The squad of Zerulic guardsmen had been nervous - indeed, almost downright scared - when they had rushed into this secluded alley to investigate whatever clearly magical occurrence had taken place there. They had then been gripped with grim determination the second they had laid eyes upon the corpse sprawled on the dusty ground, lying in a pool of blood too small for her to have bled out or have been dead for very long, and had immediately and collectively summoned the resolve to face the murderer in a battle of life and death if circumstances required it. Indeed, one man - the halberdier taking the leftmost position in their formation - was even assailed by righteous anger, and felt a true desire to exact vengeance. Doing so would not have been productive, though, and any guardsman in this day and age knew that to kill and murder were not necessarily the same thing; they needed the whole story before they acted. So they were on the defensive, ready to die for the justice they believed in and worked to protect, wary of what might be truth and what might be trickery. All that determination and single case of fury melted away once they recognized I'on, however; they knew the penin by reputation and had seen him from a distance from time to time, and they knew that he was considered a respectable and lawful denizen of their city. He was a personal friend of the Blue Duke, even, so while the enchanter did not truly have any authority over them whatsoever, holding no actual noble title, there still was an instinctual tendency in them all to defer to his judgment. He could be trusted, they thought; he would tell them the truth. While none of the guards showed any outward reaction to I'on's chastisement for their tardiness, the middle- and front guardsman - the corporal and leader of their squad - did mutter about them having come as quickly as they could once they had become aware of something happening, but before he could go into justifying the time of their arrival further and louder, I'on spoke again, automatically commanding their attention. The woman at the back, a private trained as a crossbowman, actually timidly lowered her crossbow under the intensity of the penin's glare and averted her eyes from his, feeling for some reason as though she was to blame. None of the guards had any idea who this "Blue" was, however, nor this other character referred to as "the Fixer". The existence of the tools was a secret kept and maintained by the very highest echelons of Rodoria and Kirkin, neither country being aware that the other had tools as well, and one that was shadily ensured would never be publicly known by the enigmatic organization known to its members as Corpse Forge. The existence of the Fixer, likewise, was something that a lot of powerful people went to great lengths to hide, since not only was he a renegade tool himself, but was also an agent of the Grand Master that had proven extremely hard to deal with, and which had harassed units across northern Kirirak devoted to foiling the efforts of the Crimson Dawn for years. He not only a dangerous secret, but also an embarrassment to all the people and organizations he had humiliated since his desertion. These guardsmen were at the bottom of the chain of command, as far from the top as one could possibly be, so for I'on to expect them to have even the faintest clue who these two characters were was probably rather unfair, since there was practically no way at all that they could know. They had heard about the mess Ixion left earlier after his contract, but they did not know who the culprit behind it was, and since this man was apparently with I'on, they did not immediately peg him as a suspect and felt no need to apprehend him. Indeed, the guards would have been liable to let them all go, albeit with a message that all three of them would probably be wanted for questioning later, once they were done investigating the crime scene - which would never happen, obviously, since this murder and Fixer-sighting would be swept under the rug long before then - had the situation not abruptly escalated. One of I'on's two companions growled and stepped toward the lead guardsman, reaching for his halberd and swinging his staff at the corporal's head. Before anyone could react the other one - Ixion - was suddenly between them, intercepting the first one and blocking its blow with a wicked-looking sword... which, upon making contact with the staff, gave a dim pinkish flash from the little black stones embedded into the entwined twin blades and in the eyes of the horned demon's skull at the guard, accompanied by a sound reminiscent of a faint whisper. Then something or another suddenly came darting from out of nowhere, striking the assailant in the head and apparently knocking him unconscious on the spot. After all of this had happened in such rapid succession, it was only then that the guards found themselves capable of reacting. Moving immediately, yet with an organic and natural coordination with one another, the corporal and the female crossbow-wielder behind him stepped backward while the guardsmen at the flanks stepped forward, quickly switching from a defensive formation to an aggressive one, moving to halfway encircle the attacker. Halberds were once more lowered and ready to strike, and the crossbow was raised anew and trained first at the one that had moved to attack them, then at Ixion, then back at the nerveless aggressor. No one attacked, however; not yet. "Reina's tits!" the corporal exclaimed obscenely, clearly shocked and frightened. "What in the Planes?!"

“On three, then?” The old man asked. Kaedan nodded in return.

 “One, two, thre-“ The man grunted in pain as his frail arms gave out. The cart they were trying to lift came down again, but Kaedan was able to hold it back from collapsing on its side completely.

 “Are you alright?” Kaedan asked. He was still holding up the cart, preventing it from crushing the old man underneath it. The man gasped for breath and crawled out from beneath.

 “Yes… yes, I am.” He replied. With the man out from underneath, Kaedan slowly eased the cart down. Sweat was beginning to build up on both of them. Kaedan wiped his forehead and looked at the tipped over cart that he had failed to turn upright. Even with most of the cargo removed, they still couldn’t tip it back together. “Shame…” He muttered under his breath. The old man’s grandson and granddaughter were sitting on a patch of grass nearby. Both of them were motionless, oddly quiet for ones their age. The warm winds of the afternoon were dying down to give way to cooler ones, and sundown was on its way.

 “Where are you headed?” Kaedan asked. 

“Zerul.” The old man answered as he sat down on the grass. He looked out of breath. “It’s the only place we can go now.” 
Kaedan raised an eyebrow at that. “You don’t have a homeland?”

 “Have you not heard?” The old man asked. He took a deep sigh, but once he saw that Kaedan was still confused, decided to give an explanation. “An ungodly beast prowls our Nemhim City. It is the homeland of nay but death, now.” 

 It all came together. The worried look on the man’s face, the children acting cold and distant, the cart filled with food and supplies, piled together haphazardly as if by last minute. The horse that had been pulling the cart had recently tripped and broken its leg, and had caused the cart to tumble down. No one else was hurt, but now the steed was down on its side, breathing heavily as its chest went up and down. There was blood seeping from its leg, and flies had already begun to get drawn in. The crash must have happened over half a day ago.

Kaedan had been moving on foot for the past two months, and had wandered into this wreckage earlier today. He still had all of his armour on, but his tower shield was laid bare on the grass. He picked it up and strapped it onto his back.

 “You shouldn’t stay here.” Kaedan said. “Which supplies can you make do without? I can carry what you need.” The old man was hesitant at first, but he accepted Kaedan’s offer and sorted out three potato sacks filled to the brim with various assortments of food. Kaedan carried two on his shoulder, and one underneath his other arm, while the man carried some clothes and water. Along with the two grandchildren, the four of them continued towards Zerul on foot.

