The sisters’ eyes widened in surprise when Morgan told them that the Fixer had brandished his war pick against them, with Rose even going as far as to straighten her hunched form slightly in astonishment, only for them to calm down and listen with a greater degree of composure as Ixion pointed out that the weapon had not actually been used against them, and proceeded to give a much more modest and, to the demonspawn, more realistic recount of what their opponent had done. When Ixion finished describing the extent of the Fixer’s efforts against them, the sisters looked at each other, then back at Ixion.
“That makes sense, at least from what we’ve heard,” Violet nodded her head, smiling somewhat uncomfortably. “Mind you, we’ve never actually even seen the Fixer ourselves, so we can only go by what we’ve been told by the few survivors have. That said, the deo’iel alone has enough people that have fought him to see a pattern: the Fixer appears to be rather adept at estimating how much of a threat an opponent is to him, and seems to impose limits on himself to put himself on about the same level. Don’t feel too bad that he only used one hand against you; from what we’ve heard, there have been occassions where he didn’t use his hands at all.”
“We don’t know how dangerous he really is because of that, too,” Rose pointed out grimly. “Though we do know that he is insanely strong, at least. One of the deo’iel he’s fought was Lord Nightmare of the sixth circle – our strongest agent – and though Nightmare won, he’s said that he could tell the Fixer was still holding back... that they were evenly matched.” She let out a snort of laughter. “They turned a small town into rubble fighting each other; that’s the kind of power you could have faced.”
“We’re not sure if surprising him is unusual,” Violet resumed, “but it can’t be a bad thing. We know that the Fixer craves challenging opponents – that’s the reason he gave most survivors for letting them live – and that he prefers not to kill anyone he feels could be ‘a fun playmate’ in the future.”

Violet sighed, grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat down. “That brings me to why we wanted to talk to you, though: the Fixer doesn’t spare witnesses. It might be in a few days, several months, or even years and decades into the future, but eventually he will decide to fight you again, and the second time he fights an opponent, it is always to the death. With a few deo’iel, he murdered them when they retired... so I’m guessing he’ll kill you once you stop improving yourselves.
Now, technically we aren’t allowed to hunt the Fixer, even if we want to, since according to our rules he isn’t a monster. In other words, the deo’iel can’t protect you from him. We are, however, allowed to defend ourselves and our brethren when we’re attacked. Do you understand?”
“We’re formally inviting you to become deo’iel,” Rose elaborated, “so that once the bastard comes for you, you’ll have the deo’iel backing you up. No matter how strong he is, he can’t handle all of us.”

---

Gaze shifting between the participants of the conversation, I'on listened closely. It seemed, that more than him, these two, particularly Ixion, were in for far more trouble than they would likely be able to handle alone. A part of him found itself quite excited by this, but the excitement didn't reach his eyes or any of his face really. It instead mixed with a suppressed anxiety and fatigue, one from worry, and the other from a day that had stretched on far too long for the Penin mage's liking. Nonetheless, he was not so rude or foolish as to leave now. He might miss something of importance and he still wanted to hear the Assassin's retelling of what had really happened back in that alley.

However, his thoughts were quite suddenly pulled from that line of thought when he heard Violet's words, catching the implications even before her sister chimed in. His eyes widened slightly, surprised before he considered that he had really had minimal involvement. He was fairly certain that the fixer hadn't even actually engaged him at all during the whole incident, mostly because he had been an outsider coming in, rather than a person in the wrong place at the wrong time like the assassin and his vampiric associate. Still, the implications of even asking someone, formally even, that they join the Deo'iel were hardly lost on him. It also revealed to him just how dangerous it was likely to be to keep the company of the Assassin and his associate.

After all, if the Fixer was to return and the Deo'iel were offering a hand to help them protect themselves, the man was clearly a threat and that was without considering what Violet had mentioned in regards to the Fixer's fight against Lord Nightmare. The Penin shuddered at the thought of such an encounter, though a small internal part of him felt excitement at the prospect. "A weighty proposition," I'on said in response, though he considered it a deal not directed at him, "...one I'd think would require some thought before one commits." The penin looked between assassin and vampire, Ixion and Morgan, as he finished his sentence--his gaze lingered longer on Morgan than it did on Ixion, willing him to not answer immediately one way or the other.

