Pale eyes were staring up at the canopy, her raven hair fanning out behind her, in her thoughts Floure was a million miles away. She couldn't sleep.....
The young Traveler girl was worried about their current circumstances. They had almost run out of water, the horses which had carried them upon their backs were left behind, discarded like a piece of left over food. They didn't have a choice, the poor animals had used up the bulk of their strength and weren't made to track through the hot sands of the desert. Othen and Cillian made sure the animals didn't suffer any more than they already had. She couldn't watch.....

She shifted on her side trying her best to ease her worried mind by thinking of something else. Next to her she could feel Emmett stir in his sleep, twisting and turning restlessly. Whenever she managed to stay up until the late hours of the night she noticed that the young adventurer had a troubled sleep. This was the second time she was awake to take notice. She wondered if he would sneak out of the tent again, like he'd done the first time. She didn't follow him then because she figured he may have been taking care of some business. The thought of Emmett doing just such a thing brought a mischievous smirk to her lips. It would be good for him and may just help him relax a bit.

Surely just like the first time Emmett got up and tried to make his way out of the tent quietly. Floure felt his foot bumping into her thigh and she could feel Emmett stopping. She quickly shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep peacefully. She was going to follow him but he had to leave first. After he left the tent Floure slipped out of her covers and searched for her shawl and medicine bag. The burning heat of the day disappeared as soon as the sun sunk into the sands making the nights much colder. Once outside she realized she had taken too long, Emmett was no where to be seen.

Oh Dark Sister be damned.

He could have gone anywhere. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and walked up to the remnants of the fire they'd made the night before. A slight ember was still burning. The longer she waited the less time she had to find out what exactly he was doing out there. She had to find him now. Clueless to where she needed to go Floure relied on what she was taught as a young girl. It was a tried and true method one used by her ancestors. It rarely failed her.

She prayed to the Goddess she insulted only moments before and drew a circle in the sand with the stick they used to poke the fire. The four cardinal points were marked with a symbol unique to each. From her bag she retrieved a small pouch one would use to hold money. Three silver coins slid out onto her palm, shimmering in the moonlight. Crude markings could be seen on both sides. Floure cupped her hands and held them up to the moon closing her eyes in concentration. With a practiced flick of her wrist she then tossed them into the circle. They all landed in Eastern corner. With no time to waste the young woman rushed into the direction the Dark Sister had sent her.

It didn't take her long to find him, his hunched over form leaning against a tree. She knew something was wrong. Floure approached him quietly so she wouldn't startle him. Yet when he suddenly whirled around to meet her gaze it was her who nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise. She could barely hold in a scream. The look on his face was like a Traveler who got caught during the Huckeny Boro, like a thief stealing jewels. He was trying to hide what he was doing but it was too late and her eyes fell upon the flower in his hand. She gasped when she realized what it was, the Devel flower the Travelers called it. When you inhaled it's pollen you reached a state of near divine euphoria.

A million questions ran through her mind. How did he get it? Is this the first time he's used it? If he had used it before the draw back would become worse each time. Using it would ruin him but not using it would too. Floure didn't know what to do or say, he looked utterly desperate and she pitied him. Would it be irresponsible of her to let him use it?

"Emmett" The young woman hissed at the adventurer to grab his attention away from the flower and unto her.

"Do you even know what that does to you?" She said in an irritated but also worried tone of voice. Floure glanced over her shoulder once to make sure she wasn't followed and continued to whisper.

"If you can't control yourself I'm forced to stay with you" She'd rather not have him use the flower but she didn't know how long he'd been using it for. If he was already addicted well......She would have her work cut out for her. If she kept him from feeding his addiction right now he would be a wreck in the morning and she wouldn't be able help him then.

"Does your uncle know about this?" She questioned in a whisper. All the while she kept looking over her shoulder trying to cook up an excuse for why she was here, if they were to get caught.

Sometime around midnight, somewhere before or not quite past after, Grace O’Faolain awoke to the sound of footsteps, she was certain that it was either Emmett or Floure, someone had to use the bathroom, that was certain. Or so she thought. Her insomnia kept her awake during the long hours of the night, so her thoughts wandered on about Cillian. Goddess Divine, had she thought of him. It seemed so surreal that she would see him again, especially in a place like Red Rock. She recalled the way her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach when she laid eyes on him, the way he poured her mug full of meade, the way his eyes lingered on her... They recounted their adventures thus far, when she had disappeared, her voyages on the sea, and his travels to Lusk. Though, she could tell that there was something he kept from her. She presumed that it was his true feelings over her leaving, perhaps anger, or even how he suffered from a heart-ache. Whatever it was, the look in his eyes broke her own heart. Yet, while she contained her afflicted emotions within, Grace struggled with the idea still, of loving him. Certainly, her heart beat quickened with every word he uttered, and the way she would catch him staring at her. There was no doubt in that. She acknowledged the feelings she had for him, she was simply afraid to act on them. The pressure of her bladder cleared her thoughts as she re-entered reality, and as she sat blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she noted the flames of the campfire had dwindled to mere fiery, orange coals that glowed with each breath as the wind curled around it. Already, the lack of the heat from the fire brought a notable chill to the surrounding, raising the hair on her arms. Next to her, as she and Cillian both slept outside on their bedrolls, neither of them had the chance to erect a tent this night, as the group had stopped later in the evening than she had anticipated. She rolled onto her elbows, reaching out with one hand, she shook Cillian, hoping that he would wake.

“Psst. Cillian. Oi, I’m goin’ for a piss, eh? Can ye put more tinder on the fire? I’ll be right back.” With a grunt, she got to her feet and headed off for the nearest shrub. Whether Cillian heard her or not was another thing, she noticed that since they had left Red Rock, the shanty town on the edge of the Badlands, that Cillian was rather a heavy sleeper.