Movement and a sound like a feral animal caused I'on to begin turning, but it was over almost before it had begun. Ixion, once again, preformed what appeared to be teleportation and I'on, once again, had no clue how he was doing so. No incantation of any sort, no preamble, just sudden transference from one locale to another. Effortless. Still, that was the least of his worries for the soldiers quickly sprung into reaction despite the man's now unconscious form lying upon the ground. He was glad Ixion had acted quickly, but now this was going to be far more complicated. His hand, in reflex, had moved to his staff, which was now drawn up in front of him, his energy traveling through it. Noticing that he was wasting energy out of reflex he relaxed his grip on the conduit and turned towards the scuffle, his frown deeper. "Good reflexes," he stated, looking at Ixion, then the strange blade he wielded. It had not bothered him as much when it was sheathed, but now it gave him an odd feeling, a shiver up his spine. Perhaps it was his lack of sleep, perhaps not. He'd ask later. Now at something of a loss, I'on was unsure as to what to say or do. If only the idiot could have kept his calm rather than attack. There had been no reason to, in fact the only explanation he could think of was adrenaline, and even that was hardly enough of an excuse. Letting one end of his staff touch the ground, the penin rested his weight on it slightly. He needed a break from all this trouble, but it was his own fault that he'd let his curiosity get the better of him. "Well, that was unexpected," he said, sounding confused, for he was. Hopefully this could resolve peacefully and simply soon...he'd had enough action for a week.

[[Nothing.]]

“He wants to be sure that he profits, even if we fail,” Gerald muttered to Jillian in a hushed tone under the curious and watchful gaze of the Grand Master. The witch did not reply, but her face contorted in a disapproving grimace. It was clear that Jillian did not value raw information as much as the greater demon before her, or indeed Gerald did, and so she gave up on further arguing her point. Perhaps her attitude was a result of growing up in a largely materialistic household, one that quite literally heaped piles of gold, if only to sell it again. Or perhaps it was due to her naturally reckless nature that favored impulsiveness and the taking of risks over careful premeditation and the gathering of information before acting. The latter at least showed itself very clearly in how she chose to exercise magic: with the most dangerous and volatile spells she could get her hands on, while foregoing the studious habit of keeping records in a magician’s tome. The Grand Master confirmed that Gerald was right, and that he was unwilling to consider Jillian’s proposition. He also voiced his doubts as to Jillian’s confidence and commitment in the quest ahead, seeing how their chances of success were apparently quite slim – unlike her necromancer friend, who would go to the ends of the earth if it promised even a sliver of salvation, for even that was more than enough to be worth risking everything for. Of course, Jillian knew; Gerald was a cornered man with nothing to lose. He was already forced to bury his pregnant wife, had lost his home just like she had, and was now inflicted with a mortal disease that knew no cure. Yes, she would also risk everything if there was a chance to save herself, no matter how implausible it might be. In the small pause that followed, a pair of viridian eyes cast a wary glance at the dark robed sorcerer, but only for a moment before a snap of the fingers forced Jillian to return her attention to the demon lord once more. “I have an idea!” he exclaimed with great enthusiasm which, ironically, caused a very opposite reaction in the witch before he even voiced it. Somehow she knew that if he would deem something a good idea, she was not going to like it. Two weeks! It was all Jillian could think of, arms crossed underneath her chest and nervously tapping her right foot on the ground. Preposterous! If the Withering was bound to a demon then chances of ‘curing’ the ailment were abysmal as it stood, but to accomplish such a feat in two weeks? Outright impossible. And the losing consequence? Oh, by the Planes, really? She almost wanted to laugh in the demon’s face. Her soul? He could not have possibly named a more predictable prize for winning this bet of his. On a less amusing note, he seemed very insistent on acquiring Gerald’s staff of all things. Jillian took a brief peek to the side in hopes of catching a glimpse of the alleged artifact; up to this point she had failed to notice anything particularly interesting about it. In fact, if asked to remember what it looked like she would be unable to describe it at all. The Grand Master may or may not part with the information they wanted by the end of the day, but he most certainly told her very much about Gerald – far more than he would have shared with her to be sure. “Terribly generous, yes,” Jillian affirmed with a hint of sarcasm in her poisonous tone, “but I’m not liking it. I have gambled before, and if the dice aren’t loaded on this one then I’m the duchess of Zerul. Two weeks to banish the Withering is ridiculous, and you know it too. You made it very clear that our chances of accomplishing this at all are close to none. If you think I’m willing to give you my soul for this, then you’re mistaken. And really, my soul? At least you made a creative request of Gerald. Besides, as a sorceress, you must know that it’s the most precious thing I have.” “Ugh, Gerald,” she sighed as she turned to her companion, “I don’t know if this is going anywhere.”

Once upon a time there was a man, a man with a family and dreams, but little else. Not a partucularly smart man, nor was he fast, strong or skilled; he was, for all intents and purposes, just a man. This man worked long and hard hours in a quarry in Golerin just to scrape together enough money to feed those dear to him and protect the precious little he had. Even when he did that his wife still had to do the laundry of more fortunate denizens of the land, competing with the host of others who were all desperate to earn even a little to survive in a country that at the time was plagued by poverty. Like so many others they dreamt of more, and were inspired by the tales of Roland the Ambitious, who achieved untold greatness despite his humble origins. Stories of this man were told to the man's children, providing fuel for their dreams to rise to new heights and ensuring that the roots of discontent burrowed even deeper in their hearts, making their lives all the more insufferable. One man with a family out of countless, each with its own story, each wanting their story to be different.
Their story changed, however, when the man one day came upon the wreckage of a caravan that had been heading for one of the cities of Golerin. It had been assaulted by goblins, which had killed everyone and stolen most of the cargo on the carts. Not all of it, though. Setting his conscience aside to chase his dream, the man had delved into the wreckage and looted everything he could find, which amounted to a respectable amount of wares that could be worth quite a bit, although none as impressive as a set of ornate platinum finery, which were doubtlessly worth a fortune.
The man went home, calling out to his family and showing them what he had obtained, and before the end of that week their family had uprooted their lives and went traveling north, financing their journey by selling or trading the loot from the caravan to whoever wanted it. They saved the finery for as long as possible, but eventually even pieces of that had to be let go.
Then came the day when they reached the promised land, the country where the insignificant could see their dreams realized; the land of Roland the Ambitious, Rodoria. The man took his family to Zerul City, home of the Academy of Magic and its famed platinum gates, and here he sold nearly all that he had left to fund the purchase of land and construction of a tavern. He was happy; his family helped him run the place, and the customers were pleased with how the business ran. The Platinum Goblet, named after the last remaining piece of finery from the set, became one of the more popular watering holes of the city, and one that attracted travelers visiting the city for them to spend the night.
In an age where all attention seemed focused on those with great ambitions of power, immortality and wealth, perhaps this man was remarkable after all, for his dream was simply to live in peace and safety. The man lived well, his dreams realized. And then he died.

