---

Watching the brief conflict as he recovered his wits and stood once more on his own, no longer using the wall to support himself, I'on glanced around the room. There was damage mostly to the ceiling and floor where the wall had emerged and struck. Some tables and chairs were also damaged and it seemed everyone had evacuated the inn as well. He sighed as he heard, rather than watched, Ixion and Morgan engage in a brief conflict. Instead his eyes went to the sisters as the blue haired demonspawn made her proposition and then carried out her and her sister's part with what appeared only slight hesitation. Then his two companions reciprocated and he couldn't help but sigh--somewhat from relief, but more due to the rest of the circumstances. He took a step away from the wall, deciding to participate in the exchange of pleasantries, "I am I'onriyi Stonehand of Wegam Fermos." Once he had finished, some of his attention diverted to take in the...bizarre faces of Morgan and Ixion--though neither were the same sort of strange, not to mention worrisome sort--he glanced towards Violet and spoke once more, "I must ask what we are to do about the damage to the inn. I doubt the innkeeper, or the guards who are sure to appear at the commotion, will be happy with leaving it in its current state." He paused a moment, frowning slightly before he added "Hopefully this will be a swift decision. I'd like to finish our more private conversation before further interruptions occur." With that said the Penin's eyes briefly strayed to Morgan and Ixion before turning to Rose, and resting on Violet once more.

He felt like a tree attempting to weather a great storm. Damn this day, he thought as he considered the implications of Morgan's red eyes and pale complexion, not to mention his behavior and the look in his eyes. Ixion's scars were something else entirely, he wasn't sure what to make of that. Still, at least he could identify them to others if need be. It was perhaps better that way. Still, he surmised that knowing both their names and faces made him a dangerous party in their eyes. He'd need to be careful with these two, they might even be more trouble than they were worth. He'd just have to see if they attracted additional danger later on. As for all he knew today had just been one unlucky set of circumstances after another--not that he was so naive as to believe that.

He was no fool.

Neither of the deo’iel sisters seemed to react to the restrained hostility and grim threats being exchanged between Ixion and Morgan, though they did seem a little affected by the delay in their business this caused. Violet seemed restless, shifting her weight from leg to leg as her brow furrowed in a worried expression, and while Rose’s expression was much harder to read with just the eyes being visible over her mask, her brow did seem to lower progressively the longer they took to get on with business, betraying a growing annoyance and impatience. The exchange between Ixion and Morgan did not take long, but even the couple of handfuls of seconds running through their fingers seemed to bother them.
They did not react to the revelation of Ixion’s face or name either, and both simply nodded at him in recognition of the sign of goodwill sharing his identity symbolized, particularly after him pointing out that he was aware of how dangerous doing so could be. They both reacted much more visibly when Morgan removed his mask, with Violet’s eyes widening and her worry seeming to move aside to let wonder and curiosity take its place, a small smile coming upon her lips, and Rose’s tilting her head left, examining him with great interest. Again they both nodded in greeting, then turned their attention to I’on.
“We are familiar with your name,” Violet commented on I’on’s introduction, as she and her sister nodded their greeting for the third time. That was her only comment on that, or any of their identities, even with the implications of Morgan and Ixion’s unusual appearances and the occupations suggested by the statement of the latter.

Rose was reaching her left hand to her face to remove her own mask - revealing that her left hand, unlike the right one, was unclothed in its shelter beneath the cloak, only had four fingers and seemed to be covered in what appeared to be short white fur - but stopped in the middle of the motion when I’on spoke again, addressing them on the issue of what to do about what had happened here.
“Not our problem,” the masked demonspawn grumbled, waving the penin off impatiently.
“Easy, dear,” Violet cautioned her sister, then turned her attention to I’on. “But really, don’t worry about it too much; I very much doubt we’ll be interrupted. The guards know that my sister and I are here, as does the innkeeper, and neither will be very eager to interrupt our business... or any deo’iel’s business, actually, since it tends to be rather dangerous.” She paused, shrugging. “As for the condition of the inn, I will report the incident to the nearest deo’iel base, and they will take care of reparations. I expect that they will pay both for repairs to the building and compensation for lost income during the time it will take to fix the place. Then my sister and I will receive a reprimand and a penalty for what happened, and business will continue as usual.”
She looked around at the empty room, then refocused on I’on. “And I suppose that we might as well talk about the Fixer here, now that everyone else left. Our concern about speaking of him is that he seems to want to keep his existence as close to unknown as possible, though he appears to allow a select few to know about him; people he expects to become strong one day, is our main theory. Anyone within earshot earlier, when you mentioned his name... well, luckily we did not discuss his identity any further, so he might let it slip. Otherwise, chances are that he will kill them soon.”
“Also,” Rose interrupted, pointing her newly revealed furry left hand at Ixion as she stared at him intently, “you’ll want to be careful with that sword. You took that from a tool; they all have one. It’s called a Dirge, and it’s a bane-weapon... if you know what that means.”

"That's a start, I suppose," the scarlet witch figured in half-murmured voice, "but, pray tell, what is the Spirit Realm like?"
"Do we possess our mortal powers there the same as here? Or are they superior, even, since us magicians draw our very powers from this realm? Can we die in it? Are we still able to dream , as it were, while consciously walking the realm? Perhaps I'm overstepping my bounds asking these things, your dark grace," she told with a courteous bow that somehow looked - felt - dishonest, "but the more we know of this place, the better our chances of success, yes?"

Jillian, as during the rest of the previous exchange, again showed a capability for surprising emotional change, beginning on a low-willed note and ending in almost playful tones that hinted at the excitement a part of her must feel at the prospect of exploring strange new worlds; not just the wondrous Spirit Realm from whence her precious magical energy came from, but also fabled Fokon with its bountiful flower fields and venerable temples. She had long harbored a desire to dance in the colorful fields, sometimes dreamed of doing so with a mysterious and erotic partner, to promenade in its tranquil forests and experience peace in its holy shrines. Sadly, the infernal deal she struck would forbid her from any of these luxuries, pressed for time as they were, but at the very least she could let her gaze wander over the chromatic expanse of Rodoria's most bountiful duchy and - if fortune favored them - they would awaken from their most harrowing dream there, free of the Withering and free of the Grand Master's shackles. If such was their fate, she would perhaps see to fulfilling her desires after all and maybe Gerald would be the mysterious stranger she always envisioned being with - even if he did not quite match her imagination. Yet it was dangerous and vain to rave of victory just yet. For now they had to steel themselves for the trials ahead and, perhaps more importantly, recuperate from trials past.