With heavy, sleep-laden footsteps, she made her way past the safety of the perimeter of camp, that way, no one would bother her while she was pissing. Slipping her cotton trousers down over her knees, Grace squatted near a desert shrub, and released the liquid from her bladder. She sighed in relief as her bladder emptied, now she could go back to sleep. That was, until she heard voices, albeit, soft, whispering voices, but voice nonetheless. As she slid her trousers over her hips and buttoned them, Grace’s eyes adjusted to the darkness by now, the stars shone brightly against the black velveteen night sky, giving her the impression that the stars themselves were diamonds encrusted in an endless swath of blackness.

The soles of her boots were soft against the desert sand, save for the occasional crunch of a dried twig underfoot, as she neared the source of the voices, her hand wandered to the daggers dangling at her hips. Were these some of the Bone-Dry Slavers she had heard rumors of in Red Rock? Fearing that the group was in danger, her pace quickened. That was until she heard a familiar, annoyingly familiar voice addressing her.

”Piss off.”

It was that rude, impolite bastard, Emmett. Ok, well that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t a bastard, but he sure acted like an arse. Her mood soured instantaneously upon hearing his words cut across the cool of the night. The corners of her lips turned down into a scowl, and her eyes narrowed into thin slits as she surveyed the scene, she came to a stop to see Emmett and Floure, with a bag not that far from Emmett, she recognized it as his.

“Oi! What the fook do ye think yer doin’ out here at this hour, eh?” She began with a shout that echoed across the stillness of the desert, descending upon them in a whirlwind of fury. “Ye both should be asleep in yer tent. And ye,” She pointed a finger at Emmett, clucking her tongue in disapproval, “don’ tell me what the fook to-do, a’ight?”

Before anyone could stop her, Grace moved to Emmett’s bag, and hoisted it off the sandy floor, hooking a loop over her shoulder, as she fostered the idea to make an attempt to lure him back to camp by taking his belongings. Yet, as she moved the bag, a curious object fluttered to the sand. “What the fook?” Grace muttered in surprise, her eyes widening in revelation. She knew it as soon as she saw the orange-red throated petals lying there in the starlight.

“The fook is this?!” She roared at Emmett, anyone could hear her now, as her voice carried across the emptiness. “Ye think this is some kind of joke, eh?! Well do ye?” She took a menacing step forward, had it not been for Floure in her way, she would have decked Emmett a solid.

“Of all the things ye could do to yerself, ye chose this? I can’ believe this! Emmett! Really?! Ye’ve got to know the consequences for doing this out here, yer going to run out, and then what? Eh? Ye gonna off yerself? Yer gonna put this whole damned quest in jeopardy boy! The Goddess Divine only knows what ye’ve gotten yerself into nah!” Instead of punching him square in the jaw like she would have, Grace swooped to the ground, and plucked the flower from the sand, and held it like the poison it was pinched between her forefinger and thumb. This flower might be his last, if it was, she wielded all of the power in her hand, all she had to do was crush it beneath the heel of her boot.

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The expedition so far had been a rather major, but also rather expectable disaster. They had made far more progress in exhausting their resources than in distance covered. Their water supplies were nearly gone, and their horses had become a series of food sources for vultures and the like. Ironically, it had been the one given to Othen that had collapsed last. He had not covered a single mile not walking on his own feet, simply because he had not dared to put his near 400 pounds of bodyweight alone on one of the poor animal's backs, given the circumstances. So it had had more rest than the others. What Othen was hoping was that, at least, the carcasses were aligned in a straight line and not in a circle...

He had not built up a real tent, but a drastically simplified variant that consisted of just two poles holding two corners of a plane whilst the other two corners were on the ground weighted with stones. Beneath that he was sleeping, or, to be more precise, he had been sleeping. Emmett's light footsteps had not been enough to wake him, nor had it been Floure performing her strange ritual. Grace's rant towards Emmett however had made it across the critical threshold - and he really would have liked to return the favor with even more loudness, right from his tent. But there were things to be considered: The fire had diminished into a fading smoulder, so the argument of it revealing their position to everyone was no more. He wouldn't trap himself by going the extra mile on what he thought himself of being a bad idea to do, so he left his place, guided through the darkness by the voices reaching his ears.

When he reached the scene, his now adapted eyes gave him confirmation of what he had already been afraid of when he had woken up. As much as Othen would have construed a natural event causing this nightly gathering as a pleasant variety of the daily routine - a dead tree surrounded by nothing but sand in the midst of the Badlands just couldn't be that. So he turned his attention towards the more likely cause - Emmett. The boy had just given him a near perfect fit occasion with his 'No maybe you’re going to give me a good thrashing so I can learn my lesson?'. Othen didn't know what the fuss was all about, but hearing Emmett speaking in the tone he did right now was enough reason to firmly believe that he was the ultimate cause for this deprivation of sleep.

He pushed himself by the two ladies and did not stop his approach until Rook's nephew was in range of his massive hand. He grabbed the boy at the upper arm and turned him around. The next step on the escalation ladder would be lifting him off the ground so he could shout at his face from even closer. "Emmett ? What have you done now ? Why am I not allowed to sleep tonight ? Hm ? I could give you a 'good thrashing' if you would like."

So he knew exactly what he was doing and what would eventually happen if he kept using the Devel flower. Floure understood the appeal of the drug but she didn't understand why Emmett would want to use it. She didn't feel like he was the type of person to drug himself with such a powerful and dangerous drug. He could barely hold in his drink. Maybe she just didn't know him well enough or maybe he was just really good at hiding his secrets. All she knew was that battling the addiction to this demon plant was a really tough and harrowing fight. She was afraid there wasn't much she could do to help him.

Floure had never seen a case of devel flower addiction because there was no known method to counter its effects, no healing salve or ointment, no secret potion. The only way to cure it was to stop using it and battle the after effects. Just the thought of him using it while tied to a tree sent shivers down her spine. In that state of euphoria he could have easily taken out the knot and wandered of into the desert by himself, easy pickings for the slave masters and whatever else was out there. Floure's doom scenarios for Emmett's drug trip were soon cut short when he rushed towards her, kissing her full on the lips. It surprised her to say the least but the young woman didn't push him away immediately. His kiss felt forced and he was holding back she could tell. It ended right when she was planning to break free and ask him what in the names of the Gods he was doing.

