nobody had concluded that he somehow held the answers they were seeking. Did she think he would know? Well, he was here now.

“Fine, then,” Jillian concluded after taking a deep breath, her tone sounding more rational this time, “Let’s talk to him.”

“Today can hardly get worse,” she said to herself a little more quietly as she began shuffling closer to the lake and pulling Gerald by the arm if he did not move on his own accord. The two came to a halt at a respectable distance to the shore, not far from where Crone was standing.

“So, well. I am Jillian Veldaine of Zerul – or was, I guess – and it’s, uhm, a pleasure to meet you. Grand… Master of Evil,” she stammered, very uncertain how to address a creature like him. She was torn between being courteous or not, considering that the Grand Master of Evil may not care for such pleasantries, or that he might not even deserve to be addressed with any sort of respect. Yet, being rude to him also felt misplaced, even if his name did trigger the desire to ridicule him for his title.

“So, Gerald?” she then turned to her companion with an expectant look on her face, wanting him to introduce himself or initiate the conversation, or do whatever else the necromancer could think of.

"You are reckless," Gerald felt the need to reiterate when Jillian suggested that she did not appear as much so in comparison to this stunt of Crone's. "But I think I've seen enough to tell that you aren't stupid. Don't make me change my mind now; being stupid around this one will cost you much more than just your life."
He had barely even moved a muscle during the conjuration of whatever sort of aspect of the Grand Master this was supposed to be, simply allowing his companion to maneuver behind him and for her to take his arm, and he remained physically inert as the witch released him and came forward anew. Even when he spoke to her he only moved as much as was strictly required of him to do so; he did not even turn his head to look at her as he did so, or shift his gaze in her direction, but simply kept staring stiffly at the apparition on the water. His mouth was dry, and he was afraid that if he ceased to lock his joints into place and freeze his muscles, he would tremble.
Over the course of his life Gerald had had access to a wide variety of literature and research material, and had learned a great deal about many things; science, history, culture and, more than anything, magic. It did not take someone as learned as him to know that the use of Crone's artifact - this so-called "sigil stone" - was not ordinary summoning magic, or in fact summoning magic as technically defined by the authorities at all. Summoning magic required a great deal of sacrifice from the caster, with the price of performing a summoning increasing massively as the entity one desired to conjure came to possess more power. The Grand Master, who was likely the second most powerful being in existence except the Spirits of Union themselves, would take a sacrifice so huge that it would be practically impossible to completely summon him, and even a partial summoning would be enough to kill even someone with magical reserves as vast as those of Crone. It was because of this, the necromancer had read, that the Grand Master had devised several alternative ways to commune with him, all of which dated back to the glory days of the Infernal Empire, before his imprisonment. One particular method of communication, he had read, were some rare enchanted mirrors that allowed the demon to project the reflection of his own nexus-mirror to them, and show the reflection of the recipient mirror on his end, as well as allow sound to pass through the image. Supposedly the Grand Master could even move objects through the mirrors, send lesser servants through them and even manifest small parts of himself through their surface.
The mirrors were ultimately only conduits, however, and while they were doubtlessly useful to the Crimson Dawn, Gerald could not imagine them holding any real power. The Grand Master was still stuck on one side, and his agent on the other. This sigil stone, however... once activated, it had become a conduit of the Grand Master's actual power. It was not just an image being projected here; that artifact was actually channeling part of the deity's sealed-away power here and was using it to manifest this spectral image. He could feel the power even now, emanating from the stone rather than the image produced by it, but frighteningly immense in its scope.
Addressing a demon lord was rarely a good idea at all, but unsealing part of their power was downright foolish. What was Crone thinking?