Fast-forward sixty-three years, past the handing down of the tavern across two generations, the theft of the namesake of the tavern and a number of poor decisions and lack of interest by the decendants of that man, and the Platinum Golbet was no longer a place that would have made him happy. The floors were dirty and creaked when one walked across the floorboards, the glasses were greasy, the bedsheets faded and stained, and the drinks were watered down. Half a dozen small, round tables were scattered across the room, each inadequately illuminated by a single candle after their ancestor's chandelier, which had kept the common room so nicely lit, had been sold. All that remained of those days of cozy warm light now was the iron mounting in the ceiling, from which the chandelier once hang. Two of the tables had five chairs around them, the other four only had four chairs. The counter with its barstools was probably the cleanest place there, and even that had stains so old that they had become part of the wooden surface, seeping into the core of it and ruining it forever. A stench of alchohol, sweat and vomit hang in the air, prompting one to regard the gloom with suspicion and discourage one from straying too far from the islands of light that were the tables.
Despite of this the Platinum Goblet was busy this evening, and its common room was filled to the brink. With the influx of refugees from Nemhim every inn and tavern in Zerul City had been besieged by those who had recently been made homeless, many of which had lost everything and were left to either live at the mercy of the more helpful Zerulic citizens or seek out shabby establishments such as this, where a night could be spent warm and dry for just a rodlin or two, and one could have a drink to calm one's frayed nerves for another silver coin.
The misfortune of these people was evident just by looking at most of them; most wore clothes stained with dried mud, and there were many for whom the mud was mingled with bloodstains. Clothes were torn and worn from their trials, and many still had the fear of that which had chased them from their home written on their faces. Mugs of cheap beer and ale trembled in the hands of quiet patrons, while the dark corners were the origin of desponent sobbing of men and women alike. Children wept as they were taken to the stairs in the back of the room, which lead to the upstairs bedrooms, to face a night that promised the return of nightmares better forgotten. Fear and mourning permeated the air; the legacy of the monster of Nemhim was more evident here than anywhere else. These people were the lucky ones... the survivors.

Two people here stuck out, however: one was the tavernkeeper, a bulky, sweaty man with annoyance in his eyes, clearly disatisfied with having to deal with all these people and the inconvenience they represented; the other was a woman in a faded-red dress of velvet, of which the back was open to accomodate the trail of black feathers that grew along her spine and all the way onto her scalp. Seeming small and lost among the surrounding humans, being feeble of frame and only five feet and an inch tall, the crimson eyes of this lone true deigan regarded the refugees around her with concern and compassion as she went around the room, offering water, bread and sympathy. The hem of her dress was ripped, and around the room several injured refugees could be seen with faded-red velvet bandages.
Everyone stayed at least several feet from the entrance, a simple wooden door that on the outside had a sign with silver-speckled letters denoting the name of the tavern. A door through which a certain member of the Brotherhood of the Cardinal would soon enter...

---


Gerald had to sigh when Jillian replied to the Grand Master's offer, once more feeling whatever hope remained in his heart being drained by the cruel circumstances that seemed to eternally stack the odds against the success of his quest and, by extension of that, his survival and that of his immortal soul. He did not look at her immediately, nor did he respond when the witch turned and addressed him; instead he simply stared into the ground in front of him, the flame of his amber eyes dulled with fatigue and age far beyond the years he had lived. His sigh was not an impatient one, nor was it a sound of disapproval; it was merely the sound of someone moving one step closer to the edge, so very tempted to give up, but driven by a stubborn desire and ambition that would not allow him to surrender, no matter how hopeless it was. His goals were everything; he had to live.
Being able to end the Withering within two weeks does seem improbable, he thought, slowly closing his eyes in thought. Particularly since I've spent years trying to figure out how to do it, so it would be natural to assume that the Grand Master was setting the conditions so that he was certain to win. Indeed, normally I would assume that any terms of a bet suggested by a demon, let alone the Lord of Lies himself, would be tailored to be impossible to meet... But as pretty much everyone has pointed out by now the Grand Master would actually win even if he lost. The fact that he set up the bet the way he has means that he considers the end of the Withering worth as much as a mortal soul and an ancient artifact.

He opened his eyes to find the demon lord meeting his gaze directly. "I think it may be a hint," he muttered quietly, his words meant only for Jillian though he had no doubt that the fiend would hear him anyway. "He wants the Withering ended, we know that already... I think he is trying to tell us that once we know how to do it, the Withering actually could be ended that quickly. That it is possible to win or lose within that timeframe."
Turned to face Jillian fully, his expression grim, Gerald spoke in a tone unusually soft for him. "I don't think it's impossible, and if we turn him down we may end up searching for the information he is offering for much, much longer than two weeks. It could take years - in fact it has taken years already - to figure out what to do, and millions would die in the meantime. If we won this bet, the payoff would be immeasurable."
Fingers clutching his staff tightly, he sighed. "You know that I have nothing to lose and everything to win, and that I would take this chance in a heartbeat... But if I'm dead I have no use for a staff anyways, or anything else for that matter. You'd be wagering your soul on this; you have a lot to lose, which is also why I doubt the Grand Master would accept the bet if I was the only one paying. I can't do it alone, but I won't ask you to risk a sacrifice like that. If you think it isn't worth it, we'll find another way. I'll accept your decision either way."
"For the record," the Grand Master spoke up, raising one finger in the air as if to call attention to himself, "I would only be taking your soul after you died. The bet is for your soul, after all, not your life, and you can't very well live without a soul. While alive you wouldn't even feel different. You would be amazed if you knew how many mortals out there have promised me their souls." He chuckled darkly.
"But the bet is my final offer," the demon concluded, sounding suddenly deathly serious. "If you're not going to accept, I'd appreciate it if you would stop wasting my time. Otherwise I may start getting... impatient."

“A hint?” Jillian curiously replied, raising an eyebrow at her fellow exile. Following his explanation, it seemed that Gerald believed that the Withering could indeed be destroyed within the allotted timeframe if only they had the missing link – the Grand Master’s secret. The witch was uncertain of this; how much of this was simply a result of Gerald’s own desperation, a manifestation of his desire for it to be truth rather than actual truth? Had the Grand Master not stated already that his very own death clan had tried and failed to accomplish the same goal, presumably with the knowledge that these two lacked? Jillian did not share her companion’s belief, but maybe she simply lacked the desperation – or the vision – to see with eyes unclouded by doubt. While he talked, her expression showed uncertainty; uncertainty what to do, and how to feel. Piercing green eyes stared through Gerald’s grim visage, and they beheld vistas of pain and hope. Before, she felt little desire to continue this conversation with the demon, having all but given up on witnessing an outcome that would be favorable for her, but now as she listened to his words coated in their unusual tone – soft, perhaps even pleading – as he spoke of the untold lives they would save if they took the risk, the faster router, Jillian could not help but almost feel responsible for the lives lost if she were to turn down this offer. Was her soul worth more than that of millions of other Rodorians? Doubtful, but that was not what pushed her over the edge. Gerald understood their situation as well as she did, and reflected it as such: his choice was an easy one, for he had nothing to lose, while hers was a hard one, for she had everything to lose – everything she had left at this point anyway. “I can’t do it alone, but I won’t ask you to risk a sacrifice like that. If you think it isn't worth it, we'll find another way. I'll accept your decision either way.” His words touched something inside of her, a small part that would feel compassion for this man who had laid bare his innermost desires and secrets, yet asked nothing in return and was willing to quietly accept refusal, and thus his own doom. It was trust and respect in its purest form – and how many times had she asked him to trust her? And what of her? Did she trust him? What good would her soul do if she too caught the Withering – a not unlikely scenario, as nobody was safe? And what of her dreams? Could she really hope to become a sorceress of legend if she was unwilling to take a risk like this even if it could brand her as the destroyer of the plague – a heroine of the land? Could she hope to learn the most powerful and forbidden of sorceries if she was afraid to wager even her own soul on a bet with a demon lord? She stood at the precipice. Had burned all the bridges behind her, and the future was clouded in the smoke and ashes. I can’t do it alone. Gerald’s words rang in her mind over and over as she contemplated her situation, gazing intensely at the necromancer. Can I? “This, it’s your dream, isn’t it?” she asked in a hushed tone, closing the gap between Gerald and herself so that they were only a breath apart. “If we succeed, then you can live, and we’ll be heroes.” We can’t unmake the past, but we can determine our future, she thought. “Gerald,” Jillian began, as her eyes began to glisten with moisture, “It’s my turn to trust you now. But – but you owe me my dream too.” She grasped his hand, her meager fingers clenching tightly around his as she turned to face the lake. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that the Grand Master had said something just then, but she had not listened. It did not matter anymore. “I accept your terms, demon,” she announced with confidence, though her voice trembled ever so slightly, and Gerald could feel her hand shaking as it squeezed his own, “If we cannot overcome this plague in two weeks then you can play with my soul when I die. If we can, then you are obliged to ask nothing but our success in return. Now, do what you were summoned here for, and tell us what we wish to know!”