He wasn't paying any attention to her at all and he was looking over her shoulder at someone approaching from behind. She had already worked out multiple convincing lies but it would all depend on who Emmett was looking at right now. Emmett's annoyed and somewhat angry remark was enough to betray the identity of Grace. The red haired woman descended upon her and Emmett in a fit of rage and Floure sucked in her breath to brace for what was to come. She watched the scene unfold silently but her eyes went wide as saucers when Grace immediately recognized the flower. Floure felt vicarious shame at the way Grace was talking down to Emmett. When Emmett tried to explain the situation Floure wanted to smack him in the head. She didn't mind that he included her in his lie as she had already decided she would keep his secret but did he seriously believe anyone was going to fall for that? By the Dark Sister's ass he was a terrible liar!

They would know she would know what kind of flower that was and what it could do. Who in their right mind would go picking flowers at night, unless it was for some kind of medicinal purpose in which Emmett had no training at all. Wait a minute........
The most brilliant lie began to unfold in her thoughts, like a deceitful rose. What if she could convince Grace that she asked Emmett to find her a cousin of the desert flower for an ointment she needed to make, but with his lack of knowledge he picked the real desert flower
instead. Granted this cousin of the desert flower did not exist but who would need to know?

Meanwhile Othen had barged down to the tree around which Grace, Emmett and herself had gathered. Grace had probably woken him up with her yelling, she could be really loud if she wanted to. Floure weighed her options shortly, between the two of them Othen may be more easily convinced by her lie than Grace. He hadn't caught them with the flower and would probably listen to her reasonable explanation of this entire catastrophe. She hurried over to Othen who was towering over Emmett, mostly blocking him from Grace and her. Floure patted his arm, the highest part of him she could reach. The motion made her shawl fall halfway down, revealing the part of her shoulders her nightgown did not conceal.

"Hey!...." Floure held in her breath waiting for Othen to turn his attention towards her.

"It's my fault" She began to explain, while fully aware that she needed to be convincing. Not just for Emmett's sake but for hers as well. Lying to the group wouldn't earn her any favors especially not from Rook, Emmett's uncle.

"I asked Emmett if he could find me a rare flower that only blooms at night because I needed it to make an ointment" Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. What was going on with her? Normally she was an expert at telling half truths. She moved her raven hair over one shoulder, twirling a curl around her finger. She continued with her lie adding the necessary charm to make it convincing and to distract from the fact that Grace may practically be boiling behind her.

"But you see.... he got the wrong one, silly guy" She smiled ever so sweetly but didn't dare to look in the direction of Grace who was still holding this supposed "wrong" kind of flower.

"I told you it was pink not orange..." She scolded Emmett who was standing across from Othen and her. When they made eye contact she tried to make it clear he needed to shut up before they would get into even more trouble. Hopefully Othen would believe her and diffuse the situation and save what was left to save here. She'd done the best she could.

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The fire crackled in the hearth of Sundusk manor on the ebony coast of Lusk. The day had been long, filled with the maintenance of misted grape fields. The night was dark already as rain pattered against the full length glass pane facing the coast, and a storm brewed over the Moon-touched Pass further off. Cillian smiled as he held Johna in his arms. They watched Kalen, their toddler, laying on the fur carpet playing with a rattle in his hand.

“He’s quite magical, isn’t he?” Johna said brightly.

“He is.” Cillian responded soberly as he watched the fire light play in his child's eyes.

“If only my father would recognize it. If only he would put all his stupid, selfish pride aside and accept my son, his grandson, a rightful heir! He treats him like a bastard, as if we were never married.” Johna was physically disturbed by this thought, she shook in his arms as she spoke. She had always been concerned with the position her son would acquire, especially since she and Cillian made a choice to marry. She didn’t care for her own endowments, but always felt that her child, especially a son, ought to deserve a privileged status. Cillian didn’t care about any of it, and he knew his son would never be a prince or a nobleman, and that made him proud. But Johna cared about it, she thought about it all the time, and Cillian knew that he should just let her complain, let her think about it until she realized the truth; slowly, but meaningfully. Soon she’ll see that Kalen would make his way in the world better than any nobleman, and she’ll be older and warrier, and she’ll be proud of him despite all the anger and desperation she displayed now. Passion is tamed by time, and that worked to the benefit of all humankind.

“Psst.” He heard from Johna. He looked at her and her voice didn’t seem to be her own. It was harsher, but more honest. “Can ye put more tinder on the fire?”

Cillian nodded in a knowing daze, walking across the carpeted living room floor. It extended beyond his reach with every step and grew colder and colder as the room began to disappear around him. His family disappeared behind him and the darkness in front of him became splattered with lights, and was cut by the smoldering flame at the center of the camp. And in that moment Cillian was awake; very awake. He peered into the darkening flames as a voice echoed from across the desert sand. Like a grain itself the voice bounced and flitted across the surface, becoming smaller as it finally reached the camp.

“Yer gonna put this whole damned quest in jeopardy boy!” He heard clearly from the pitch blackness beyond the fire. Othen walked out from under his tent and solemnly made his way into the darkness. Cillian sat up and connected the fragments of reality from his dream with the reality he was currently experiencing. He understood now that Grace had come across Emmett doing something wrong, which was no surprise to Cillian. The boy had skills and stamina, but he didn’t exhibit any decision making skills what-so-ever. Whatever it was that had Grace in a tizzy now, Cillian could be certain that it was serious. So, Cillian sat up from the sleeping bag, reached underneath to find his flask, and took a sip. It was the last of a whiskey reserve he had brought, so he grimaced as he drank; not because of the taste or the strength, but because it was the last drop of good alcohol he’d have in a while, and he knew it.

After that he stood and walked over to Rook’s tent. He opened the flap and spoke loudly into the darkness. “Your nephew is causing trouble, Rook. The fucking camp is empty and Grace is making a scene in the middle of the Badlands. Do you want to take care of this or shall I?”