"He knows who we are already," the warlock pointed out dryly, finally undoing the petrifaction that had gripped him to follow Jillian as she approached the fiend. "And considering that he apparently knows Crone -" Better than we do, he added mentally, having noted the use of a different name when the demon addressed her, "- he probably also know why he is here, too."
"I do, mostly," the Grand Master confirmed with a shrug, his fiery eyes in the darkness of his hood shifting from Jillian to Gerald, then back again. "I know that you, Jillian, knew wealth before you became a fugitive, and that you were the apprentice of Vincent the witch, who taught you the black magic that cost you your old life, and with which you killed him." His gaze moved back to Gerald. "And I know that you, Gerald, are inflicted with the Withering, but are withstanding it through the application of necromancy, which you learned by feigning intention of joining the Black Tribunal and then betraying them once you'd learned their craft. And I know," he added, his voice assuming a hint of amusement, "the irony of that, considering that if you had become the way you are now much earlier, you could have saved the wife and unborn child that the plague stole from you." He chuckled. "In fact I know a lot more about you two than you do yourselves. Quite interesting things, I might add. About your father, Gerald... and your past, Jillian."
Gerald gritted his teeth and clenched his fists around the firmness of his staff, staring daggers at the demon. The Grand Master had had nothing to gain by revealing these things; he must have done it simply to spite them.
"I also know that since Eliza used my sigil stone to call me here, what you require from me must be very important and difficult to obtain," he continued after several seconds of simply observing the two magi. "And since the sigil stone binds me for as long as it is active, I have no choice but to indulge in conversation with you, lest I have to stay here all day. So what do you want? A cure for the Withering? Because people have asked me for such many times already, and I do not have it."
"We know what the Withering is," Gerald hissed, and he would have sworn that the Ancient One's eyes widened in surprise at this. "We need to know where the demon causing it is so we can stop it."
"Oh my." The visage on the water slowly raised its arms in front of it, then started clapping its slender glove-clad hands. "And you have determined the identity of the culprit behind the Withering too, then?"
"No, merely eliminated you and your servants as a possible source. We suspect Himyth."
The Grand Master chuckled gleefully. "I do know who is causing the Withering and where this entity is," he confirmed, which actually surprised Gerald a little. "So tell me: what will you give in return for this information?"

I'onriyi Stonehand

Nodding at Ixion's words, the penin's eyes turned towards the other fellow, a man who he did not recall learning the name, no matter. However, before the man had a chance to reply properly, his head turned at a sound. A few moments afterwards the penin heard the sound that had apparently drawn the human's attention. It was the noise of quickly moving feet, booted feet, as well as the clatter of armor, or at least metal. The guards had finally decided to show up, how punctual of them. Then again, he didn't blame them, after all, the majority of them used little, if any, magic and so dealing with magical combatants or criminals was a dangerous business. In fact, it was dangerous even with a mage to back you up.

His eyes following the stranger's to the entrance of the alley, I'on strode past Morgan, standing before all three individuals, well two really considering one was upon the ground and quite dead. Nonetheless, that's where the guardsmen would find him when the entered the alley and posed for battle--though it would not have been much of one had it come to that.

It wouldn't, at least the penin had no intention of letting it. Luckily, and not the least surprising to I'on, one of the guards almost immediately recognized him--though he did use that damned annoying nickname. Had he not been exhausted he may have smiled to hide his irritation, but such was plainly not the case. "What happened?" I'on raised an eyebrow, a frown coming over his face, a look that would be quite familiar to the guard if he'd ever encountered the mage before, "What happened is this poor woman was attacked and now lies dead and ye're late." Sighing, I'on made an effort to appear as if he was calming his temper, a temper that was fairly well known. Shaking his head and brushing himself off somewhat, the penin looked between the guards, before locking eyes with the wielder of the crossbow. His eyes narrowed, and he spoke once more, his eyes never leaving the woman's. "That is Blue, who, along with myself and these two, were attacked by the Fixer. Rather unpleasant isn't it," the penin gritted his teeth and clenched his fists before relaxing his hands again and continuing "She thought Ixion," he jabbed a thumb back at the man, "was the real Fixer, she was sadly mistaken, as proven by the fact that we were attacked by the actual one. More accurate ta say that they were attacked and I came runnin' to investigate. As if my day hadn't been rough already," he rubbed his temples a bit with one gauntlet covered hand before abruptly moving it away with irritation. He pulled each gauntlet off, one after the other, and stored them in his pack.