What is the Spirit Realm like? Gerald thought, somewhat taken aback by the question and finding himself unsure whether to react to it with derision or acknowledgement. Part of him had always just worked under the assumption that the Spirit Realm simply was - a kind of abstract, indefinable pseudo-plane that served no particular purpose beyond being the container for mortal dreams and virtually limitless quantities of magical energy - and it had never occurred to him that there might be something there. Not even after being told that Kreshtaat had let part of himself take up residence there did he go beyond that thought; even then he did not realize that he would have to reconsider his former preconceptions concerning the plane of dreams.
But even after Jillian had made him aware of the fact that he would have to learn the laws of an entirely new world if he was to stand a chance against their adversary, he still was not sure that he - or her, for that matter - would ever be able to wrap their heads around the Spirit Realm without actually going there. What would a world with so much magical energy even be like? A world where dreams resided? Where souls could go without their bodies?

“Obviously I have no personal experience with the Spirit Realm, since immortals can’t go there,” the Grand Master started by disclaiming, “but I can tell you what I’ve learned from others and my mortal agents.” The dual red fires within the darkness of the demon’s hood winked out, presumably because their owner closed his eyes. “To my knowledge, only some of your attributes will be maintained in the Spirit Realm... specifically, your physical properties will have no meaning there. However strong or weak you body is in Reniam, it does not matter there; in the Spirit Realm, all that matters is the strength of your soul and your will. And yes, as far as I know your mortal magics work just fine there... even better, actually, since you’ll be in a world composed entirely of magical energy. And since your souls are already accustomed to recharging themselves from there during sleep...” He opened his eyes. “You’ll effectively never deplete your soul there. You can continue casting spells forever, if you so desire, with no ill-effects.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You certainly can die there, yes... I’ve lost several agents there trying to sabotage Kreshtaat’s scheme. But... dream?” He shook his head. “I don’t even know what that means. Immortals don’t dream. All I know is that the Spirit Realm supposedly has no form on its own, but takes shape according to the thoughts of mortals like yourselves. It is, they say, ever-changing.”
The Grand Master’s arms fell back down his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. “But I’m sure that there will be ones at the Joint Temple of Immortals that know more. The Wardens apparently frequent the place, and use it to train their minds and souls.”

Frowning, Gerald said, “If only our souls go there, what about our bodies?”
“Why, they’ll be sleeping, of course,” the other waved him off. “And before you even ask: no, you won’t be stuck in the Spirit Realm if your body is killed while you are there, and yes, you will die on both planes if you are killed in either of them.” He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s a good point... Kreshtaat’s servants could target your bodies in Reniam to stop you, and you have no one to guard you. I will do you a favor, then, and have one of my agents watch over you here while you are in the Spirit Realm. But remember this: tell the people of Fokon to stay inside and to not look outside while you are gone, no matter what. My agent will be liable to... remove anyone that sees him. Permanently.”

Smiling to himself despite feeling an odd knot in his heart at the sight of Thaler’s gentle gesture towards their sleeping leader, Jaelnec remained standing even as the situation seemed calm and ideal for rest. He needed rest, too - though his mind and soul were relatively intact, he still felt the ache left behind after he had strained himself with the slayer-stance - but somehow he felt as though he could not allow himself to relax. Aemoten was asleep, Thaler seemed so much more defenseless than when they had met her, Etakar was wounded and Olan had quite clearly lowered his guard completely in the face of overwhelming curiosity. With their group in its currently diminished state and with strange - if hospitable-seeming - people in their presence, he felt as though he was their main protector and their only effective bulwark against the dangers of the planes. So he stood, his stance calm and neutral, his arms hanging down his sides, but making sure that his cloak never got in the way of him being able to swiftly draw his sword.
When he had been with Freagon, one of his old master’s hardest, most merciless lessons had been that of vigilance. He would frequently remind the younger Nightwalker of the dangers that could potentially hide behind every corner, in every ditch, or indeed anywhere that one could not see, and that one had to be constantly ready to respond to the appearance of an enemy at a second’s notice. They would travel the roads of Rodoria and Wegam Fermos for days and weeks at times, undertaking long journeys during which nothing happened at all, yet Freagon would notice every time Jaelnec lowered his guard and brutally scold him. Thinking back, the squire realized that Freagon himself had to have possessed an incredible awareness of his surroundings to unfailingly notice whenever his apprentice had had a lapse of attention, yet at the same time had never failed to recognize and respond to a threat himself.
I need to stop comparing myself to Freagon, and aspiring to be like him, he thought, frowning at the sense of inadequacy that overcame him. He was extraordinary in almost every way, except his lack of people-skills. I can never hope to compare to him. He is an ideal to strive for, nothing more. Invincible to the very end.
And yet he died.

He tore his eyes from the Daywalker and the human, focusing on feeling happy that the two of them seemed okay with one another rather than bitter that their immortal leader was the one receiving the affections of an attractive woman such as Thaler. He had to remind himself of his decision to let go and to want the best for the two of them; Aemoten loved her, after all.
Instead he turned his attention to Domhnall, listening to the foreigner’s tale, and finding that he had to fight down a familiar sensation within himself, one he recognized only too well from back in Borstown, and one he thought himself much too disillusioned to indulge in again. But still, that these people and the black-furred creature over there had met just recently, by chance, and then shortly afterwards encountered their group, also by chance? That Iridiel was a Favored One capable of healing, showing up just as Aemoten was reaching the limit of how much he could do to restore their group after their unfortunate encounters? That Domhnall seemed so likeable, and described the other creature - Claw - as ‘the honorable sort’. A group of three, capable of slaying a lohk with no casualties.
The hairs were standing on his arms at the sense of destiny at work, and he swallowed a lump in his throat as he struggled not to embrace the naïve thought so readily. He felt the certainty the Withering would be ended soon growing within himself, and had to remind himself that there were still trials ahead before such a grand deed could be accomplished. But they had already faced the worst, had they not? By the planes, they had already had to face a god! How much greater could their trials get?