While he thought it risky business, associating with Deo'iel, especially two who were so formidable, it was better to make an informed decision than it was to make one on the spot--that was when one had a choice. Perhaps his words would awaken this idea in the minds of his the two. If it did not and they took the deal, well he could, with any luck, separate himself from the group and venture out on his own. Then again, if the Fixer had taken an interest in him as well, despite his minor involvement...then he would be taking a whole other set of risks by separate from their little group.

As he awaited the response of the other two, his mind weighed the various pros and cons of decisions he might have to make within the near future. None of his options looked particularly hopeful, he noted silently.

It seemed that, with the revelation of the danger that the Fixer posed, his day had gone from long and tiresome, to outright bad. In response to the thought, the penin was forced to repress a sigh. His body language thus revealed a form of tension as a result. I'on really wished he'd partaken of more Finest before all this.

The kindly fellow smiled widely as he alternated between looking at his companion and looking at him. Domhnall's own expression had meanwhile settled somewhere in the vicinity of puzzled, head tilted slightly to the right and one eyebrow furled. He was now looking intently at Olan.
Granted, this black-eyes had known what he and Iridiel were, so would it have been all that surprising to hear that he had also paid visit to the far west where they had originated from, and learned one of the dialects in the process? He had even known what Claw was, and that was more than either of them could claim... For the matter, he knew nigh nothing of those black-eyes, either ... for all that he knew, they could live for thousands of years and remember everything they ever went through. Like dragons or some such manner of creature. Éireannach themselves could live for a few centuries, yet significant numbers of their Highland variety looked barely any different from humans, blue blood left aside.
“I can speak any language, you know” the older black-eyes commented, and a shiver ran down the male forestfolk's spine. It was not what the man was saying - in most others, something like that would have been an empty boast -, but how he was saying it. It was not that he was speaking in several voices, for there was no such audible distortion ... or at least he did not think there was. It was as if the man spoke but one tongue, but he understood it as all languages he knew. What was this, a magic the likes of which he had not yet encountered? Who was this man?
“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... I don't even think I told my friends about it, you know? Besides Thaler.”
"Ye're speaking all the languages," Domhnall stated, still dumbfounded. He was now staring at the guy, rather than just giving him a puzzled look. "A' once."
His mind took a few moments to process everything else the fellow was saying. He had lost his memory? While fighting a goddamn god? Either this unassuming character was far more powerful than he let on, or gods were more feeble than he had thus far thought. In his mind, gods had mostly been something that, well, were. Something vaguely indefinitely powerful, and perhaps better left alone, or at least not pissed off too terribly. Or perhaps it had been a dream, some mental imagery the guy mistook for real after ... whatever had really happened.
It was when the strange fellow mentioned one of his companions that Domhnall looked at the others, first the white-eyed woman that had been mentioned, and then the young black-eyes.
"Can ye do it, too? Speak all the languages?" he asked the latter. Could all of these black-eyed folks? His eyes moved back to the older black-eyes. "A god?"
Wait, did he mean to say he did not tell his friends he had lost his memory, that he had fought a god, or that he could speak any language? a voice in his mind piped up as he tried to catch up with the seeming absurdity of the situation. It was perhaps logical to assume that whatever had "roughed up" the older guy had also been the one to toss the mighty beast about and drain the warrior fellow. In any case, if there was an ounce of truth to what the guy was staying, then what these lot had gone through probably made a story worth telling indeed... And just who and what the hell were they?
Eh, in any case they did not seem to be hostile, though the younger black-eyes certainly looked baffled, though whether at what his older kinsman was telling or that he had opted to say it to a couple of foreign strangers they had seemingly randomly run into, he could not begin to guess.