My dream? Gerald thought with grim amusement when Jillian responded to him leaving the decision in her hands. He offered her a half-hearted, regretful smile, but he could not help but to think about this being termed like that. No, it was not his dream; certainly 'not dying' did make an appearance on his list of necessary prerequisites to achieve his true goals, but it was hardly something that he would term a goal in itself. He lived for his dreams; he did not dream to be alive. He wanted to live, yes, and he would be grateful if her actions allowed him to survive, but it was not as though she was helping him fulfill his life-goal and ultimate objective.
Being a hero was even farther from being one of his dreams than simply surviving, though. He had no desire to be known as a hero, had no use for fame and did not even care if he would eventually be known as a villain; what he did now he did not for some hypothetical reward from the people of their world as they bent knee in reverence of his accomplishment, but for the sake of the world itself. He had heard of many things that could motivate a person to heroics; love, compassion, greed, ambition, lust for honor and glory, the need of feeling good about what one was doing... and people had, in the past, considered him callous for scoffing at such motivations. He did not care; maybe he even was evil, by their definition of the word. Maybe he was cruel because he was willing to make the difficult choices, to make sacrifices even if that which was sacrificed was not necessarily his to offer to fate. Maybe he was twisted, heartless and wicked, but what he did, he did for the sake of the world, nothing more and nothing less. The bigger picture allowed him to be what the world needed, even if he was not what the world wanted.
He did not know what Jillian meant when she claimed that he owed her the fulfillment of her own dream, nor was he particularly interested at that point. He was just happy that she had agreed to the bargain... and hoped that he had not misjudged how badly the Grand Master actually wanted the Withering ended.

"That's the idea," the demon replied with a nod of his head. He raised his right hand and unceremoniously snapped his fingers, calling forth a puff of flame there that, when it dissipated, left a sheet of parchment between his fingers, along with a pale-white feather quill with a tip adorned with what appeared to be pure gold. "Just saying it isn't enough, though; in my imprisonment more than ever, the reach of my power is determined by my contracts. Sign it, and the deal is done."
The paper and quill were both sent sailing through the air along an unnaturally straight path with a flick of the deity's wrist, and Gerald had no difficulty catching both of them when they reached him. The necromancer had been prepared to carefully study this contract for hours on end if needed, recalling the numerous tales of the Grand Master's trickery and deceitful loopholes, but as it turned out this contract was, for whatever reason, very short and straightforward:

I, the origin of this contract who is bound to fulfill it, the Infernal Emperor, hereby enter a wager with the signees, which will last until the end of time or until the signees violate the terms of the deal. I will bestow upon them the complete truth of the identity of the origin of the Withering, the location of this origin and the means by which the Withering is spread. If the Withering is not ended within ten days of the moment of signing, I will become the rightful owner of the soul of signee Jillian Veldaine and the artifact Omni. In the event that the Withering claims the signees, I will be entitled only to the artifact Omni. If the Withering is ended within the allotted time, by any means, I am entitled to nothing and the signees will be required to give nothing for the information.

And that was it; no lengthy paragraphs about the exact terms of the bet that could conceal a cunning loophole, no small writing, no symbols in anything but the Human Cipher or words in anything but Rodorian. It was almost disappointing, but also further evidence of just how much the Grand Master wanted them to accept.
"The contract is unique, very powerful magic," the fiend explained calmly as Gerald stared intently at the writing, almost as though expecting the letters to shift before his eyes and reveal a deception after all. "It increases my power as much as needed to fulfill it, but also binds me inescapably to its terms. I will not be able to violate it, no matter how much I might want to, once it is signed, unless you violate your terms... which I think would be a rather hard thing to accomplish. Make your mark, and the deal is done."
Gerald blinked, then looked the quill. It felt soft and smooth between his fingers, but aside from the golden tip it looked almost like sun-bleached bone. He did not even think to ask for ink; he just pressed the tip of it against the bottom of the parchment and traced his signature, and the quill left behind red writing at seemed as though it appeared in the parchment rather than on it.
He offered the quill and paper to Jillian; the contract felt heavier now, somehow. Much too heavy for just parchment. The Grand Master's fiery eyes were fixed on it. The air felt as though charged with electricity. There was no doubt that this moment was a major focal point in the web of fate, a junction into which countless threads of past culminated and countless threads of future extended. A moment that would determine the course of fate...
Despite the gravity of the situation, Gerald smiled. Jillian had wanted power; maybe this would teach her to be careful what she wished for.

“Are you sure you want to stay in the refugee camp?” Kaedan asked.

 The old man and his two grandchildren were ready to part ways with Kaedan. They stood near the makeshift refugee encampment in front of Zerul’s main gates: there were lines of dirty tents and a campfire at every twenty feet or so. The ground was muddy, and the sky had already darkened. The survivors of Nemhim who couldn’t afford anywhere else to stay were offered shelter in these tents, and it was clear that there weren’t enough for everyone. The few campfires had dozens of people huddled around them, desperately trying to suck in the heat before the cold night arrived. “Yes, I’m sure.” The old man replied, albeit a bit warily. “And I won’t accept any more help from you, you’ve already been a tremendous boon to us in our time of need.” There was silence in between them. Even the children made no sound, and a part of Kaedan felt as though he was making the wrong decision. He left the potato sacks at the old man’s feet, and a few of the other refugees offered to carry them the rest of the way. 

“Are you sure?” Kaedan asked one last time. The old man forced a smile in return.

 “Yes,” He said. “We’re in your debt for all you’ve done so far. Thank you.” 

It appeared that there was no use in pushing things further. The old man had made up his mind.

 “Then good luck to you.” Kaedan said, and the two parted ways. 

As he walked away from the old man and his family, uncomfortable questions began to rise up in Kaedan’s mind. Had this been a test of his pilgrimage? If so, was walking away success or failure? There were so many other families in need, just like this one. Kaedan had made but an insignificant change at the large scale of things. So why did he feel the need to stay and help this old man even further? There was nothing he could do now. He recalled of the words of his masters:
 “At the cause of all suffering is an enemy. Smite down that foe with beautiful fury, and leave the rest to those without the strength to walk this path.”