Rook took a moment shuffling in his bedroll so Cillian closed the flap and returned to the fire, adding more wood from the pile and stoking the flames. He knelt over the fire as it grew. And as the fire in the pit grew, so did the fire inside of him. This kid had been a nuisance since the beginning of the trip, and now he was potentially putting the group at risk. Cillian, up until this point, had made an effort to allow Rook to take care of Emmett. But if this situation was serious enough, and the kid couldn’t be brought to heel with reason, Cillian would be forced to step in. This boy was not going to be responsible for the deaths of this team, and Cillian would make sure of it. The Northern Island Brawler brooded over the fire pit, staring into the darkness above the flames, listening intently to the muted speech over the crackling wood. Without thinking he had begun wrapping his fists in the bandages he usually wore around his wrists, something he often did before a fight.

Still bleary eyed, Rook emerged from his tent, with his pick/warhammer in hand. He had never shed his vented leather snake-boots and for good reason. He looked ready for a fight, but this was no surprise since he had been promoting a preparedness that most had apparently taken to heart.
“Aaw blazes,” Rook grumbled, “We aren’t even to the thick of it yet.”

He took a moment to size up the situation. It was difficult to make out details this far, but he seemed much more relaxed at this assessment.

He returned to the fire with Cillian, and tossed a bottle to him, and made himself comfortable around the fire, "If we’re going to die out here, might as well do it with a bit of joy out under the stars."

The bottle was an unopened though small fine clay bottle of whiskey, the brand that Cillian knew. However much he preferred the draught, it was usually priced a little too unpalatable save for special occasions. Rook himself, plucked a sack from around his neck to produce a small object which he took a bite of and began chewing.

He took a glance back. “I doubt Othen would do much, albeit he’s dangerous, you don’t pick fights when you don’t have to out here... just a scratch could be enough to leave you to the flies and wasps."

He took another glance to Cillian to check his expression. ”I don’t suppose Grace knows better. Does she seem angry to you? I mean more so than usual.”

He flicked back, then forth weighing and listening to where this was all going. It was hardly visible, but in his lax attitude, he was actually keeping a close eye on everything. Not just the disagreement. With a nonchalant glance, after placing Cillian on one side, and the argument on the other, he was able to observe without seeming to actually be doing it.

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Perhaps she had overreacted, perhaps. However, Grace wasn’t going to let this whole situation slide like nothing happened, it was pitiful really, how Emmett lied to her face, while she had every notion to spill the beans on what the flower she was holding truly was, Grace was simply tired. The heat of the day's journey had exhausted her, stroking her thin line of patience to nill. She didn’t want to deal with the new-found situation unfolding in the dead of the night as it were, even more pitiful, Floure protected him, not that she could blame the girl, she was young after all. She would learn in time. Sometimes men had to deal with their problems, as they never seemed to learn from their mistakes. She stood studying Othen, and the way he gripped Emmett's shirt in his massive bear-like fist of a paw, to the sympathetic gaze from Floure as her desperate words tried to protect him. A slow, sinister smile crept across her lips as she pocketed the flower.

“Othen, put him down would ye? The girl’s right. I thought Emmett here was usin’ that ‘cursed flower, the one where it causes maddenin’ ‘allucinations, and such. O’course, silly me, I can’ hardly see right at night. I don’ mean to cause such a commotion, nah, let us all head back to bed while we can. And Floure, I’ll hold onto this flower, after all, it wasn’t the one you were searchin’ for, eh? It sure is pretty.” She locked eyes with the young girl, her stare telling a hidden story, she knew what the two were up to, how they both tried to pull the wool over her eyes, but too bad for them, she wasn’t easy to fool, she turned her attention back to Emmett by stepping around Othen.

“Sorry Emmett, suppose I overreacted, hm? Keep an eye out for that flower that Floure needs, but come back to camp, there are slavers out ‘ere that won’ hesitate to snatch ye all up, and cart ye off in the middle o’ the night, nah.”

"Don't think for one minute, that I don't know what you're up to Floure." Grace turned on her heel to address Floure in a hushed whisper, one that she would hear as she stepped towards, patting her on the shoulder as if to give the impression she had said something else, with that Grace made her way back to the camp.

On the short walk back, her stomach was twisted in knots, who did they think she was? Some ignorant woman? She knew the game they were playing. If anything, as long as Emmett didn’t have more of those flowers in his bag, well… he would feel the effects of not having his precious flower tonight, depending on how strong his addiction was. He would have to face his demons sooner or later after all, she would make certain that he wouldn’t harm himself, that she could guarantee. However, for his foolish behavior on jeopardizing the mission, she wouldn’t let that slide so easily. Maybe, she would give him the flower the next night, maybe. She doubted that to be the case, but it depended on how he handled himself. Besides, now that Othen knew something was amiss, if Emmett started showing ill symptoms by tomorrow, he would know something was wrong with the lad too, as would everyone else. If he could keep himself under control, Grace would hold onto the flower longer, curious to see how long it would take him to be pushed to the brink of desperation.

Dancing orange light grew brighter as she neared, illuminating the tents, and casting long shadows on the desert sands; someone must have heard her to stoke the fire. In fact, as she broke the perimeter surrounding the camp, her eyes landed on Rook and Cillian sitting alongside each other, sharing a clay bottle, of what she could only presume to be liquor. Plopping onto the ground across from Cillian, she found herself gazing at him, studying the shadows cast from the firelight, her position purposely placed, as she watched how his eyes glowed like a predator stalking prey in the dark.

“I don’ mean to wake ye, I thought that Emmett and Floure had gotten themselves into trouble. Turns out, they’re doin’ a bit o’ flower-pickin’. Or so they say.” Here she winked at Rook, as a grin spread across her face, hiding the true events from him. He didn't need to know the truth of what his nephew was truly up to at such late hours of the night. She would protect Emmett, just like Floure had, until his problems either revealed themselves to the company, or until she revealed them to Rook.

“Caught your nephew lockin’ lips with the lass. Can’ say I blame him, she’s a perty lil’ thing. Thought I'd give 'em both a good spook when I went for a piss. I woke poor Othen, so I 'ope he's not mad at me for the lack of sleep.”

