Zyax…o…mort? 

 Mal snarled as the man began to dissipate, and with him went the anger of his inner spirit. Once the masked man was gone, Mal twisted around to see a forest torn by carnage, and the smoking carcass of an emerald beast. His hand grasped at the strap around his shoulder, holding the bag firmly in his gloved hands as he peeked into the distance.

 The crowd had increased in size from before his conversation. He could see that much based on the group that had surrounded that red girl. As for Ugnis, he appeared to have dashed off, screaming bloody murder as he went. The relic’s energy still wavered on the air, but it wasn’t enough to afflict Mal’s magic in any way, shape, or form.

 Zyaxomort. And what had the man been saying about his “shift” in the story? The way he talked sounded almost like a deity out of a myth. He held onto that word though, and the man’s shifty eyes. Had Mal been quick to judge the Jester of the Court? Exactly what court was he playing for if he called himself a true neutral?

 Either way, Mal was getting his second wind. He had enough energy to get out of that situation and recuperate, at least. With a tug at the straps of his bag, he turned towards the road that led back to the Rivenwood town.

From there, he needed to find a library, or somewhat relatively intelligent. 

 Zyaxomort. Zyax O’Mort? Zyax O. Mort? Zyaxo Mort? The collection of sounds didn’t sound like the common dialect, but it stuck in his brain like a jagged thorn.

 He needed to find out the meaning of it all.

 So, clutching at his bleeding shoulder with one hand, he grabbed a stick from the ground as support and limped down the road.

 He glanced back one last time to the group. There was one relic there, as well as a man on whom Mal personally placed his mark.

 His signature grin broke wide again, [color=yellow]“Well Buster, today has been quite unique. Unfortunately, I lack the energy to deal with any threats at the moment… I guess we dive in deeper tomorrow… once I’ve recovered.”[/color]

  He adjusted his hood by lifting his hand away from his shoulder. The dark hood was starting to stain darker red as he stumbled down the road at a slow, but consistent pace.