 “Ours is not to heal and nurture. Ours is not to foster and tend. This sacred duty of ours goes far beyond.” “The world calls to us. We answer in blood.” The grim message had always been clear. If you wanted to change something, you had to act. Moreover, you had to destroy. The Brotherhood of the Cardinal looked to Deliph for strength, and saw themselves as His weapons to burn away the vile of this world. Any other goal was irrelevant. Kaedan, as he had been reminded many times before, had a way of over-thinking the matter of things. He had a way of being weak, soft, and indecisive. The punishments he had received had always been caused by this weakness. A heavy pair of boots, lined with metal guarding plates, throbbed their way across the Platinum Goblet’s dirty floors. A few heads turned to look as each step from these boots made the planks on the ground squeal as if threatening to give in under the sheer weight. It was a large man, perhaps not even human. His heavy grey cloak, with its edges tattered and old, covered his enormous body, leaving only his head and the massive shield on his back in view. A golden head of messy hair stuck out in the orange glow of the candle-light. He stopped in front of the bartender, and looked down at him with dull, blue eyes. A metal gauntlet appeared from the folds of his cloak and dropped a single coin on the counter.

 “I’m looking for a place for the night.” The cloaked man said.

What sparse chatter had occurred in the Platinum Goblet that evening seemed to immediately still when Kaedan entered the tavern, and the disheartened sobbing of those who suffered from their losses grew muted as many eyes turned to him, watching him with distrust and fear. The deigan woman paused her application of an improvised bandage to a little girl's skinned shin, and though she remained kneeling by the child with the strip of velvet in her hands, her eyes were on the newcomer. It was not until the cloaked man approached the tavern keeper that she resumed binding the girl's wound, just as everyone else removed their focus from the stranger.
The tavern keeper's attention had been on Kaedan right from the second he entered, however, and he continued to openly observe the new visitor in his establishment with obvious interest and a little smile on the pale lips that were partway hidden behind an untamed moustache. His eyes followed Kaedan's hand eagerly as it emerged, and then fixated itself on the lone silver coin on his counter. His smirk of anticipation vanished instantly.
He gave Kaedan a quick look-over from top to toe, greedy eyes scanning the man's equipment, which was obviously of nice quality, if not quite as ornamental as that of a knight or paladin, then let out a disgruntled snort.
"Mister, eh, one rodlin aint gonna -"
Behind some ten feet behind or so behind Kaedan, at the moment standing up among the refugee-visitors, the true deigan's head snapped around to send a tavern keeper a glare as fiery as only one of their kind could manage them, and she cleared her throat as she wagged a finger at the proprietor past the newcomer.
Sneering at the woman with a look of annoyance and contempt in his eyes, the tavern keeper turned his attention back to Kaedan with a sigh. "Eh, fine, but I haven't got any rooms left; 'em Nemhimians' gone taken them all. I'll get you some, eh, blankets, though, and, eh, you can sleep wherever you think'd be best." Suddenly his smile returned, and the greed reignited in his eyes. "Of course for another, eh, piece of silver or two, I could make a room free, eh? Have some of the, eh, rabble sleep down here so you can have a bed, eh?"
The deigan still stared, still standing in the middle of the room, but made no sound of protest this time. She simply appeared to be coolly observing the events that played out before her.

It seems that the attack had worked, the assassin concluded, with him witnessing the events that had led to the vampire being rendered unconscious. As the figure slumped onto the ground, Ixion released his left hand from the sword to catch the recoiling knife, sheathing it in front of the guards. There were a few things that he had noticed when he fended off his target. First of all, the guards didn’t recognize him from his previous contract, which he concluded that they either they are still unaware of what had transpired or they know of it but they don’t know who had done it. This certainly would give him some time to distance himself from those events long enough for him to leave the city. The second thing that he noticed was what the sword had done while defending the guards. While he was unaware of the light that was emanating from the skull on the hilt, he was aware that there was a pinkish glow coming from the black stones that are in the blade itself. This only raises more questions as to what the stones were.

However, he had to push that thought to the side when the leader of the guards spoke. He was slightly amused at the language and expression that the guard took on after what they had seen sunk in. He acknowledged the complement that I’on had given him, but he also noticed the penin looking at the sword as well. I wonder if he is getting a feeling from this sword? he mused, his thoughts pondering back to the mystery surrounding the weapon. Again, he pushed those thoughts to one side and thought about the situation at hand. There was the matter of suddenly appearing in between the guards and the vampire and the tense atmosphere that came with that sudden outburst.

Ixion sheathed the sword, turning towards the guards. He raised both of his arms gingerly, indicating a sign of peace towards the guards. “Relax,” he started, his throat dry from the lack of water. “I am no threat to you. I do want to apologize for my friend though. We are all still edgy after being attacked by a powerful foe, one capable of magic.” The assassin looked towards I’on in the hopes that the penin would back him up on his words. After a brief moment, he turned back to the corporal of the guards, “I don’t think any of us wants a further transgression, seeing as I am currently in no condition to do as such. Wouldn’t you agree, I’on?”

The Penin nodded, though slightly less sure of the duo since the outburst, he was far too fatigued to give it the thought he ought to. He stayed where he was, making few notable movements whil he sized it all up. "I assure you I do," he added to his nod several moments before. His eyes shifted to the guards, "...I understand your reactions, but we really wish for no further trouble. I will see to it that we stay in a nearby Inn. The Drunken Dove, perhaps," he suggested with a weak smile, made so by the tired look in the Penin's eyes. "Yes I think that ought to work. They will be accessible for any questions you might need to ask, and I will be nearby as well." He looked to the leader of the small company of men and women, "How does that sound?" He had little else to say, after all, he'd rather this just be over sooner than later. The quicker he could drop these two off at the inn, the more swiftly he could drop into his own bed. At least he had already retrieved his keys and notified Soojerna. He had no wish for further errands. His eyes cast down at the now unconscious stranger. He wondered what had caused that outburst, he would have to ask later.

Hopefully he would remember.

The tavern keeper seemed mildly disappointed when Kaedan simply ignored his offer of buying out one of the refugees currently occupying his rooms, but otherwise nothing really came of it, and the man simply excused himself for a moment to go and fetch the blankets he had promised his newest costumer. The deigan woman observed him for another few seconds before simply turning her attention back to the refugees around her, seeming to settle for regarding this stranger with indifference. Some of the tavern patrons still seemed somewhat wary of Kaedan, but for most part the great amounts of attention that had come to center on him quickly dispersed and everyone returned to what they had been doing previously.
It was not that these people were so stricken with fear from their recent ordeal that they regarded everyone else as a threat, nor was it because Kaedan was a foreigner, which all things considered was actually not all that evident at just a glance. The reason people stared at him, were afraid of him and that the tavern keeper had tried to first cheat him and then offer him better quarters and privacy at the expense of others was mostly because of his equipment. Steel was expensive, and while this particular warrior's armor, shield and hammer were not as ornamental as could be expected from the likes of paladins or royal knights they were obviously of decent quality and heavy enough to have been very expensive. With a person donning such valuable gear the natural assumption was that he was in a position wherein he could afford it, which rather conflicted with his choice of place to stay the night in this case.
The first thought these people had had about Kaedan - upon seeing his wealthily clad form and impressive dimensions - had been that he was there to prey upon them, people who were strangers in a place where no one would defend them, and who were unlikely to have the strength to defend themselves. It was not unusual for thugs and muggers to emerge during times of crisis like this, and in such cases establishments like the Platinum Goblet would be obvious targets. Once it became evident that he had no interest in the refugees, this turned the probable purpose of his presence there to two other possibilities: either he was there to get drunk cheaply, or he was there looking for prostitutes... or both. When he asked for a place to stay rather than a drink this disproved the former option, and when he had not accepted the offer of the privacy of a room he had made the latter very improbable. By then people were reaching the conclusion that he was not doing as well financially as his equipment suggested and was actually there out of necessity after all, and turned away from him. Most still recognized him as being dangerous, however, which was undeniably the case. People kept their distance and remained guarded near him, but he was no longer the center of attention.