He was, or at least appeared to be, totally at ease despite the guards before him. "I intend to take these two men to a nearby inn, the one close to my shop, I'm sure you know it. They'll not be leaving town, so no reason to fret. If you're in need of further answers you can question them tomorrow, same 'ere. Been walkin' and dealin with chaos ever since I started making my way back," the last bit he muttered to himself in annoyance. He hoped that dealing with that ore lizard would be worth it in the end. It was really too bad that its thrashing had done so much damage, otherwise he surely could've gained a magnificent hide from the creature.

“Fine,” Jillian dispassionately sighed with a shrug, shifting her gaze back to the Grand Master who confirmed Gerald’s assumption. If he knew everything already, why did they bother talking at all? He might as well just spit out his answer and be gone, saving them the trouble. However, he would not be a demon if he so easily cooperated with puny mortals such as the witch and the necromancer, and in an exemplary display of fiendishness, he chose to openly reveal rather sensitive information about both of them, in a way forcing the two to get to know one another better in an unexpected way.

“I didn’t!” Jillian hissed in protest, stomping her foot in the cold grass. It wasn’t my fault! her mind’s voice rang in her head. I had no choice! I couldn’t control it! Vincent was dying before I even cast the damn thing! I did not kill him!

The mere thought of Vincent and the accusations that came with it was enough to force a handful of small tears into her scornful, poison-colored eyes. Not satisfied with only spiting Jillian, however, the Grand Master continued with unveiling similarly unwanted knowledge about Gerald and his own past, forcing a similar reaction in the necromancer – Jillian had not seen him this angry thus far. Being the person that she was, the little witch could not help but listen with great interest to all the things that the demon had to share about her newfound companion. She felt conflicted between her own curiosity and a feeling of guilt for acquiring all of this information without Gerald’s consent. While perhaps not relevant at the moment, she could easily foresee awkward moments later on when they had only each other to talk to, knowing what the other knew about them. At the very least, however, this knowledge gave her a more definitive picture of who Gerald was, and would allow her to better understand him in the future.

Having observed the two magicians for a while, the Grand Master then changed the subject to the more relevant matters at hand, guessing at why he had been called here. Clearly, he underestimated their efforts, for when Gerald explained the state of their quest, the old demon almost appeared surprised – though, with his kind of behavior it was difficult to tell if it was fake or not. After a brief back and forth the latter then admitted that he in fact knew who was causing the Withering and even where they were, in turn surprising the Zerulic outcasts. Only now the Grand Master began asking for something in return if they wanted to know more, old serpent that he was. As a witch, Jillian felt perhaps more kinship with the denizens of the lower realms than most, yet even she knew very well that any kind of trade with a demon, especially one such as he, was seldom a good idea, and she was not willing to make that kind of exchange. Pushed by the remnants of her spite from before and this bit of wisdom, she stepped forward and confidently exclaimed:

“Nothing at all of course! You’re as much as a winner as we are if we manage to banish the Withering. Your minions are already trying to do the same, and I’m sure you are aware of how miserable they are at it.”

“Let’s be honest,” she continued, a sly grin creeping up on her thin lips, “this world would be terribly boring even for one such as yourself if humans ceased to exist, wouldn’t it? The only thing stopping that from happening is us. You want to help us, and you don’t need a special reward for doing so.”