“How nice!” Olan replied to Domhnall’s explanation, his excitement not seeming to falter the least in the face of the randomness of their encounter, or the relation between the two whatever-they-were and Claw. “I’m a traveler, too, you know. An explorer, even. I really wouldn’t recommend going any further east, though; it gets really uncomfortable over there, you know.”
Then he turned to look at Iridiel at her perch, smiling widely at her, and did a little bow as well... while speaking in a language Jaelnec was entirely unfamiliar with. He had no way of knowing this, but Olan was speaking the Éireannach language, though with Rodorian grammar, similar to how he had earlier spoken to Etakar in Aemoten’s native tongue. It was surprising, to say the least, and just another piece of evidence of how strange a person Olan really was.
“Greetings, Favored of Sulis. I am at your service.”

Viridian eyes became aglow with excitement at the thoughts that the Grand Master told of – a world where magicians were given unlimited power to do as they pleased. Remembering that she had, essentially, depleted herself more or less completely three times during the same day, this property of the Spirit Realm would be more than just a small boon to her. More than that even, they had the ability to shape their bodies and the very world around them according to their whims. It was quite literally a world where dreams became reality because it was composed of dreams; truly marvelous, and slightly terrifying.

Yet, they could still die according to their demonic associate. What exactly would be lethal to them in the Spirit Realm, she wondered? Death in the real world was typically a result of mortal injuries sustained on the body, yet their bodies in the Spirit Realm were most likely just a creation of thought and, as such, malleable. Could she not, if she wished for it, become made of steel and thus impervious to any and all bodily assaults? Instead, she imagined, death in this realm must simply mean the destruction of one’s soul, or perhaps the severing of the bond between their souls and their bodies. Yet how does one destroy a soul when it cannot be drained of magical energy for good? It would be difficult to ‘avoid’ dying when one did not precisely know what guise death will take.

When Gerald asked about their corporeal forms during their dreamlike journey, Jillian felt like the answer should have been fairly obvious. They did, after all, talk about the concept of lucid dreaming already, so she assumed that they would be, for all intents and purposes, asleep. Before the witch could think of their potential vulnerabilities, the Grand Master already pointed out how susceptible to attacks they would be in their unconscious state, and that the minions of Kreshtaat might attempt to take advantage of this. That was troubling, but how would they know? And if they were planning on assassinating the two of them, why had they not done so already or why would they not do it during any other sleep of theirs? Moreover, could the wardens of Fokon’s temples not keep unwanted intruders out, especially when made aware of the fact that their charges were the would-be saviors of all Rodoria? Clearly, the Grand Master placed more trust in his own demons than he did in mortal protection, and offered to have them guarded by some unspeakable fiend that, somehow, would kill anything that sees it.

“Are you sure that is entirely necessary?” Jillian asked with a hint of concern in her voice, “I hear the Wardens are formidable combatants in their own right. While I appreciate the gesture, your lordship, I am not sure if I would like to put my life in the hands of some monster whose mere sight can be lethal. How would the servants of Kreshtaat even be aware of our plans on such a short notice?”

Frowning upon hearing Jillian’s concern, Gerald was fairly sure that he knew how the Grand Master would respond even before he did so.
“Firstly, I don’t think you realize the full extent of what you are up against in this,” the lord of the Crimson Dawn started listing, holding up a long, slender finger as he made his point. “The Death Clan, the servants of Kreshtaat, is almost certainly a lot bigger and more powerful than any of us suspects, and they are known to have infiltrated nearly every place and every group in Reniam. Whether the Wardens are capable fighters or not should not be your concern, but rather whether you can trust them and the other inhabitants of Fokon in the first place. Kreshtaat will surely learn of your intention to seek him out in the Spirit Realm as soon as you start preparing to go there from one of his agents, and he will be free to command whoever serves him to kill you. He might send an assassin, or he might send an army. Heh, he could even send Himyth, if he really wanted you dead, or any number of demonspawn loyal to her.
My point is that since you need the help of the people in Fokon, the Death Clan will know you are a target... and even presuming that the Wardens themselves won’t turn against you, they won’t stand a chance if the enemy moves against them in force or infiltrates without them noticing.”

Gerald nodded to himself, having confirmed his suspicion that things would not be simple once they spoke to others of their intention to pursue Kreshtaat into the Spirit Realm. He had to agree with the Grand Master that they needed additional protection, though the more he thought about it, the less of a good idea it seemed to trust this particular source of protection.
“The contract did not mention your involvement,” he said hoarsely, eyes narrowing at the demon. “How do we know that your agent would not simply kill us, making you win the wager?”
“Have you not been listening at all?” The visage sighed, shaking his head in resignation. “I want you to succeed, I want Kreshtaat stopped. Besides, I know that I might employ the occasional trick in my deals and exploit a loophole here and there, but I never cheat. If I did that, no one would want to make deals with me. In fact, I will personally make any servant of mine that even thinks about getting in your way pay sorely for that mistake.”

The fiend turned back to Jillian, and extended a second finger on his upheld hand. “Secondly, I am not sending a monster; the only ‘monsters’ I’d be capable of sending to your aid in my current state are much too valuable to me to give out freely, even for a cause as important as this. And had it been a monster, your little friends at the Temple would be entirely safe looking at it... though I imagine they’d still prefer not to. No, the servant I would be sending is human. He’s exceptionally capable, even more so than many of my immortal minions, and obedient to a fault. He just... doesn’t like his existence being known, and makes a habit of murdering witnesses unless they satisfy certain criteria. If he is there, I guarantee that your physical bodies will be safe if Kreshtaat sends anything less than Himyth herself to stop you.”
A third finger extended. “And thirdly, you can dispense with the pleasantries, Jillian. I don’t expect your servility anymore. You are not in my service, and we have made a bargain; as far as I am concerned that makes us partners, and thus equals. I would honestly prefer you to accept this and treat me as an equal, as well.”

At first, the assassin was not sure that the vampire was going to reveal himself. He would have imagined that the deo’iel don’t take too kindly to the knowledge that there was a vampire in the midst of the conversation. While it was the man’s decision to reveal himself, Ixion knew that not revealing himself would lead to further mistrust in the group. On the other hand if the vampire did reveal himself to Rose and Violet, then his only leverage against his affiliation to the Grand Master was to be taken off of the table. While it was something that the assassin didn’t want to happen this soon into the group’s formation, he concluded that it is now unavoidable in order to dispel any tension that is in the group. Still, he stood firm to his decision to withhold the affiliation to the Sisters unless he was asked, without the decision if it was to be revealed being made.