Kaedan received his blankets - stained and moth-ridden, but decently warm and soft - and was allowed to pick anywhere to sleep. Next morning was rather like the evening in that there were still refugees crowding the common room, though they were much more quiet and reserved now, with many of them sleeping. There were no longer any patrons drinking at the bar, and the tavern keeper seemed to have left, probably get some sleep himself. There was still some stifled sniffling in the corners, but most tears had dried over the night and settled into dull aching that would likely take much more than a night's rest to remedy, if it ever faltered.
The true deigan was still there, though, and rather than sleeping she was doing something that would seem rather unusual to most. Sitting on top of the table closest to the counter with her legs drawn up beneath her, her frayed skirt arranged so that it covered both knees and feet and everything in-between. She sat with her back straight and her eyes closed, her expression neutral, with her left hand resting in her lap and her right hand held out from her in waist-height, palm upturned and fingers fully stretched. In it she was balancing a dagger which stood with the pommel of its handle resting in the hollow of her hand, and stood with the blade straight up. The hilt of the dagger was somewhat decorative, having inlaid patterns silver in its iron surface and what appeared to be a small pearl socketed into it just below the base of the blade on either side, but the blade was plain steel, long and too thick to cut very well despite of its edges evidently being sharpened. It was a weapon not meant for dealing anything but superficial cuts if used to slash, but which could stab deep into flesh and bone and was sturdy enough to be twisted subsequently to cause irrevocable damage; a weapon meant for dealing death.
Granted, anyone who knew about true deigan culture would not be too surprised at this, since it is an ancient tradition among their people for families to gift young individuals a dagger for their fortieth birthday, as a symbol of their entry into the pursuit of ambition that defined their people. Virtually every true deigan possessed a dagger that they carried with them at all times, either for self-defense, for being able to seize opportune targets or just to be prepared in case one was challenged to a duel. But this just served to further emphasize how unusual it was to see a true deigan selflessly trying to aid unfortunate people like these refugees, with no hope of reward. Their culture was centered around individualism, ambition and pride, all of which was epitomized by their daggers.
The dagger occasionally wobbled slightly, but always seemed to immediately stabilize again without the woman perceivably moving her hand in the slightest.

---

"You wish no further..." the guard corporal repeated with disbelief, still not lowering his halberd, just as the two other halberds flanking him and the crossbow behind him remained raised and ready for combat. This third man, currently incapacitated as he was, had just tried to attack them, and these other two were trying to pass it off as just something that happened and should be forgiven and forgotten? The red-clad masked man that was still conscious had instantly teleported and remotely manipulated a knife through magic to knock someone unconscious... and they were supposed to simply ignore it? When they had also found these very same people in a secluded alley with a dead woman? It was a lot to ask, even for someone like I'on. It was too much, in fact; none of the guardsmen had any doubt that they were supposed to apprehend these people, or at the very least the unconscious one that had tried to attack them. Had he been a tarke he could at least have been excused by their infamous battle-induced blood-frenzy, but that was not the case; there was no excusing his actions.
The thing that kept the corporal from giving the order for his people to move forward and capture these men was not doubt in whether it was the right thing to do, but doubt in whether they were at all capable of successfully doing so. They said that they were exhausted and did not want any further transgression, and all except I'on were visibly injured, but... well, their squad of guardsmen were all just regular men and women trained for guard-duty, good enough to have survived the new situations that guardsmen found themselves in after the military had been redirected, but with no magical talent or extraordinary combat prowess. I'on, meanwhile, was known to be a powerful magus and to have quite a temper, and this other man had just teleported and used magic right in front of them, and he had not even drawn any of his weapons yet. Without even considering the capabilities of the third man - who had demonstrated impressive speed and ferocity, but little else before being incapacitated - their chances did not look too good if they picked a fight with these people. And that was not even counting the political consequences that could come from guardsmen getting in a fight with a personal friend of the duke...

"But..." the corporal spluttered, then suddenly stiffened. The Drunken Dove, I'on had said? Despite the implications of its name it was actually a decent establishment with reasonable prices, relatively popular among the middle-class citizens in its vicinity. But reports had also suggested... yes, that could work, could it not? Surely, if these people were troublemakers after all, they would not get to cause any such there.
"Stand down," came the order, as halberds were raised back into a neutral stance and the crossbow was lowered. The three other members of the squad looked relieved; so did the leader. This was not how any of them wanted to die. "The Drunken Dove, you say? We'll escort you there, sir, and make sure nothing else happens." To you or because of you.

“If I must,” Jillian muttered under her breath when the Grand Master summoned his fiendish contract from the abyss, insisting that the reach of his power was bound to the terms of ones such as this. While she impatiently tapped her foot in the moist grass, arms crossed, she watched the parchment and intricate quill float through the air towards her dark companion. He caught it effortlessly and poured over the inscriptions with as much care as Jillian observed him with.

“The contract is unique, very powerful magic,” the Grand Master remarked while Gerald continued to stare at the sheet of paper in his emaciated hands. Listening to his explanation, Jillian wondered what kind of magic this was that worked in such a convoluted, strange fashion. Neither arcane nor black magic worked in such a fashion, and this was certainly not a kind of favored power either. Just how had the Grand Master gotten his hands on this apparently unique magic? It was an intriguing concept, to have one’s power increased to whichever degree was necessary to accomplish a very explicit goal. Of course, she had to wonder if it actually increased his power, or if it merely unsealed his imprisoned power to a given extent. If it was the former, then certainly there must be a way for a mortal like herself to create such a contract with any willing entity – and receive almost limitless power, within the margins of the contract. As she mulled over the potential of this strange type of magic, she wondered if there were more, yet entirely undiscovered – or jealously kept secret – types of magic that none had heard of as of yet. Arts even more powerful than black magic, or arcane. Alas, magic was typically bound to the strength of one’s own spirit which one depleted when making use of it, and yet, this contract magic implied that there were, perhaps, ways to receive outside power. And even if not, there were plenty of relics out there in the world that one could draw power from. So many secrets in this world… she could only hope to live long enough to pry at least some of them from the darkness.