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Cillian’s eyes followed the tossed bottle as it made its way over the fire and into the sand. His eye twitched as he thought about its implications. Rook was a bastard, a conniving bastard with little regard for privacy or dignity. The Brawler tightened his bandages thoughtfully as he stared at the bottle sitting in the sand.

"Does she seem angry to you? I mean more so than usual.” Cillian heard as his focus loosened.

He looked up at Rook, the fire reflecting in Cillian’s dark eyes, "How am I supposed to know?” He resented Rook knowing so much about him, and a part of him wondered if he could induce memory loss without killing someone. That thought disturbed him only slightly, if it had been directed at anyone else he would have been worried.

He picked up the bottle and smelled its contents, the piercing aroma seemed alright (he placed the proof somewhere around 40-50%). He took a swig, corked it, and tossed it back, where it fell in the sand. Cillian noticed Grace appear from the darkness, like a nymph exiting it' pool. He couldn’t help but feel a welling of admiration and delight as he watched her swaggered gait kick up dust in the pulsing firelight. He watched the darkness behind her as she approached, expecting to see the rest. As she sat Cillian prodded the bonfire, bringing more strength to the flames. As Grace finished her explanation of the events Cillian stuck the prodding stick in the coals of the fire and smiled at her.

“Flower picking, eh?” Cillian said to her knowingly. “I never thought you could be so worked up by botany. Next time I want to see you annoyed, I’ll bring a cactus flower.” She was lying. Whatever had made her so angry as to wake him up couldn’t be explained away as something as harmless as picking flowers. No, she was right the first time, he could tell, she didn’t want to say anything in front of Rook, for some reason. It mattered little for Cillian, if this secret of hers could provide an advantage over Rook or Emmett he wanted to hear it. ”Sorry for waking you, Rook, you should get some more sleep.” he said as he steadied his voice, attempting to remain casual. He was certain that he wasn’t tipping his hand or being overly pushy. To further alleviate the issue and move past the discussion Cillian stood up. He began stretching his arm muscles aside the bonfire as he spoke. ”I’ll probably go on a quick patrol of the perimeter. Some of the things out here are drawn in by noises of distress.” He smirked at Grace as he went into a crouch and began stretching his legs. “Wanna join me, big-mouth?”

A Collab By @The New Yorker & Me

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At the invitation from Cillian, one that Grace would not refuse, she smiled at his words, how he teased her for waking them all with her big-mouth as he put it. He still sounded the same, after all, she was just as loud back on Falkirk as she was now, that was something neither of them could forget, yet she was pleasantly surprised that he had teased her like so. She rose to her feet, dusting off the seat of her pants now covered with sand, and set out with Cillian into the dark of the night. As they strode along side-by-side, Grace kept quiet until they were well out of the way from camp before she began to explain what had awoken her.

“I don’ mean to wake ye, I really don’.” She began, pausing in her steps as she gazed at Cillian, his eyes were darker, without the presence of light, and had she not known him, she would have felt a twinge of fear. Of course, Grace O’Faolain never felt fear, or so she liked to believe. “I couldn’t sleep right, ‘tis hard to come by these days. I ‘eard footsteps, at first I thought it was just Emmett sneaking out for a piss. Then I ‘eard a second set, much smaller, so I assumed it had to be Floure. Well, by then, I couldn’t sleep worth shit, so I got up meself, and I went for a piss. While I was out there mindin’ my own business, I ‘eard voices. I thought to meself, that it must be slavers or someone else stalkin’ us. So I went to go find out who it was. When I found ‘em, there was Floure and Emmett lockin’ lips, ‘course I don’ think nothin’ o’ it. I picked up Emmett’s bag, convinced that if I took his bag, he’d have to come back to camp…” She started walking again, not wanting anyone nearby that may have strayed after them to hear what she had to say. A gentle breeze blew across the sands, the sound rustling through the stunted desert scrubs.

“Cillian… Emmett’s usin’ the Desert Flower.” Here she reached into her pocket and procured the flower that had fallen out of Emmett’s bag when she lifted it from the desert floor. “Floure tried to protect him, and Emmett, that damned idiot, lied straight to my face. Said they were out pickin’ flowers, that Floure needed a flower that only bloomed at night, and he picked the wrong one. I took the flower with me, and I gave him back his bag… I don’ know if he has anymore innit, as I don’ have the chance to look. If he doesn’t, then he’ll start withdrawals dependin’ on how bad his dependency. I don’ think Rook knows what he’s gotten himself into. That’s why ye heard me yellin’ so loud.”

Cillian walked briskly along the desert floor, the fine grained sand crunching under his feet as a wafting cloud crossed the moonlight casually. Grace's comment on not getting enough sleep perked Cillian's ears. For normal people, doing the things that Cillian had done would make it so they couldn't sleep at night either. Was that what had happened to Grace? Cillian felt a knot of embarrassment tying itself in his stomach. He slept so well because his imagination could work freely in his subconsciousness without the beating weight of clear-thinking and rationalism. Cillian's deep sleeping was a sort of coping mechanism his body developed in order to grant respite from the constant guilt which wracked his waking mind, it was a horrific truth which he counted among his few blessings. He didn't envy Grace her normalcy or stability now.

Cillian's mind focused on the present moment as Grace mentioned taking Emmett's bag. She began walking and Cillian followed hesitantly behind, he wondered if she had realized that he'd blanked out. He knew she hadn't when she said the next thing. She was so somber as she spoke about the desert flower and Emmett's lies, she looked so brilliant in the moonlight now as her hair billowed in the light wind. When she finished speaking she looked exasperated, though he wasn't sure if it was because of the situation or something else.

"Rook should know," Cillian said simply, his world traveled accent biting in the darkness.

As she came to a stop this time around, the silvery beams of moonlight that filtered down through the lone cloud drifting across the black velvet sky illuminated the petals of the Desert Flower. Pinched delicately between her thumb and forefinger, her gaze shifted from the flower to Cillian.