The vampire’s decision to actually reveal himself to the sisters mildly surprised Ixion, but at the same time, he was relieved at the decision. Further tension was not needed for the lack of identity to all members involved. As the man revealed himself to be called Morgan, the assassin took note on the mocking manner in which he introduced himself. Another tone that he would dismiss as he decided not to stoop down to Morgan’s level. It wasn’t until I’on spoke, introducing himself to the group and discussing the damage done to then inn that he remembered that there was another person in the group, his gaze turning towards the talking party. The penin’s affiliation to the authorities in the city make him a danger to both himself and the vampire, but they also knew about his capabilities. Keep your vigilance up, Stonehand, he thought to himself. He was certainly a powerful mage that has the potential to grow more powerful in the future should the assassin need to think about taking him down if he posed a threat. Certainly would be another soul that he would find valuable.

One observation was made during all this was from the sisters themselves: they reacted differently to the two masked men revealing themselves. While they did not react much when Ixion revealed himself but more acknowledging his comments on the reveal’s dangers, they definitely gave off a reaction to Morgan, with Violet’s eyes changing size and Rose’s head tilting to one side. The assassin assumed that they both identified him as a vampire and he wouldn’t be surprised if the penin also was drawing some conclusions himself. Perhaps the trade-off for the loss of leverage to the group’s perceptions of the vampire and increased wariness was a seemingly fair. Certainly would keep them on their toes in the case that he steps out of line in the future. Still, he has his affiliation hanging over his head. Perhaps it was for the best.

As the sisters responded to the penin’s comments about the damage done to the inn, Ixion glanced at Rose’s left hand. It was covered in white fur, also revealing 4 fingers to show a little more about the enigma that was behind the cloak. So, that is what it is price for allowing the demon side to slowly take over you, he concluded. While he was glad that he was not a demonspawn himself, despite his contract, he almost felt sorry for the Sisters. His lack of knowledge over the race is not good for someone of his profession, but the more he knew now, the more he can understand them in the case when he encounters one in the future in a possible job. As the discussion turned to The Fixer, now that everyone inside the building was gone, the assassin’s focus turned to the topic at hand. It was good to know that he didn’t say too much about his ‘compatriot’ that would have endangered anyone else’s life from mentioning it, but it was good to know about what to say in the future.

The interruption from the cloaked demonspawn that was directed at him caught him off guard, her left hand pointing at him as well as the stare from the mirrored eyes. The warning about the sword that was in his hand made everything that he was wondering about the weapon fall into place. The faint-pink glow that surrounded the weapon before and the faint whisper that came from a brief clash with Morgan all explained it. He turned his head towards the foul blade that was in his hand. While he didn’t particularly care that the weapon was a Dirge, the identity of the weapon to be a bane-weapon was. “I have heard of such weapons, but I didn’t think that I’d encounter one.” His mind thought about the weapon, eyes noting the details of the black stones. “Never mind a Stone of the Doom Mage.” Having such a weapon in his possession caused a dilemma in his mind. Sure, he could use it as an alternative weapon from his kusarigama and get better with a sword. But knowing that such a weapon, one capable of damaging both the flesh and the soul, in his possession was going to be highly detrimental to his contract with the Grand Master. The thought of that worried him a lot. Should he keep it? Should he dispose of it and annoy the one person that was hunting for such weapons? Such a problem that he needed to figure out and fast.

---

His worry assuaged by Violet's response, the penin nodded and dismissed the topic from his mind. However, with that gone he had plenty attention to spare and so noticed when Ixion glanced his way. He made no indication that he had seen the action, though he cataloged it as a silent warning from the assassin. He knew he was in a precarious situation, but it was something that he was familiar with. Neither vampire nor assassin frightened him, in fact, despite the assassin's strange teleportation, he was quite sure that he could take at least one of them--though both at once would be a stretch for his skills as weaving magic and defending himself physically were difficult acts to achieve simultaneously. While he managed it here and there he often had to resort to either runes or elemental magic to achieve such results, amplifying his efforts with short spells and a smidgen of necromancy.

Turning his attention again to Violet as he heard her warn Ixion of the dirge he had acquired, I'on's eyes widened slightly and he took a step towards the man before stopping himself short. He had never laid hands on, nor seen a Stone of the Doom Mage, but he similarly knew that it would be unwise to ask to do so now. Things were already to unstable. "An interesting revelation, I think," I'on said as he glanced at the Dirge, then Ixion. He wondered where the conversation was to go from here.

He was beginning to wonder about a great many things really. Again he felt a twinge of anxiety twisting at the edges of his awareness. He breathed to let it out, but it only helped slightly. The more he heard, the more apparent the danger he might be in became.

Troublesome, he thought.

As Morgan unveiled his identity, the vampire’s flat, cold expression couldn’t help be altered ever so slightly by a ghost of a smile at the sisters’ reactions. ‘I suppose it’s not every day you see a vampiric sniffer.’ His pale face returned to that of a blank expression, however, upon further thought, ’Though this could mean that it will be that much easier to betray me when the time comes.’ As his final ally introduced himself, Morgan looked around. Two demon spawns, a terrifyingly talented assassin, and a more than likely master of his magical art. ‘Some how, I don’t see this working out.’ Morgan thought dryly as his final companion’s name rang through his head. 'I’onriyi Stonehand…’ Even with the little time he had spent in Zerul, Morgan had heard the name. However, its weight was lost upon him, as Morgan was not a local.

As tensions died down and conversation began to, the vampire paid more closely attention to Ixion’s newfound blade. Every one was making a fairly large fuss about it; the penin even took an excited step towards it, only to retract. ‘It seems The Fixer wasn’t the only one who wanted it.’ Morgan thought with an eyebrow raised, his gloved hands reaching back to retie his mask. Though it may be looked upon poorly by his companions, Morgan didn’t really care. At the moment, every instinct was screaming to hide in the shade, even indoors. Also, it didn’t help that sunlight that was streaming through the windows, and poking venomously through the new cracks in the ceiling, thanks to the scuffle that had happened only moments ago. The light only fueled his fear of the sun’s warm touch.