While Jillian was absorbed in thoughts of hidden sorceries, eyes still fixated on the necromancer, Gerald finally decided to sign the parchment and turned to offer the two items to her with an eerie smile. She took them from his hands, her visage wary and reserved, and noticed that the contract felt strangely heavy, considering it was merely a piece of paper. Almost as if Gerald had etched a part of his very being into the parchment, rather than simply leave a signature; no doubt something like this actually did happen, considering how inevitably binding its terms were. She read the inscriptions with significantly less care than Gerald did, partially because she trusted his judgment and partially because she simply wanted to get it over with. This entire exchange had been going on for far too long, and they had already given their accord – there simply was no turning back at this point, and thus there was no use in hesitating. The one detail that did catch her eye when she poured over the phrases was the mention of Omni. She had not heard about the artifact in a very long time, and indeed had only briefly read about it in old studies about some of the more important artifacts in this world, but she remembered well enough that it was created and used by none other than Delian Gilmah, who famously became the first lich and was imprisoned in Pelgaid’s black heart. The same place that Gerald had learned his forbidden craft. Could it be? Had he really had the gall to steal such an important item and get away with it? She knew he was shrewd, but she did not think he would have done something quite like that. Yet one more thing she wanted to talk to him about… there was so much, and so little time.

“Well, there you go,” she murmured while making her mark – an unsurprisingly lavish signature with overdone, fancy curls and curves, very reminiscent of how she writes in the air when casting spells she is familiar with.

“It’s done,” she announced with a clear voice, stretching out her arm and letting go of the parchment, discarding it to the wind. She had no doubts the accursed contract would find its way back to its master one way or another, “Now, there’s something you owe to tell us, demon.”

Even before Jillian spoke her audible confirmation that the contract was signed and the deal irrevocably finalized, Gerald's gaze had left her and wandered, seemingly turning to their surroundings at random as though he could see something that was not of the mundane world. Behind them, almost forgotten due to their silence and lack of participation in bargaining, Renold and Crone showed signs of discomfort as well. The old woman drew her shawl closer around her as she shuffled backwards, away from them and the Grand Master, with an expression of pure dread in her eyes, and even the great Green drew back his head, staring at the demon with obvious fear.
When Gerald had made his mark upon the contract, the magic contained therein had already started to manifest, and the true power of this creation of the Grand Master began to make itself evident; before the warlock's eyes, though it would be invisible to Jillian until she signed as well, countless hands forged of bloody shadow emerged from the demon's visage, surrounding but not enveloping him, simply reaching out as if to seize the entire world and drag it towards him. The Grand Master, though still and motionless, had eyes that burned like actual fire. His robe seemed as though it was twitching on its own, as if the fabric itself was a living mass simply forced into the shape of a garment, which was normally dormant but now, as a crime was being committed - as a demon lord and two mortals committed taboo by abusing their freedom to break the boundaries that had been placed upon them - it was awake, writhing... in agony or ecstasy, or both.
The contract in Jillian's hand curled up and vaporized, and the ornate quill with which they had signed seemed to simply dissolve and fall away into dust to be carried away on the wind. The hands of the Grand Master's dark, wretched desire, now visible to both of the signees, seemed to darken the sky and blot out the rest of the world, trapping them in a perceived inescapable cage with their new business-partner.

"Yessssssss," the Ancient One hissed, throwing back his head and breathing deeply, seemingly momentarily lost in excitement. "The deal is made; my limits have been redefined. I am bound, but also freed." He straightened and looked at them directly. "I belong to you, now, and you belong to me. For as long as the contract exists, until it is fulfilled, we are connected."
He sighed, and his robe seemed to calm again, resuming its role as lifeless cloth. "The one who is the source of the Withering does so from the Spirit Realm, and rather than spread it traceably in Reniam or traverse the planes to do so, the Withering infects the souls of mortals when they sleep; in other words, you contract the Withering in your dreams. In order to end the Withering, curing the hundreds, thousands even, that are currently dying at its hands, you need simply to defeat the source by shattering its avatar in the Spirit Realm, thus breaking the connection between the demon and mortals, preventing any more magical energy from being siphoned.
I think that covers the matters of 'where' and 'how'." The Grand Master chuckled to himself. "As to 'who'... the identity of the source of the Withering is that of Kevin the Insignificant, though I suspect you know him better as Kreshtaat, the Lord of Darkness."

---

Even his tired mind detected hesitation from the Corporal. He made note of it, but said nothing and reacted to it not at all. Instead he gave a sigh of relief as they raised their weapons and then smiled at the guard gratefully. "Thank you for understanding," the penin said in a friendly tone before walking closer to his two acquaintances. He looked at the unconscious one, then up to the assassin, his eyes primarily friendly, though there was a certain seriousness there too. "Let's get going then. Wouldn't want to keep them from their duties any longer than necessary, yeah?" He looked away, assuming the man's cooperation. Once the two were out of earshot he'd be having a word with the guards as while he had met the assassin, though briefly, earlier, he had no knowledge whatsoever of this other fellow.

He had to admit that it was suspicious the way he'd acted, so he understood rather well why the guards had reacted as they did. Furthermore, with the way the assassin had responded so swiftly it almost seemed like he'd expected it to occur. Still, he didn't feel like he knew the whole story. While these thoughts ran through the fog that had began to form in his mind, the mage turned to the Corporal and spoke once more, smiling apologetically, "Mind lending us a shoulder so we can carry him," he gestured towards the unconscious fellow.

Presuming the guards decided to assist them, the penin would then motion to the Corporal and say, "Lead on." They weren't terribly far from the place, luckily. He could tell that despite the man's earlier actions, his still conscious acquaintance was somewhat fatigued as well. He'd be considering his next course of action while they walked for while he knew he needed sleep, he also needed to decide whether to trust these two, or to tell the guards to keep a special eye on them. Perhaps he should sleep on it...but perhaps it would be too late after that.

Hard to say.

---

At first, the assassin tensed up when the guard in charge hesitated in his response, even after the reassurance that the penin had given them. Would it be one of the few times where I am not to be believed? came the worrying thought from him. He had gotten himself out of a lot of trouble through partial truths or, in dire cases, flat out lies. Though a lot of those times he had escaped his predicament with the people who listened to them accepting them, none of them the wiser, there were a few who saw his deception. For those who saw through them? Well, they now they won’t be around to tell anyone about them bar his master. He does prefer those kind of people though.

Unconsciously, his hand hovered over the area where his throwing knives were, just in case the guards had turned on them. Even if the small group was formed over a common enemy, Ixion wasn’t going to lose what was left of his freedom let alone his life to the guards. After what seemed like an eternity in the assassin’s mind, one order was given from the corporal. "Stand down." Now there was a moment of relief for him as his hand dropped from where they were into a more relaxed position. Despite the pain from such an action, he was relieved that no further fights was going to happen on this day. "The Drunken Dove, you say? We'll escort you there, sir, and make sure nothing else happens." Ixion nodded in agreement. It was a reasonable gesture from the guards, despite him being a person who could go to the tavern with I’on and the unconscious person. However, with the state that he is in, the extra protection was a nice thing to have.