"Aye, I ought to tell him. That's what has me so torn, Cillian. I want to help the boy, after all, he may not that be far into his addiction, he might be able to recover without much notice from the others. O' course I don' want to be held responsible for his behavior when things go south, eh?" With a heavy heart-felt sigh, Grace pocketed the flower again, careful not to crush it.

"Enough o' that talk, that's all that had me riled up tonight. I'd rather talk about ye. Ye' r told me that ye used to live in Lusk, why did ye come all the way to Red Rock? Did ye get into some sort o' trouble?" She prayed that she hadn't touched on a delicate topic, after all, while she knew Cillian, she had no clue what he had gone through, or the man he became. Even now, as her storm grey-blue eyes fixated upon him, she noted the way he covered his hands with cloth wraps. She had seen the scars on his knuckles before in daylight, but now, in the dark of the night, he appeared a different man. Yet, she couldn't place why she felt like this around him, was it fear? Was it lust? Was it the sheer excitement of seeing her long lost lover again after all these years? Perhaps.

Cillian could see how moral and ethical imperatives were conflicting in Grace's mind. She was compelled to halt Emmett's addiction, but just as compelled to maintain professional boundaries. As a navigator, Grace required a level of trust from her party members that no one beside perhaps Rook could empathize with, and maybe not even then. Of course the difference between Grace and Rook was that Grace actually retained that trust, and this little event was poised to ruin it for her. She wanted to talk about him, but Cillian knew what was important right now.

"Hand me the flower, Grace." He said suddenly. "We can talk about me some other time." His bandaged hand held out in the dry air, Cillian smiled briefly. "I'll take care of this problem with Emmett. You need to stay focused."

Slender, arched copper brows rose in unison at his words. He wanted to help her? Of course he would, she wasn't expecting an answer like that so suddenly. Without any form of hesitation, she gingerly plucked the flower from her trouser pocket, and handed it over without complaint to him, her fingertips brushing against his extended hand, and then, of her own accord, Grace placed her hands around his bandaged hand, and curled his fingers around the flower, careful not to crush it. A ghost of a smile danced across her lips as she gazed up at him, she didn't mind that he brushed the subject of himself away, she would do the same; while they were both tall, Grace still felt smaller by his broad shoulders and muscular build. His arms were twice as thick as hers, and the span of his chest could fit two of her heads upon them, if she had two heads that is.

"Cillian, thank ye." Her voice soft with empathy. "Ah, I know yer right. Did I tell ye how I found that blasted map? Readin' a book I was, when all of a sudden, it slipped out of the leather cover. I heard rumors of an expedition starting up with the lead explorer by the name of Rook Warde. 'Course I didn't think anything of it, I grew tired with sailing the waters around Falkirk, Raughlaih, and Dunohwain. I've been as far as the coast, north o' Red Rock, but I've never seen anything beyond." She wanted to say so much more, but she couldn't even think of the words to say, she wasn't even sure it would matter to him. With a drifting gaze, she found herself staring at their feet, numb with uncertainty.

Cillian gingerly wrapped Grace's arm around his own, and led her back to the camp without hesitation. He felt the peddles of the flower tickling the inside of his palm, opened his soft fist and saw the flower there in his hand, dancing in the soft wind. He closed his fist again and carefully tracked their path back the way they came. He chuckled as he thought of the current situation he was in. Guiding his hometown sweetheart by the arm in a far off land, a decade later, a flower given to him by her providing a deep warmth in his hand. If it weren't for his annoyance at Emmett and his peeking paranoia of hidden assailants he could be giddy.

He'd done this with Grace before, some ten years ago. She'd talk about her life into excess and Cillian would simply feel honored to have listened to her, after which time he would lead her back home. It was a familiar thing, and in some ways infantilizing. He felt like a foolish man-child again, one who'd never experienced sacrifice or loss. He felt stupid. He removed her arm from his under the pretense of placing the flower in one of his belt pouches. As he did they breached the firelight from the camp.

"You should try getting some sleep. I'm going to take a look over this ridge," Cillian said, referencing a mound of sand which sat behind the camp.

With his arm entwined with hers, Grace did not withdraw from him. Instead, she allowed herself to be led back to the boundaries of the camp. When the light of the campfire appeared like a beacon in the dark, her heartbeat faltered, she did not wish for this moment to end. It felt...painstakingly familiar. Just like the time when they had tied their horses to the branches of a hawthorn tree on the moors, and went for a long stroll across the rolling green hills, the way he listened to her while she prattled on had always soothed her heart. Yet she felt a pinch of guilt, for he had always listened to her, and what of him? Had he no pains of his own? Alas, that would be dealt with in due time, Cillian was a stoic, patient man, a man of little words when he meant to be. She leaned into him, the crown of her copper tresses resting against his bicep, their footsteps falling in rhythm.

When they came to a stop just outside the circle of light from the campfire glow, Grace pulled away and gazed up at Cillian, her eyes searching his own, for what, she could not say. Perhaps an answer that her heart longed to hear? Whatever the reason, she could only manage a smile at his own words. “I will try, if sleep will come. G’night then. Be careful out there, eh?” With that, she rose up on the toes of her boots, wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace before releasing him all at once. She gave his forearm a gentle squeeze before turning to face the fire, and entered the camp. She did not speak another word to anyone left awake in the camp, and headed straight for her bedroll, where she climbed beneath the sewn-on wool cover that served as her blanket. For a while, she could only look at the twinkling stars above her, as if they would provide the answer for all her problems that she had sought for in Cillian’s dark eyes. She twisted and turned for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, before the familiar heaviness of sleep encroached upon her tired eyes. She tucked her arm beneath her head, and with one final thought, she knew that deep within, she still loved Cillian.

Rook hurried out of his tent, ready to strike a death blow. Both his axe and warhammer were in their holsters, and he had grabbed his bow on the way out. The pre-dawn haze blanketed the desert in a dull sheen. The cages could be seen not far away jostling and rocking as they bounced their way through the desert sand that had clumped together and would give when weight was applied, and the sandstone that did not yield. The two mediums were a patchwork and never could be anticipated how deep or how wide.