As the vampire went back into hiding, Morgan decided it was time to educate himself about the situation, even if it did reveal he knew very little about what was being discussed, his red eyed gazed looking directly at the blade, “It’s just a blade with a little enchantment, is it not?” The vampire had heard them mention a Stone of the Doom Mage, but he inwardly shrugged at the name. Often, at least from his experience, names that magic users gave themselves rarely lived up to their actual knowledge of magic. It was often ones with simple names that were names to be feared. ‘Though, “Doom Mage” is probably a name to be feared…’

Violet shook her head no at Morgan’s question, making a gesture in the Dirge’s general direction. “Bane-weapons possess something much worse than any kind of enchantment you are likely to have encountered, I’m afraid. It’s a property of the Stones that are imparted to and corrupted by whichever weapon they are attached to; they are capable of injuring souls, not just flesh. Wounds caused by a bane never heal, not even in the afterlife, and if one hurts another enough with a bane, one can cause the soul to unravel... effectively destroying it permanently.”
“Even immortals fear banes,” Rose pointed out grimly, “and with good reason. A bane can kill immortals, too. Permanently.”
“Dirges are no different from other bane-weapons, except for their appearance. Though their scabbards are also enchanted, made so that they will destroy the Dirge if it is within them when its wearer dies.” Violet eyed Ixion curiously. “Which meant that the Blue Tool must have been made to draw the Dirge before she was killed. That’s quite the feat; as far as I know, they are forbidden from doing that except under extraordinary circumstances.
All Tools supposedly have one,” she continued, “one for each master. We’re not sure how many of them there are, but we do know that there’s at least one in each of the Rodorian duchies... and that the Fixer has a Dirge, as well. Which means that he has either killed a Tool before, or that he was once a Tool himself.”

“Before we go on about this,” Rose interrupted her sister, holding up a furry finger to call attention to herself, “there is something I want to know.” Now it was her turn to look curiously at Ixion. “When you fought the Fixer, did you notice anything odd about the way he fought? I mean, maybe he never took his hands out of his pockets, or he refused to draw his weapons; things like that.”

Morgan leaned against his staff in attentive manner, his remasked gaze looking from Violet. The information was new, of course, but the weight it held made Morgan glance sideways at Ixion before his attention was refocused onto Rose. ’A weapon that even immortals fear?’ The vampire’s thoughts were not concerned, or fearful. Instead, his mind turned the object mentally over and over in his head, weighing the possibilities of a weapon.

In his years of sniffing, the vampire had seen some magical enchantments. Some were mere play things, giving a weapon a mere element of nature or a small useful utility that proved to be useful now and then. Morgan grimaced at the thought of Blue’s magic when a blinding light had spilled from her sword hand. Some enchantments Morgan had witnessed had brought large platoons of men to their knees, threatening all present. Yet, this weapon had so much power and it coincidentally fell into their shaky alliance?

Rose’s further commentary revealed even more to Morgan. ’Someone feared the blade enough to use a little insurance’ But with these answered questions, only more arose. Had Blue been so threatened she felt the need to use her Dirge? Did she know that the Fixer was coming? Was she slain for her blade? Why was The Fixer after the blade? Why had he given it up easily? ’If he’s as powerful as they say he is, we should have been dead.' Morgan thought, his thoughts were becoming uneasy. ’Is The Fixer just waiting to see if this reclaimed artifact will bring more… what are they… Tools?’ His head whirling, Morgan leaned more heavily on his staff. He was tired, all of this excitement was beginning to wear on him. ’And to think I ended up here because I let my curiosity get the better of me’ Morgan mentally commented irritably, thinking back to the perch where he had been resting before his encounter with Blue.

The sniffer wearily brushed aside his thoughts as he voiced his observations to Rose, hopefully answering her questions. “He only used one weapon - a long… spike, I guess is the best way to describe it.” A sigh blew from his pale lips, “Other than that, I believe all he used were his hands.” Turning to his newfound companions, he looked to see if they could add any more information…

“How nice!” the older black-eyes exclaimed, still with that unbridled enthusiasm Domhnall was now beginning to understand was perhaps characteristic to the man. “I’m a traveler, too, you know. An explorer, even. I really wouldn’t recommend going any further east, though; it gets really uncomfortable over there, you know.” (Aye, too much sand and too few trees, from what I've heard, some voice in his mind commented in the way of lazy self-irony.)
Without further ado, the strange man stepped past him and approached Iridiel's perch instead, looking up at her with a wide smile on his face - an action which, in the given instance, made Domhnall tense up by a bit, as evidenced by his face obtaining a slightly more serious mien and a brows furrowing ever so slightly.
Not because he assumed any ill intent of the man ... quite the opposite. The fellow left a bit eccentric impression, perhaps, but even leaving aside the lack of evident weapons and formidable statue, there simply was no malevolence present in him. The most he reminded of was a kindly elder (if an exceptionally youthful one; he could not tell how old the man was exactly, but he appeared at least middle-aged, and there were streaks of gray in his otherwise black hair), someone to tell stories and pass on knowledge to the younger generation. There was also an odd kind of almost childlike naivety in him ... in the lack of a better term.
It was more about Iridiel, if anything... Not only did she barely speak Rodorian, but she was not much of a person to talk freely to strangers, she was still recovering from her demonstration of godly power and most likely busy praying to Sulis - something he himself generally did not want to bother her at - and atop of all, he had furthermore gotten the impression that not everything was fine on her end right before the newcomers had returned with the rest of their little party. From her agitated muttering, he had gathered something had upset her, though what exactly, he had not an idea.
He had just about taken a step after the man to set a hand on his shoulder to quietly point out that his companion was presently communicating with her goddess and it was best not to disturb her while she was occupied thusly, but suddenly, after a slight bow, the man spoke - in Éireann. The grammar was odd - it was as if someone had taken two sentences in the local language and, word by word, translated them into Iridiel's dialect of their language, paying no heed to natural word order. It was enough to give him a momentary pause, arm halfway raised.
“Greetings, Favored of Sulis. I am at your service.”



Iridiel, still shaken after her... "discussion" with Sulis, let us call it, snapped back to reality at the sound of the Mother Goddess' name. A man was addressing her... How odd it must have looked to him, to speak to a young woman sitting halfway up a tree who was previously looking agitated and nervous and talking seemingly to themselves.
He probably thinks I'm some insane lunatic who was sent away from her home before she did something stupid... Not wholly inaccurate. She thought as she steadied herself on the branch she was sitting on.
Then, it struck her. The man was speaking to her in her own language, and very well, to boot! Had he visited the Contaetha, had he learned their language whilst there? Hopefully the Gorman tongue wasn't too confusing for him to hear...
"You... you know Eireann! How do you know? Wait... my apologies. I suppose I should introduce myself first. Iridiel Kavanagh, in other languages; in my home tongue, Caomhanach. You're fluent in Eireann... you're the first either of us have met who can talk to us without having to resort to... um... whatever it is they speak around here."