While the penin talked more with the corporal, the assassin walked to the unconscious vampire. While the situation had passed, he did wonder why the vampire decided to go into a rage and attack the guards, of all people. That is, if he did see past the actions that rendered them unconscious in the first place. Biting through the pain, he hefted the unconscious man onto his shoulder, his legs sagging under the weight. Before I’on ushered the words for the guards to lead them to the tavern, he looked over at the penin, the look of ‘I will explain everything that transpired here’ being subtle in his eyes. The assassin owed him that much at least.

There was not much else to say once they had all come to an agreement, and once the corporal had instructed two of his squadmates to stay in the alley and make sure no one got anywhere near it or the body in it and he had had his last squadmate - one of the halberdier-guardsmen - help hoist up the unconscious man who had tried to attack them and carry him, they went off towards the Drunken Dove.
The inn was not far, located on a street that branched off from the one just outside the alley they had been in, and it did not take them more than a couple of minutes to get there. The corporal commented to I'on and his companion on him being concerned for the unconscious comrade, considering how long he had been comatose for by now, but no other words were spoken until they arrived at their destination; a neat little inn with a good reputation and a chorus of voices audible even outside the door, jumbled together in one big disorderly symphony of conversations.

The corporal opened the door before the others entered, and peeked his head inside. The common room there was pretty well-populated, but not as crowded as most cheaper places would be by now, and the people that where there were a lot louder and in higher spirits than the ones that could be found in cheaper and more expensive establishments alike. There were Nemhimian refugees here, too, but only a handful or two as opposed to the dozens found in such as the Platinum Goblet; most of the patrons here were traders visiting from the other duchies or even other countries, and while some of the refugees still had a remnant of their dread and grief in their eyes, their moods generally seemed uplifted by the joviality of their fellow costumers in the inn. A trio of penin, two women and a man, shared a table with a couple of human traders in the middle of the room and were laughing amongst themselves over a game of dice, and another man and woman in fine clothing unsuitable for travel had a table to themselves, and seemed engrossed in conversation over what appeared to be glasses of wine.
One thing that stood out in the common room, however, and the thing the corporal was checking for, was the two figures that huddled together in the far right corner of the room, made all the more noticeable by the fact that everyone else in the inn seemed to keep at least half a dozen feet between themselves and those two's table at all times. One was clad in a black hooded cloak that obscured nearly all of its appearance, and who even had a piece of cloth tied around the lower half of its face as a mask. That one was short by human standards, but unusually bulky; not fat, or even remotely round, but the body just seemed oddly distorted, like the proportions were not right. The other one was perceivably female, wearing loose-fitting gray trousers and a white tunic, and while she wore a black cloak like her companion, hers was thrown back rather than drawn close, and the hood was back. Her hair was shoulder-length and was, puzzlingly, a shade of electric blue, while her left hand seemed too narrow and the fingers there too long, and the skin on the right side of her face seemed oddly flaked... in a manner that looked suspiciously like scales.
They both turned their heads to look at the new arrivals, and the light played in their two sets of mirror-like eyes... but at the same time also gleamed in the silver badges they both wore on their chests, bearing the symbol of the deo'iel which were - if one got close enough to discern finer details - surrounded by six circles.

Good, they're still here, the corporal thought with a smile. They'll make sure these guys don't do anything bad, and they'll know if any of them are demonspawn. I'll them deal with these guys, and I can concentrate on doing actual guard-work.
"Here we are," he said, gesturing for the unconscious man to be brought inside. "Don't leave the city without notifying the Ducal Guard for the next few days, sirs; we may have more questions concerning the murder of this... Blue?"

Ixion thanked the guard that helped carry the vampire to their destination. The assassin noted that he ached all over from the fall that he had with the Fixer, concluding that he needed to get some form of rest at the Drunken Dove to gather his strength in order for him to get the money that is owed to him and get replacement armour. The journey remained quiet, which gave him the chance to think about the sword and what role the black stones had for the weapon. He thought about how the glow came when the blade came into contact with the vampire’s wooden staff. Perhaps it reacted with natural materials and not man-made? he initially thought, though that thought was hesitant as he doesn’t recall if the weapon glowed when Blue was in possession of the weapon. After a few minutes of theorizing on what role the stones had with the blade, they arrived at the inn.

Once he walked inside, he first of all kept a detail of everything that was inside the inn, just in case he needed to teleport. During this, he looked at the people who were inside. Apart from a group talking to some merchants and a couple having a few drinks over a conversation, nothing really stood out from the ordinary. That was until his eyes focused in on the figures that were in the far right corner. It wasn’t too had to notice the elephants in the room when everyone in the common room gave them a wide berth. The first figure didn’t give the assassin much details so it made him slightly uneasy at the unknown threat that the figure posed. Their companion, however, appeared to be female, though the blue hair and flaked skin on the right side of her face seemed too unusual. Coincidentally, the two figures turned to the arriving group. Ixion noted the eyes glowing in the light and badges that were on their chests, but he was too far away to determine the details on them. He then looked at the corporal, who too was looking at the figures in the corner. The hand that was used to support the vampire’s side clenched into a fist as he noticed a smile on the man’s face. He knows them, he concluded. He is up to something.

"Here we are. Don't leave the city without notifying the Ducal Guard for the next few days, sirs; we may have more questions concerning the murder of this... Blue?"

The assassin nodded at the corporal, not giving any signs of his suspicions to the man. “I wasn’t planning on leaving the city too soon, seeing as I need to replace my armour which was damaged during the encounter.” He then looked at the vampire, then back at the penin. “Where do we get a room?”

---

After a mercifully brief walk they arrived at the inn, much to I'on's relief. On the way there he had debated whether he would stay to talk for a moment with the assassin, or if he'd head straight home after dealing with their accommodations. He decided on the latter. Noting the corporal's peering and Ixion's observation, I'on waited a few moments for the guard to remove himself from the doorway and address them. When the man had finished, he simply nodded in response, smiled slightly and said, "Thank you for your time and consideration." He bowed his head slightly in a show of respect, then strode past both guard and assassin, his feet taking him into the Drunken Dove.

Several of the inn's attendants and customers had peered at the door upon it being opened, and then held open, so it was no surprise that their eyes trained on the penin as he entered. However, I'on gave them no attention even as he heard some whispers, followed by laughter, and others filled with apprehension or recognition. People in this city knew his face, it was as simple as that.

This of course included the innkeeper. However, before he addressed the man, I'on cast his eyes back to the door and motioned for his companions to follow, well...companion, considering one was quite unconscious--which I'on had also began to think was somewhat worrisome. Once Ixion had neared, likely with the other man in tow, the penin looked back up towards the innkeeper--his expression serious as he did so. "Hello, if you've got a room with two beds to spare, I'd like to purchase it for these two," he jabbed a thumb back at the assassin and the unconscious man over his shoulder. As a thought came to him, he looked back at the two as well, "How long? At most I'll pay for seven days."

He knew the place was more expensive than some inns, but still had a reasonable price in regards to this sort of thing. He wasn't sure how the innkeeper would react though, as he'd only interacted with the man several times before. Sometimes for business, but more often during one of his indulgent nights where he allowed himself a few rounds of drink.

He couldn't recall the man's name, unfortunately, though that was both due to his fatigue and the fact that most times he'd interacted with the man he'd been...less than sober. It was a bit of an embarrassing truth really. Hopefully the man was not the type to jeer at such things.