At Ixion’s retort and recounting of their backstreet battle, Morgan couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed, giving a side long glance at his red hooded companion. While his information had been true, the assassin’s accounting seemed to push the sister’s in a different direction, judging by their first initial reaction and their last physical reaction, almost relaxing compared to the stiff, wide eyed awe they had slightly displayed before. However, the vampire couldn’t be too irritated at Ixion. His information was more accurate, and did help the vampire recount the events with a more clear mind, rather than an offhanded account. ‘Still - I was not wrong in saying that he removed his pick. Perhaps it was for the best that he had killed Blue in such a manner.’ The vampire thought as the sisters’ gave their own pieces of information. Morgan didn’t know how to react. On one hand, he felt insulted to be toyed in such a manner - after all, who feels good about being someone’s “play thing.” On the other hand, ‘If The Fixer sees potential… I look forward to our next fight.’ Though with such a thought, Morgan couldn’t help but feel a set of chills playfully dancing up and down his spine. ‘If The Fixer is as powerful as they say…this could be something I may not win, let alone survive.’

Violet pulled up a chair and Morgan leaned more heavily on his staff. The conversation was definitely winding down and the weight of the day was weighing down upon the vampire sniffer. After all, he himself had only barely managed to feast today, ‘And there was the moment when I thought I had been seen and had to run for my life.’ The sniffer was still inexperienced when it came to his adopted lifestyle - being stealthy wasn’t his greatest strength, nor was keeping low profile when his inner beast overcame his cold sniffer counterpart. The body that he had drained was soon to be found near the temple he had been using as a hunting ground and the guard would more than likely alerted… Though he wouldn’t realize it, like his companions, he too would suppress an exhausted sigh. ‘Rest is needed and…’

Morgan’s thoughts would come to a dead stop at the sister’s proposition. ‘Join the deo’eil…?’ Instinctively, Morgan recoiled inwardly. Never again would he be a part of an army, organization, or party. He had sworn this, on the night that he had been freed from his slavery as a magic hound. And yet… ‘Here I am… in a party, somehow getting mixed up in all of this with Blue, The Fixer…’ Morgan opened his mouth, inhaling enough air to speak, but I’on spoke a response to the sisters. Closing his mouth, Morgan wisely let the penin do the talking. Furthermore, Morgan backed the rune user with a firm nod of the head, looking to the sisters as he echoed his weary companion, “Perhaps, after some time to rest, each of us could give both of you an answer?”

Despite himself, the vampire's voice would contain clear exhaustion - his inner beast often took a toll on him. Morgan looked beyond the sisters to the hall that could hold a potential place to sleep. As he did so, Morgan began to feel a clawing hand beginning to rake at his stomach. With a grimaced mouth, the sniffer knew that if he did rest, when he woke, his inner beast would demand more satisfaction for his exertions previously in the day...

Although the young squire had been surprised at Olan suddenly speaking in a language he had never heard anyone speak before, which his expression had openly betrayed, it was nothing compared to what he felt when the old Nightwalker spoke... that. The impossible non-language, or maybe all-language, he replied to Domhnall and Iridiel in. It was not just that he was stricken with amazement or shock that such a thing was even possible, let alone that Olan could do it. No, while he did feel that on those accounts, and was dimly aware of the fact deep in his heart, there was something else that made Jaelnec’s eyes open wide and stare in helpless awe and horror at the man he thought he knew to be feeble and absent-minded, but at the same time also was the one who had successfully attacked and destroyed one of Rilon’s physical manifestations. Hearing him speak like that, in that unnatural – or primordial? - way awakened certain memories, one of which he had not been conscious of, but had been storing somewhere in his mind nevertheless.
A child’s voice, coming from the lips of a creature that appeared to be, but most certainly could not be any further from that of a child: Rilon’s voice. His speech had been the same, and the word he had used to make everyone in the borderhouse barracks collapse on the spot had been in the same non-language or all-language Olan was speaking now. “Cease.” Jaelnec had not even dwelled at the sound of that word until now, simply because the power and effect of its command was so much more notable, and because he had had other things to worry about...
But there was more. After the explorer extraordinaire had added “God-slayer” to the titles that could be applied to him, Jaelnec’s mind had been forced to hibernate by Mother Tigress, and thus he had not consciously experienced what happened afterward. But he had been made to sleep at that time, not rendered unconscious; he had still heard, and now he realized that this was not the first time Olan had spoken like this.
“Release.”
Unlike now, there had been power in that word... immense power. Comparable even to the power Rilon had put in his own command, which had subdued everyone in the room...
Except Olan. He got right back up again and became a God-slayer.