"Ye speak Éireann?" he echoed, quietly, as he got over his initial bafflement, half-wary, half-surprised eyes flickering between Olan and what little was visible of his companion between the branches and sparse yellowing autumn leaves - he himself was still using Rodorian, both because it would have felt incredibly odd resorting to his own tongue with a stranger after having only been able to speak it when conversing with Iridiel for so long, and because being able to speak in oddly-constructed Éireann was not necessarily indicative of the ability to also comprehend the harsher Albhain dialect he himself typically spoke in.
"It's a firs', fer cer'ain," he furthermore affirmed Iridiel's statement.

“Hum, very well,” Jillian answered with a tired shrug, arms crossed in a futile attempt to stave off the cold, “Suits me just fine, partner.” At least he’s using my name, she thought to herself, casting a furtive glance to her strange ally in black who has so adamantly denied her the sound of her first name. Why only was that? Besides it simply being a nuisance to herself, she understood that he must have had some reason to avoid familiarity with her. Familiarity… was that it? Did he simply not want that degree of intimacy with her? It seemed ridiculous; there was nothing to using someone’s first name. It did not even imply a particularly intimate bond. He must either have become absolutely paranoid about forming relations with others – to the point of crippling his social skills at large – or he must simply dislike her personally on a strong level. If the latter was true, however, he would not have risked his life to save her from Anaxim. Maybe he simply found joy in spiting her…

“So, about this escort,” she began after clearing her throat, “I’m to assume that we meet those ‘certain criteria’, yes? He’s not going to kill us if we see him, or a month or two later because we happen to know of his existence now and such, right?”

“Furthermore, where would we meet up with him? Will he be waiting in Fokon for us? Do we wait here for his appearance?” Jillian asked after receiving a satisfactory reply to her previous question, “And what about Renold and Crone? How do they factor into our plans? I can’t see past this dome of hands you’ve so conveniently put around us, partner, but I know they’re still there, probably staring at us. As an aside, you wouldn’t mind telling us what this is about anyway, would you? I saw them as soon as I signed the contract.”

The strange mass of writhing, oily hands seemed so improbable and dreamlike in their existence. It reminded her of the dreams she had in between Anaxim and now of which she only remembered dissociated fragments. On initial attempts to recall details – something about a ship? An island? There was fire, certainly. And Vincent, poor, poor Vincent. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Had been better off never meeting Jillian at all maybe… – she realized just how dream-like, or nightmare-like the entire day had been. The things she’s seen and done, she had no words for it. And all in such a short time. How did it all come to pass? Was it simply a string of exceptional events that she had stumbled into, or was this common for Gerald? What of the future? Would this streak of mind-boggling happenings continue, or would things be allowed to calm down once their deed in Fokon was done? Doubtful, given their agreement with Crone and Renold, or the possible consequences of their victories.

Maybe it was not as bad as it all seemed. She had always wanted recognition, fame and power. All of them things that had to be obtained through hardship and exceptional deeds. There was no going back either way, every bridge was burned. She would earn her place in this brave, new world or die trying.

Gerald felt somewhat conflicted in terms of what to think about the Grand Master's way of treating them, going as far as to calling their relationship that of partners, and citing that he thought of the three of them as equals. It was all very nice in principle, of course, which was probably what made it seem so suspicious to him. Demon lords normally did not do “nice”, unless they did so in order to manipulate someone into doing their bidding somehow. Add to that that the demon lord in question was the worst of the bunch - the infamous Lord of Lies, master of deceit and manipulation, and the single most nefarious demon in existence – and his uncharacteristically humble and pleasant way of treating them, as well as his generosity when helping them, had plenty of reason to make them paranoid.
He did not say anything, though, nor did he have any reason to protest against the notion of them being partners and equals. Speaking purely as two businessmen making a deal with another, the Grand Master's logic made perfect sense... but he was beginning to seem far too altruistic for one of the prime evils of the planes.

The matter of their protector during their potentially coming back for them later on in order to erase another couple of witnesses was something the necromancer had initially just presumed they would be safe from, but which he did offer a nod of acknowledgement to Jillian for actually questioning. With how cooperative the Grand Master had been thus far, it would not at all be surprising to Gerald if the cunning fiend had managed to weave a trap into all of this somewhere, and giving his “exceptionally capable” servant a reason to come back of his own volition to kill them after succeeding did seem like the Grand Master's style.
“Of course,” the demon waved her off. “One of the two things that can keep him from killing you is if I tell him not to, which I will, and I will continue to prohibit him from killing you even after you've won our wager. Although... it is worth noting that I could retract that prohibition at any time. Not that that matters a lot; if you ever gave me a reason to want you dead, all I had to do was to tell him to kill you. It won't change anything in that regard; you will be no more in danger of him than you would normally be if you made an enemy of me.”
“Is that a threat?” Gerald hissed, immediately on the defensive.
“Of course it is, I thought that was obvious,” the other confirmed with a shrug. “But then, my entire existence is an implied threat to all beings of the planes, is it not? It's no different from anyone else, no different from before: my enemies die. So don't be my enemy.”

“Dome of hands?” the Grand Master repeated in wonder when Jillian confronted him about it, and the demon lord looked up puzzledly before bursting out laughing. “Oh right, of course, the hands of fate. I didn't even think about that. I can't see these hands, you see; my hands of fate form around my real body, in the Skull Tower. What you see is your hands of fate. It's one of the aspects of the power of my contracts; they aren't really 'about' anything, nor am I the one causing them. They are a manifestation of our intertwining fates and redefined limitations, as far as I know. Only someone physically present and with a connected fate would be able to see them... which I should imagine means that Eliza sees them. Did you know she made a deal with me once? Oh, how young and selfish she was back then...”
“There is no necessity for these two to obtain awareness of that,” came Crone's voice through the wall of their shadowy cage, not at all muffled by its ephemeral presence.
“You want to silence me? Feel free to deactivate the sigil stone. In the meantime...” The Grand Master waved a translucent hand, and the shadowy hands surrounding them rapidly dissipated, leaving no evidence of their passing behind. Once again visible to the duo of magi, Crone appeared angry, probably because of the Grand Master's unnecessary revelation, and Renold – as far as the dragon's mien could be compared to humanoid expressions – seemed worried.