He watched a moment, sizing up the situation.

“Wait here... and arm yourselves,” he ordered. Then he walked forward with arrow ready to fly. The crunch of the desert beneath his boots gave way one puff of dust for every footfall, that was rapidly swallowed by the stagnant air. Occasionally there was the hiss and rattle of dry grass and shrub as he made a straight line to the caravan. Everyone drew to a halt, well outside of ear and bow range. However, rather than conflict, it became apparent that Rook was talking to them. Only a couple of syllables could be picked up when the invisible billows of the night air rolled in.

At first it seemed tense, Rook standing as ready as he could appear. A few of the caravan rode up to flank him. There was some hand gestures from another man that rode up, glancing back and forth. However, the forerunner and the front guards lowered their weapons.

More talking, this time with the man who spoke with his hands. Pointing, and waving, and then there was tossed down something from the back of the horses at Rook’s feet. With that, he nodded, and the caravan diverted their course and began traveling a different direction, this time away, this time heading somewhere else.

Once well outside of charging range, Rook broke his stoic stance, and snatched up the items left for him, and he returned to camp.

By the time he had approached close enough to make out faces, he could clearly see the disapproval, and knew that his usual indifference and silence would not do. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I am in league with none of them, nor do I approve of any of their depraved labors. But it must be understood, slavers are cowards, not some sort of mighty army perfectly accustomed to the desert. They are men, and nothing more. They prey on the week. This leaves them two points of attack, the villages on the edges of the badlands, and desperate fools who stumble into an oasis they have set up as a lure. Their open desert pickings are rather slim since... well since it’s just as costly for them to be out here as us.

That group claimed to be cage builders, delivering goods probably to the slavers. It might have been true. It isn’t uncommon out here for people to climb in bed with the devil to prevent from being raided. Doesn’t mean that they don’t want them gone though.

Most slavers are small warring tribes that snatch up whoever they begrudge. It isn’t like they laugh themselves to sleep when they enslave an entire village. I’m sure most of you wouldn’t give a second thought enslaving any of the Bone Dry’s if it meant survival. You view them as criminals, they often view their victims as the same. It is petty squabbling, factions that feed off of hate and belief in the superiority of their blood or ideals. They are a symptom of the problem. Not the cause.

If this place were to become lush again, with wet-lips and full bellies. I am sure you would find them kings and knights that most would find highly agreeable, and be working overtime to sell themselves and their children into a different (more civilized) form of slavery to them. But there are far more important reasons why we are out here, than simply exterminating the indigenous population because of their heartlessness.

Fortunately for us, these factions are so fractured, that many of them feel justified. So they view the Warde guild as a necessary evil for when other slavers seek them as their prey. When I explained that I was a Warde, they were more than happy to pay their taxes.”

Rook handed three full waterskins to the group. 1 to Floure for medical purposes, 1 to Othen, and 1 to Grace. He explained, “Ration them carefully. We have 2 more days by foot (if all goes well) before we hopefully find our final cashe. Assuming it wasn’t pillaged like the others.”

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The remainder of the night had been uneventful. After that incident Othen was in firm belief Emmett was to be held responsible for - because it was crazy Emmett and not anyone else who had appeared to be in the middle of it -, he too had returned to the camp and attempted to continue his sleep. He had been dramatically more successful with this than the majority of the other participants, so the colossal man's start into the day was a rather well rested one.

He had no idea that Emmett, Floure and Grace had conspired against him, telling him the very same fabricated story of picking flowers. Again, if it had not been Emmett, he would not have believed it. That boy however had already proven himself to be weird enough to make searching for petals in the middle of a night in a desert a feasible thing for him. Perhaps it was better this way. If the day should come Othen found out about the truth... No.. Even Floure's charms on him would likely not protect her or any of the others from his outburst.

Othen was noone who put much effort into changing clothes between day and night. He stood up looking the same way he had put himself under his flysheet the evening before: Fur, leather and a considerable amount of bare skin that, if one looked closely, was taking a though minor amount of damage from the relentless sun, at least where it wasn't covered by his warpaint. Perhaps this decoration of his body was just a clever way to protect him without making it obvious ? But then it would have made way more sense to... well... take a bath in the color instead of putting so much effort into deploying it that way he had done.

When their lead explorer went ahead, he could barely convince himself to stay in line with the others. What the hell had Rook told those persons ? It could have been anything, including betraying all of them. The fact that there was an abundance of rumors about their leader didn't help in discarding this thought, but time had to tell. Othen soothed himself with thinking that if any slavers would come back to get them, he would just do and try what he would have liked to do just now with this more than suspect caravan: Attack, kill and crush them.

Then Emmett did something that actually managed to worry him. Or no... Othen had started to worry about the boy since the moment he had seen his eye rings the first time this morning. What he was doing now however appeared more critical. Not that Othen would have been the one to decline rough body contact when it came to raging against someone - it were Emmett's words.

Othen got moving as fast as he could with his more than hulking body, approaching the two causing enough noise and throwing around enough sand with his feet that it probably would have sufficed for someone to notice him coming. He didn't rely on that however, but instead thundered towards the boy when he was already standing just two yards away from him: "Emmett! Stop it! Now!" He was ready. He would try and separate the two by the application of brute force if Emmett would not let loose immediately.

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There was little time left for her beauty sleep after the whole incident with Emmett. The young woman was pulled from her dreams by a rough push to her shoulder, she heard someone calling out to her, a voice she barely recognized as Emmett's. Floure couldn't make out what the rebellious youth was saying, her eyes were thick with sleep and she struggled to keep them open. She lifted herself off of her bedroll, feeling as if she'd suddenly doubled in weight and lost half her strength. When she was sitting up she rubbed her eyes sluggishly, letting out an incredibly deep sigh.