The indignation Gerald felt towards the Grand Master for having revealed their secrets was, contrary to what one would be tempted to believe, caused almost entirely by the intent behind the revelation. What angered him was not that Jillian had learned these things about him, but that the information was revealed as a means to spite them. These parts of the warlock's past were personal, certainly, and by no means things that he wanted anyone to know about, but ultimately they had no practical importance. Besides, if he was going to be teaching Jillian necromancy - or at least try to do so, if she was indeed still interested - she would inevitably come to have a much greater insight in his core nature than any amount of unveiled secrets could give her. That was one of the things he had been the most surprised about when he had been taught by the Black Tribunal's emissaries; the exercises of a fledging necromancer under the tutorage of an experienced one, when done right, laid bare their souls to one another and forced them to share their innermost beings with one another. His teachers had not been alarmed by what they had witnessed, apparently, since they kept teaching him, but Gerald's resolve to betray them had been reaffirmed greatly through the boundless greed and ambition he had witnessed in his teachers. Perhaps their lack of suspicion came from them seeing that very same greed and ambition in him? He would probably never know, and he suspected that he really was no better than them, but it did not matter. They had been a means to an end, a way to obtain necromancy in a world that abhorred it, nothing more. He needed their knowledge to acquire the skills required to fulfill his goals; he did not need them.
Of course he was a little worried how the witch might react to learning that the source of his necromancy was none other than the notorious Black Tribunal, and that he had tricked, used and betrayed them, but not too much; if she wanted his necromancy she had to stay regardless, and if this made her reconsider her decision to learn... well, he would be alone again, but she would never have made it through the training anyway. He would do things differently with her than the Tribunal had done with him - teach her through self-devised methods that were less macabre and cruel, but were likely to take longer time - but necromancy was a disturbing magic to learn no matter what, not to mention extremely testing in regards to one's mental, spiritual and moral fortitude. If something like this put her off, she would never be a true necromancer, and she would soon leave him anyway.
He was slightly more concerned about the revelation that Jillian had apparently killed the witch that had taught her black magic, which undeniably was at least one step worse a betrayal than he had wrought against his teachers, but hot as her temper had proven to be he doubted that she would kill without good reason. Additionally, her reaction seemed to suggest a sincere disagreement with the Grand Master's claim... but he doubted that the demon, Lord of Lies or not, would lie about this. A murder that was not a murder... an accident, then? Black magic was extremely volatile and dangerous, after all; it was only a few hours ago that she had warned him that her spells might hit themselves in addition to their intended targets. If so, he would be far less worried; necromancy was probably the least volatile school of magic, and while it could kill, he had never heard of such a thing occurring accidentally.

When the Grand Master posed his demand of something to be paid in return for the information they needed, Gerald's mind was already racing before the demon had even finished his sentence, trying to work through various possibilities of what they could think to offer that would be seen as fitting recompense by the infernal salesman before them. Power demands sacrifice, after all, and for something as incredibly valuable as a means to end the Withering he suspected that the sacrifice would have to be great indeed.
His initial reaction to Jillian's hasty and arrogant reply was outrage and panic, thinking that a response like that might put the Grand Master off the deal entirely and make him refuse to bargain with them on principle unless they offered even more. What did I just tell you about not being stupid, girl? You just ruined everything! But as she explained just why it was that they would offer nothing for the knowledge, the withered man's expression quickly softened as he inwardly chastised himself for thinking her stupid and started wondering if she was perhaps even more insightful than he had already given her credit for.
Overconfident as she may be, there is truth to what she's saying. The demon causing the Withering is not one of his servants, which means it's one of his rivals; aiding someone in obstructing this demon's work would actually be beneficial for him. This knowledge is extremely valuable, certainly, but this definitely lessens his sacrifice in revealing it.

Turning his attention back to the fiendish mirage on the water, Gerald found the Grand Master staring blankly at Jillian, his head cocked to the right. His arms no longer hang down his sides but were crossed over his chest.
"My minions are... oh, you mean Hazzergash's puppets!" He laughed, a strangely human and almost likable laughter. "The so-called crusaders are Hazzergash's, Jillian, not mine. Surely you can't expect me to hold that dog's leash while I'm still stuck were the Nomad put me? No, I have nothing to do with what Hazzergash and his minions are doing. But..."
He paused, staring at both of them with frightening intensity. "Yes, you are rather insightful for a mortal. Very few realize that the truest distinction between myself and the Lord of Darkness is that while he seeks to destroy, I merely desire to rule. It would sour my eventual return as ruler of your world significantly if you mortals had been wiped out before then. I do want the Withering to end, and my Crimson Dawn has indeed tried to act upon my knowledge... tried and failed.
But surely you see that this information is still much too valuable to give away freely?" he explained with a vague gesture of his right hand. "And it is a deal I will likely only ever be able to make once... and even if I do tell you where to go, there is no guarantee that you succeed. My agents failed; why would you not? Then I will have gained nothing."
He sighed. "Tell me this: how am I supposed to believe that two mortal mages could have any hope of vanquishing a demon with the power to kill millions? And who, as I'm sure Gerald will have figured out already, has bolstered its own strength with the power stolen from the victims of the plague? I do enjoy a good gamble, Jillian, but you have to admit that the odds are not exactly in your favor. And I don't make bad bets."