“As for your other questions,” the demon continued, “my agent will find you in Fokon, likely while you are still a ways off from the Joint Temple of Immortals, and he will take care of the planning from there. And those two,” he gestured at Renold and Crone, “can do however little or much they want, though it's worth noting that the dragon doesn't carry my protection, and Eliza is seriously gambling with hers by disturbing me with my own sigil stone. I can't guarantee that my agent won't kill them on sight.”
Gerald stared at the Grand Master incredulously. “Are you saying that if we accept the help of your agent, he won't allow Crone and Renold to help?” He shook his head. “I realize that they haven't agreed to help us, but I can't imagine that your man is anywhere near as dangerous as the two of them.”
“You have no idea,” the fiend laughed. “Not even I know this agent's limits. He is my fixer, and I have yet to encounter any situation that he haven't been able to resolve.” He paused thoughtfully. “And even if the two of them were a match for him at their best, weren't you going to go after my general first? Hunt down and seal away Hazzergash, before he can escape back to Cave Bear's Keep? Do you imagine that those two will have much strength left after facing off against the demonic Lord of Fire? Believe me, you would be much better off relying on my fixer than on those two. No offense.”
“Didn't you say that your agent was human?” Gerald asked. “Renold is an elder dragon, and Crone is an exceptionally powerful mage! Can he compete with that?”
“There is no competition; the Fixer is more dangerous than both of them combined.”

---

Olan smiled widely, looking from Iridiel to Domhnall as each of them expressed their surprise at his ability to speak their language. It was not that he wanted to impress them, though; he was just happy that this strange ability of his to understand and communicate with anyone in any language proved useful. Somehow, it did not even occur to him that it would be better to keep the ability a secret from the others – why would he, anyway? They were his friends – or that it might seem intimidating. He just wanted to be useful somehow, rather than just being the old guy with amnesia.
Where that thought came from – the thought that he was “old” - he was not sure. He appeared middle-aged at worst, and his body generally felt as energic and capable as that of a man in his prime, but there was something indeterminably and fundamentally true in the presumtion that he was old, he felt.

When both of them spoke to him, though – Domhnall in Rodorian, Iridiel in Éireann – he decided to answer both of them, though he felt something in his head stretch... and when he spoke, without meaning to or even being fully aware of what he was doing, he did so in a language that was Rodorian and Éireann... and every other language in existence. Without even realizing it, Olan's confused mind switched to speaking in True Words.
“I can speak any language, you know” he shrugged, not even fully conscious of small amounts of magical energy being drained from his soul with every word he uttered. “I don't know how, but I can, somehow. Lost my memory earlier today, when I got roughed up a bit by a god, so...” He looked back at Jaelnec, Thaler and Aemoten, the former of which seemed dumbfolded by what was happening. “I don't even think I told my friends about it, you know? Besides Thaler.”

There is no situation the Fixer cannot resolve, huh? Why only did he not send the good man to fix the Withering for him, Jillian wondered. Was the old demon simply overplaying – or overestimating – his servant’s capabilities, or was there an actual reason why he would rather risk the lives of two wholly expendable humans as opposed to his favorite henchman’s in order to combat Kreshtaat’s ploy? If the end of the Withering really was important to him, it seemed very strange that he would not have tried to destroy it himself, or that he had failed in his attempts, if he was in control of such an exceptionally gifted and capable human. If he truly was far above Crone’s and Renold’s powers combined, then there was nothing that Jillian or Gerald could do that would make them better candidates for this mission.

“Did you make him?” Jillian interjected critically, “I mean, did you give him your power through a contract, this Fixer? You say that not even you know what he’s fully capable of. How is that even possible?”

“Eliza here seems to have gotten some of her power through you,” she continued confidently, preferring to use Crone’s true name because she thought it more respectful and pretty. ‘Crone’ sounded so very derogative. “And from what I’ve seen, she vastly outmatches both Gerald and me. Did you give this man so much power that you lost control over what he’s capable of, or has he done something else to gain his abilities?”

Once she was given an answer – one which she fully expected not to be satisfactory – she would press on with “And besides, why hasn’t he ‘fixed’ the Withering for you if he’s so extremely powerful? Why would you need us two? We’re clearly the least powerful individuals in this scheme. We struggled with a couple wyverns and humans. We almost died. We’re prone to disease and fatigue. What makes us better suited to this job than the Fixer himself?”

The witch’s tone may have come across as slightly accusatory, for she shared Gerald’s skepticism in light of what the old one told them. Even if the man was not a direct threat to them, which she was willing to believe, it made little sense that the Grand Master would have struck this deal with her and the necromancer in the first place if he had such capable and discreet lackeys available. Unless… unless the Fixer could not dream, for whichever reason? That in itself would be strange. It would also, most likely, make him unable to use magic of any kind, not without becoming a Piaan addict. It made no sense either way, and curiosity alone demanded more answers. Believing herself safe behind the terms of their contract, Jillian intended to press her luck and question the demon lord as much as possible. She could only gain from it.

“No, I didn't,” the Grand Master shrugged. “And my fixer did not make a deal with me for power, nor did Eliza. The dear girl was actually quite powerless when she went out in the world to make use of her new ability; it has taken her, oh, how long has it been? Three thousand years? Quite a few lifetimes to obtain her power. And before you ask, no, she did not buy longevity from me either. Her deal was for her to be able to master every school of magic she ever dabbled in.”
“Speak no more,” Crone uttered angrily, and somehow Gerald could not help but to smile with vicious pleasure at her anger. “You possess no right nor need to divulge -”
“I have every right to say as much about your deal as I want,” the demon broke her off. “Your contract didn't include a clause for my silence. But you're right, there's no need to explain.” He turned his attention back to Jillian. “As for my fixer, the reason I don't know the extent of his abilities is simply that I, despite appearances, am not omnescient; I just have a lot of ears and eyes in a lot of useful places. None of those have ever observed this agent unleash his full potential, however... indeed, I'm not certain that he himself even knows his limits.
As for how he has come to wield such power, part of it is simply due to innate proficiency. Talent. Extraordinary natural ability. Part of it is from his past as the Grim Tool, shaped into a human weapon by the Corpse Forge. And part of it may also be because he killed several Shards of Sin once. It all adds up to make him very valuable to me.”

When the witch asked for an explanation as to why they were being sent to end the Withering rather than the supposedly much more capable Fixer, however, the Grand Master seemed to lose interest in the conversation. Indeed, he even turned his head and looked off to their right, looking at the rocks over there as though they were the most unusual and interesting thing he had ever seen.
“You should really come and visit me in the Skull Tower someday,” he said, blatantly changing the subject. “There are many things here I imagine both of you would be quite interested in seeing; unusual things unlike anything you'll find anywhere else in the planes.”