Swallowing, the young Nightwalker closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down rather than let himself be carried away by the implications of what he had just realized. Olan... just what are you, really?
“Oh, I guess I am,” Olan laughed at Domhnall’s description of the manner of speech the old man was using. Was he not even aware that he was speaking like that? “That’s handy, you know? I have to remember I can do this. Might be useful.”
Moments later Domhnall diverted his attention to the squire, asking whether he could perform the same feat his older kinsman just had.
“No, I...” Jaelnec shook his head, still somewhat dazed by shock, “I’ve never come across anything like this either. Never even heard of something like that before. I... I didn’t know.”
And finally, the outlander naturally asked about their quarreling with a god, as could be expected. Really, it would have been weird if he had not been curious about something like that, especially since they claimed to not only have had altercations with a god, but they had apparently – and in reality, actually – all emerged alive and relatively unscathed, save Olan’s loss of memory and various psychological trauma.
“It’s a long story, I guess,” the squire sighed. “We had a fight with Rilon over his relic, and we won. That’s the short version.”

The older guy merely laughed and noted that this newfound (refound?) ability of his could turn out to be useful, whereas the younger black-eyes looked at least as baffled as he felt. Perhaps even more so. But then again, was it more surprising to discover sides you never knew of in people you thought you were already fully familiar with, or to find out surprising things about people whom you had just barely encountered?
"Nei'er hav' I," he remarked when the guy admitted to never having heard about 'something like that', absentmindedly scratching a bearded cheek as his eyes flitted from one 'black-eyes' to another.
'I apologize, but what exactly are you two, and the woman?' was a question that desperately wanted to come over his lips, but that seemed tactless even to him, and he did not exactly have the best possible track record in not saying inappropriate things, even if he generally had no issues being conversational. The third man in the party had seemed human, if a non-local one, but to hell if he actually dared to make a guess anymore.
"Is 'at wha' ye do? Hunt gods an' 'eir relics?" he inquired as the topic changed. The young fellow's sigh implied no, or perhaps it had simply not gone as well as planned. Memory losses and injuries were generally not intended as part of the course.
"S'pose ye coul' tell me the en'ire story on the way? Shoul' hav' the time. Qui'e impressive... Almos' los' my life 'o a boar once myself, tae 'ink of... Vicious beas's. Can take out a grea' ol' striped one, if 'ey wan' tae."
Gods. Material (he assumed) beings who walked the land and you could fight, rather than some supposed entities high above only the chosen few acted as conduits for. Was it only the eastern gods who wandered about among humanoids, or all of them? Did not seem right. Gods were not supposed to meddle in mortal affairs in a manner this direct, this physical... It was always a chosen one, a high member of clergy, who merely delivered (or so they claimed) the deities' words.
Then again, who was to say how different were those eastern gods from their deities truly? He struggled to even remember what Rilon stood for. Was he not the eastern version of their Belatucardos, the god of anger and bloodthirst?

Thaler

While aware of the conversation around her she could not comprehend the foreign tongue, something in her skull itched as if in dispute but she neither poked nor pried into that subtle itch. It was nice not to have to concentrate but her senses disagreed, every little leaf was as loud as the rustles of the pages in a book and every subtle shifting of feet on the compacted dirt may as well have been steps on eggshells. She was tired and her ears were sore from all the sounds she heard. It was a side effect she guessed, of having 'enhanced' hearing to make up for her blindness. Sounds were always louder but that wasn't necessarily always a good thing. She kept idle check of Jaelnec's position and Aemoten's breathing, the rustle of crow wings and the flick of donkey tails. Etakar was hard to ignore of course, his large size and the powerful lungs meant every exhale rung out like a bellows.

Everyone was alive, everyone was okay and that was all that mattered. If the people here dared to try something none of them were in the shape to fight but that didn't mean they wouldn't if they had to. Her head brushed the bark of the tree, allowing herself to be immersed in the feeling of not being primed for action.

