“They worshipped the bitch of the moon,” a scratchy voice echoed in the ear of the youth.

	The young teenager, not yet old enough to grow even his chin hairs looked up at the ragged soldier who spoke, his young blue eyes studying his master of arms. The gruff man had long pepper hair and a beard to match, and yet despite his elder age, thick corded arms of muscle protruded from a cape fashioned out of the hide of a bear.

	The boy pointed to what the man was studying, a mess of crimson and flashes of pearly bones, “cold blooded?”

	“Warm,” The man corrected, “it was in honor, despite their dishonorable nature.”

	“No name,” the man continued, snapping the boy’s attention back to him, “wipe off your blade, it’s better no one questions us.”

	The unnamed boy looked down at his shaking hand that held a long thin blade, dripping with scarlet. He brought up the fringe of his tunic and slowly wiped one side of the blade before flipping it over.

	As he did this rhythmically, his curious eyes began to wander around the dark room. A statue of a woman holding a crescent caught his eye. Her form was wrapped in a stone robe, and only visible by the light of the stars breaking through the shattered glass windows and illuminating the dust motes.

	“This was a church,” the boy murmured.

	“A den of liars and heathens, bitch worshipers,” the bearded man nearly laughed as he spoke his final words.  

	The statue’s eyes blinked, and a cold horror split the head of the boy as he watched it raise it’s arm from its resting place. Slowly the stone figure started to wave.

	Derrix blinked, and the stony hand turned to Fiona’s. The man inhaled sharply, as he remembered he sat in a cave. The chill of the stone under the clovers cooled his bum, and with his armor safely put away in its own packs on Charroux, the cold air of the storm nipped his bare arms and through his thin tunic, spreading goosebumps across his scarred body.

	He looked down to the thin knife he held in his hand that hovered over the half skinned boar, a gaping hole in its neck from a firm arrow shot. The beast glistened with wet blood as he had been preparing it. He took the fringe of his tunic and wiped one side of the knife before flipping it over in his hand, “hello.” he said in a hollow tone to the swarming group of travelers. 

	The man looked over at Vaeri set up by the fire and acknowledged her nudity with a blink. His eyes then snapped to the soaked Fiona. He shook his head and slowly rose from his spot by the boar, and disappeared into the shimmering shower of the storm.

	He returned quickly, shaking off the water from his broad shoulders, and holding folded fabric under his arms protectively. With a small curved smile, he knelt by Fiona and handed one of the light green fabrics to her, revealing it to be a spare tunic of his.

	With a curt nod, he left it by her before wandering over to Vaeri. He respectfully kept his eyes level with hers as he knelt by her, extending his arm and holding out a dry shirt.