Corpse Forge? Grim Tool? Shard of Sin? The number of seemingly important terms he threw at her with little or no explanation was almost staggering. It made her feel quite small and ignorant to the true workings of the world; the Grand Master knew so much more than she did, and he himself had just admitted to the limits of his own knowledge. So, so much to learn and so little time… unless, of course, one cheated death like Eliza apparently had. The Crone had allegedly not bargained eternal life with the lord of lies, which implied that there were other ways to gain longevity. Lichdom? Certainly a viable option, but she did not quite look like one. Considering how vexed she had become at the Grand Master for telling Jillian about her dealings, she could only assume that the ancient sorceress would be less than willing to tell her any more. A shame, but not altogether tragic. She had other things to worry about for the time being.

When the demon lord turned his regard elsewhere and seemingly ignored her latest bout of questions, Jillian visibly tensed up, a wave of red washing over her pale cheeks. “Fine, have it your way,” she pouted, arms crossed, “How do you suppose I’d come to visit you? Should I just hit up the nearest carriage and ask to be taken to, oh, I don’t know, the Skull Tower? Ugh. But if we presume that you’re neither setting a trap nor jesting what would I gain from a visit? And what would you gain? I find it hard to believe you would simply do us a favor because you’re feeling nice today. It doesn’t suit you.”

Jillian spoke quite quickly, piling question upon question as she paced back and forth, sometimes gesticulating to make her point. Somewhere in the middle of it, her gaze too followed that of the Grand Master to the pile of inconspicuous rocks, spying in vain for anything unusual. Disappointed with her lack of findings, her viridian eyes put the demon lord in sharp focus again, glaring mercilessly and unflinchingly. She surprised even herself with her sudden bout of energy that allowed her to press the Grand Master with such clarity of mind and vigor. Just moments ago she had felt all but drained, wishing for nothing more than a bath, a soft bed and maybe a good drink, yet her fatigue was all but washed away for now. Part of her mind argued that her fluctuating condition must be a result from having been magically exhausted and (unnaturally) replenished twice in a matter of an afternoon. Using the Withering as a conduit to suck someone else’s magical energy into her own body must have some unforeseen consequences. But if there was a price to pay, she would pay it later. For now, she felt good, surprisingly so.

Red burning coals flared brightly within the gloom of the Grand Master's hood, narrowing cunningly as he gazed at the sorceress, pleased and surprised – and pleased with his surprise – that rather than do as he had expected and dismiss him for not answering her question, she inquired further about the Skull Tower. She was not the first, of course; countless others, mortal and immortal alike, had sought the tower since the days of the Nomad, when the seat of the Infernal Empire had become its emperor's prison... the mythical “sixth prison”, with the first five being the crystals used to seal his generals, one of which was currently located on Gerald's chest. Some of those who had sought it had meant to slay the Grand Master while others had meant to free him; both errands equally pointless and impossible. Not many had ever reached the Skull Tower after the Nomad had cursed the place, and only one person had ever managed to leave.
And excited shiver went through the Ancient One's robe, only a single quick tremor this time. He raised his hands in front of his chest and brought the tips of his slender, elegant fingers together with their matches on the other hand.

“Did you ever wonder why the land you call Rodoria used to be called ‘the Land in the Middle’? Why Kreshtaat decided to unleash the Withering here, of all places in Reniam? Why the demon prisons are here? Why so many relics are found here, and why immortals are so interested in this particular region?” His eyes burned with eager anticipation. “It’s because of me, Jillian. When I came to Reniam through Stupor, this is where I landed. And after I had plummeted from the sky, I created my tower in the crater left from my arrival. Filled it with the secrets and treasures of another world, the one I came from. What would you gain? Use your imagination. Would you not be interested in examining the artifacts of an alien world? Obtaining some of the ancient secrets buried here with me?”
He shrugged, smiling imperceptibly within the illusory darkness. “As for ‘how’, there are two ways, though I fear a carriage would only get you partway here. One is to lift the curse from the tower, undoing the seal and freeing me. Doing so will also restore the Skull Tower to its true imposing glory, for the world to see and tremble at.
The other is to swim here, since the crater filled with water and my tower was lowered into its depths. You see, the Skull Tower and I are at the bottom of what you’ve named Center Lake.”

Ixion kept his eyes on the bane weapon. I’on had spoken up about the reveal of the weapon’s true nature while he was staring at it. The assassin thought about the penin and what he had said earlier in the day. ”I intend to take these two men to a nearby inn, the one close to my shop, I'm sure you know it…” He recalled that specific sentence from the conversation with the guards. With him remembering that the penin was a shop owner and a mage, the step that his comrade took left an impression that they wanted to inspect the weapon further, but thought otherwise. Ixion glanced at I’on, “I guess you too haven’t seen a Stone of the Doom Mage before, correct? While the Dirge will remain in my possession for the foreseeable future, you are more than welcome to have a look at it when there is some free time.” While it’s probably an unwise move to do such a thing, from the deo’iels’ point of view, but until the Fixer tries to claim it for himself, Ixion will keep it in his possession and, perhaps, learn to use it both on its own when he is disarmed from his main weapon and with both weapons being used at the same time, but he knew that learning to fight both with a new weapon and dual wielding will take a lot of time to practice and he needed someone to teach him in such a thing.

He looked up in disbelief in what Morgan had said about the weapon. Could you be so naïve about something as dangerous as this? he thought just as Violet responded. The glance that he got from the vampire confirmed that they now knew about the dangers of such a weapon, especially in such a situation that occurred just moments ago. With now that bit of clarification given, Ixion listened further as to the nature of the scabbard. The question she asked moments before drawing the sword, which led up to her death, made sense. “I guess that’s the reason why she asked moments before she got killed by him,” he said, concluding that thought.

His attention then turned to Rose. The question she posed sure was an interesting one. The fight occurred quickly that a lot of the details was missing. However, as Ixion thought about it whilst Morgan answered, the more things began to piece together from a few things that were in common. “He didn’t use the spike when it came to us,” he replied, correcting Morgan. “That was only used once the Tool had pulled the Dirge from the scabbard. As for fighting, he used his legs for the majority of the fight and used only his right hand in some instances.” It was then that he remembered one moment that stuck to his mind. “One final thing that I had noticed was that I did surprise him at one point and visibly showing that. I’m sure that has some sort of significance, but do you have any idea if this is unusual for him?”