A fleeting moment passed and then Olan, that sweet old man who she'd do anything for, spoke again. Her eyes flicked open and her head raised, turning in Olan's direction. An itch inside her skull was all that told her he had done anything at all. Perhaps due to their shared skill or perhaps due to having already seen him use it. For a moment she wrestled with herself, if she mentioned it it might embarrass him and there would be need for discussions, if she didn't then he might continue to speak with such a power and hurt himself. Her brow furrowed, neither choice was good, especially when she barely understood how Olan or herself did what they did -although Olan with more skill- and he was not causing any issue to any but himself. Of course, he had died that morning, so stretching himself was likely unwise.

With a concentration she was reluctant to muster from the recesses of her soul, whatever tatters of it Rilon had left behind, she pushed herself up from the ground and gave a single low whistle. Primitive as it was it was good enough and her head tilted slightly to better catch the echoes on their return. Carefully she picked her way through the clearing towards where the voices had been. Reaching out when she caught the unforgettable scent of Olan and snagging the edge of his shirt.

What now though? Was she going to tell him in front of the strangers? At a loss at what the next step ought to be she sought just to squeeze his sleeve and hope the message reached him without words.

“Huh?” Olan murmured, distracted from the exchange between their group and Domhnall’s by first a light tugging at the edge of his frilly tunic, then seizing his arm and squeezing it tightly enough to fully get his attention. He turned away from the others – it was not as though they needed him anymore for what they were talking about, anyway – and looked at Thaler, who had apparently come up beside him while he had been busy being fascinated first by people of races belonging to a land far away, then his newfound ability to not only speak all languages, but to speak all languages at once.
He grinned at her widely, happy to see her on her feet and proud that she had mustered the strength to get to him, but as was usually the case with him he was not quite as simple-minded as he appeared. He would have had to be a sociopath with no prior experience reading other humanoids’ expressions not to realize that she was worried about something.
All it took was a quick glance over at Aemoten to confirm that he was not the issue – which should have been obvious from the start, since he figured she would have made them aware of the problem much more urgenty if there was a problem with the Sekalyn or anything else immediately problematic – to realize that her worry was for him.
“Did you know I could do that?” he whispered to her conspiratorially, a chuckle riding his voice without being fully allowed to come to fruition. Speaking to her, however, he made sure to switch back to speaking Rodorian, rather than in True Words. Only then did he realize that he felt somehow... drained, and that speaking like that had been consuming his magical energy. “Oh, I see! So talking like that is a kind of magic, you know? I only just realized. Don’t worry, dear, I’ll be more careful about it now that I know I can do it, and that it isn’t free.”

Jaelnec and Domhnall, meanwhile, continued their conversation. “Not really, no,” the Squire of the Will replied to the other’s inquiry on whether hunting gods and relics was the purpose of their group. “Nor was hunting vampires or goblins, or crusaders... or demonspawn, or harvesters, for that matter.” He sighed again, even deeper this time. “A lot of bad stuff just happened, and we either couldn’t or wouldn’t ignore it. We’ve been doing so much fighting lately... we were already exhausted before fighting Rilon.” He paused for a second, thinking. “Our objective is to end the Withering, though.”
The young Nightwalker actually smiled when Domhnall shared the fact that he had almost been killed by a boar at some point, and nodded his head in agreement. “Dealing with men, monsters and gods, it’s easy to forget that mundane stuff can be just as deadly.” He chuckled. “And I’m sure we could tell you... actually, I guess we could talk now, while Aemoten get’s some rest.”

Thaler nodded softly to that sweet old man, "I knew." She confirmed in a soft conspiratorial whisper, she paused, hesitant to tell him more but as the elder explorer came to realise the effects she changed her grip for one of attention to one of support. She knew all too well the fatigue that could come upon a person if they used the true words. While hers were impure; gifted only by the grace of the tainted god everyone had cursed and sort the end of earlier that day, she could only imagine what using them as Olan did would do to someone. She allowed a faint smile to flicker on her face, "Good because I..." She stopped a moment, unsure where to go with it, before quietly whispering, "need you." She couldn't quite place it but things somehow made more sense with him, she felt safer.

Aemoten and Jaelnec were perhaps the best people she'd ever met but like all people they made judgements based on their opinion of right and wrong, what should happen and what was the correct behaviour. She cared for them both dearly but she always felt she had something to prove for them, that she was worth their attention and their affections. With Olan though she felt she could be open, relaxed, she could slip up and make mistakes and he'd just...not mind. She didn't doubt he'd care but he never made her feel like she was failing some unseen test. He was just so relaxing to be around. His promise and their shared 'gift' made her feel more like part of a family than anything she had had in a long time. "So don't...don't push yourself too hard, okay?" She pleaded quietly.