Ughhh may the Faithful Hound bite them all in the ass. Why did they need to get up so early anyway? It would be hot the entire day. There was one hour of relative cool before the sun rose, usually they would take advantage of this, but today she could care less. All she wanted was an hour or two more to rest. She blinked a few times to clear her vision and looked around. Her eyes widened when she realized everyone was already up! Rook suddenly rushed past her in a hurry, his bow strung and ready to attack.

“Wait here... and arm yourselves,”

What in the name of the Dark Sister was going on?

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she felt the tension build inside her. She was wide awake and immediately her hand slid under her makeshift pillow to retrieve the only weapon she had, her knife. Wasting no more time Floure quickly rushed to the edge of the camp where most of the others were already standing. When she caught sight of the caravan approaching her heart skipped a beat at first and it was followed by a mixture of emotions. Recognition at the way they traveled, with wagons, carts and horses, but they were carrying cages. Despite the heat of desert a chill ran down her skin and she wrapped her arms around herself, watching Rook in the distance. It was dangerous to approach them on your own like that and despite her immense dislike of the older man she didn’t want anything bad happen to him. But it looked like he was talking to them and by the Gods after he was done they went in another direction.

Floure didn’t understand what was going on. Did Rook know those slavers? She listened closely to his explanation and she could tell the others of the group were anything but pleased. The young Traveler didn’t know what to make of it but the fact that he had civil contacts with any kind of slavers did give her cause to trust him even less than she already did. She took the waterskin he handed to her and tied it around her waist for the time being.

She looked to the others at a loss of what to do with this situation. Something just didn’t sit right with her and if she’d had more sleep she may have had the sense to come up with a theory or two. It wasn’t over yet and the situation gradually grew worse when Emmett suddenly rushed forward towards his uncle in a mad rage. Emmett’s sudden outburst caused her heart to race and her skin to fluster. He was so angry, it was somewhat frightening to witness.

"Slavers killed my father! You know that."

Floure gasped in horror at this revelation. She…..she didn’t know Emmett lost his father. She just assumed he was waiting for him to return back in Emmett’s home town. As the arguing continued and yelling grew louder so did her feelings of pity, sadness and compassion. She didn’t know why but the fact that Emmett hadn’t known his father either made Floure feel like they were kindred spirits. He would know what it was like to grow up and never know your real father.

Emmett was taking this too far and even though he may be right, what he was doing wouldn’t solve anything.

“Emmett stop it…!” She called out, desperately trying to talk some sense into him. But it was like the young man didn’t even know she existed. He was completely absorbed by his anger. Talking wasn’t going to help and she knew why. The desert flower was making everything he was feeling, all the hurtful emotions, anger, rage, resentment, it made it all so much worse.

She probably wasn’t strong enough to pry Emmett off of his uncle, even though they were equal in height Emmett was physically stronger. Othen attempted to separate the two and Floure let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

“Othen, make him stop!” She watched with clenched fists, wanting the violence to stop.

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Othen definitely wasn't the one who required things like these to be told twice. "As you wish." It wasn't an entirely honest wording. In fact, every inclination to interpret his words the way that he would feel like having to obey an order of Floure would be totally misguided. He was very eager to get this job done himself and the woman's words were just a nice boost.

'Boosted' probably also was an adequate phrase to describe Othen's approach. He thought that just attempting to pull the boy away from their leader wouldn' suffice - Emmett would likely just stick to Rook so hard in his frenzy that he would drag the other man with him. So what the berserker did was to momentarily forget everything about that innermost circle person's started to feel uncomfortable when it was penetrated by someone els. He used his incredibly packed elbows as a wedge that he drove in between the two men's breasts.Then the man pushed his arms outwards in opposite directions, thereby building up distance between the strugglers until they were out of their individual arm's reach.

Now it was time to fully focus on Emmett. Whilst Othen himself had never lost his father and thereby couldn't really understand how hard it might have been for Rook's nephew, he had at least a rudimentary understanding about when going mad was appropriate and when not. Or at least he believed he had. The truth would be a thing to be judged by the others. Othen just felt that Rook was the wrong person to rage at for Emmett, though he didn't really approve of what his uncle had just done, too. The boy wasn't giving up. He squirmed at the other end of Othen's far outstretched left arm. Luckily for him Emmett was clearly at a disadvantage when it came to range, otherwise he would have had to be afraid of his face getting scratched to hell.

Othen's next attempt to switch the boy back into normal operation was to shake him violently, including multiple times of lifting him off the ground and slamming him back on it while shouting: "Emmett! Calm down! I'll knock you out if you don't!"

Uh oh, the storm is raging. Although Rook feared Callan considerably more, he had full confidence in Othen's ability to exterminate his nephew (or anyone for that matter) out of sheer power. While Callan held ruthlessness and skill to deal doom to any opposition, Othen had indomitable strength that could most likely kill in one blow if he truly wanted. A combination of the two would be terrifying. There was indeed one such villain, a slaver, who held such a reputation. Fortunately to all present, they had not encountered him.

What was Rook to do? If he did nothing, Emmett likely would be snapped in two by the giant. On the other hand, did Emmett actually think so low of him, even after his explanation? How could he be so incredibly wrong about his nephew? But then again, those eyes boiling with rage, pink as the heart of a grapefruit. Those were not his nephew's eyes. Even in fights he had seen the young man engage in at the tavern never held so much viciousness and rage.

This gaze was something he had not even really encountered in conflict with those who truly hated him. It was almost like the boy had become part animal. The decision had to be made. If Emmett had lost his mind and was merely a creature at this point, he had to be put down. If they let him go, he would be back on them in an instant. If they restrained him, then they might not be able to make it to the cashe, and that would likely be death for everyone. But who would be the executioner? It was reluctant, but Rook felt the responsibility to do it.

Now he was up, and quick as could be he dashed to Othen's side. Two brilliant a flashes of steel sliced through the desert reflecting the dawning sun. First one and then the other. The daggers Emmett kept on his person were out. But they did not land the death blow. Instead, each made a *clank* and a *piff* as they landed across camp.

“Be careful! I don’t know what witchcraft has beguiled him, but that is not the mind of my nephew. He is mad from more than just the heat.” Rook warned, poised and ready to help restrain him.