Thaler hesitated, she wasn't sure why, telling Olan about their shared skill wouldn't change much, would it? It felt somewhat nice having a fresh start with at least one of them. Of course telling him may bring back some of the less pleasant memories of her, using it on him for example and the other poor choices. Still, he'd remember eventually, "I can sort of...do that too. Not like you but, similar. It's not just speaking in one tongue. It's more than that, I...don't know, you were the one who told me." She stated quietly with a sort of sheepish half laugh.

The sister’s change in reaction between Morgan’s and Ixion’s accounts was apparent. While their assurances to him that there were many who fell with him not using any hands, the uncanny ability to guess the threat of an opponent that the Fixer had certainly didn’t help with the daunting prospect of fighting him again. The story of the fight between his ‘compatriot’ and Lord Nightmare certainly filled that prospect, considering everything that he knows about the deo’iel. I will get better and will show him that I am not weak, he thought, reminding himself that he is now in possession of the Dirge. The information relating to the Fixer’s surprised reaction wasn’t of much help, but it was a given since few people live to tell their confrontations.

Violet then gave a little more spiel about what they wanted to discuss with the trio, sitting down while doing so. At first, what was said was a little bit cryptic which puzzled the assassin. However, as soon as she brought up the deo’iel victims the Fixer had claimed, Ixion had an idea on what the proposal they had in mind. The invitation, despite it being expected, hit him mentally like a runaway train. He thought back to the days when he wanted to join the organization as a child. This was long before he signed the infernal contract with the Grandmaster. The prospect certainly was enticing, but he wasn’t sure if the contract would be conflicting in everything the deo’iel stood for. However, it would serve both the organizations and the Grandmaster well if he did join. That was something that he would need to think long and hard on.

I’on chimed, expressing his need to think about the proposition. While he couldn’t tell that the penin had excitement about such a prospect, he could tell that he was tense about something. Both the proposition and the extent on the Fixer’s power were big pills to swallow after all, so some time to digest those facts was certainly needed. As for Morgan, the assassin could tell that he was annoyed at him being corrected about the first encounter with Blue and the Fixer from the glance that was given. The proposition probably would have had a big effect on him, considering his vampiric nature. However, the vampire was on the same page as I’on with needing time to consider such an idea, the exhaustion of the day clear in his voice. They’re on the same page, Ixion concluded. He turns to both sisters, “I think it is a better call to give us time to weigh up the options of such a proposal before deciding. Such decisions are not to be made lightly after such exertions earlier.”

Hearing and nodding her head at each of their answers, Violet finally threw up her hands and patted the air placatingly with both of them, offering them a smile. “Of course, of course, take all the time you need; it’s an open invitation that you can make your decision on whenever you want. It’s not like my sister and I are carrying around extra badges for recruitment in the field, anyway... not only would we have no idea which circle to assign you, but we don’t even have the authority to do so. We may belong to the sixth circle, but we’re really just hunters like everyone else.”
“You’ll need to visit one of our branch headquarters to join,” Rose creaked sullenly. “The closest one is in Fokon.”
Her sister nodded her agreement. “Yeah, just find someone there from the fourth circle or higher, and tell them that Violet and Rose invited you. Normally the deo’iel accepts pretty much anyone, as you know – Rose and I are living proof of that – but having our recommendation should make them take you a bit more seriously, at least.”
“I’d probably wait a week or so before going, though,” the masked sister pointed out grimly, “or chances are that you’ll get killed long before the Fixer has a chance to come back. I’m sure you’ve heard about the monster causing havoc in Nemhim. Trust me, if our suspicions are right, you won’t want to wear a deo’iel badge until that thing is gone... because if the higher-ups think what we think, chances are that there’ll be a lot of deo’iel in Rodoria very soon, and most of them won’t make it back out alive.”

As Ixion echoed his two companions’ response to the sisters’ offer, Morgan’s crimson eyes looked about the once peaceful inn. ’What a mess…’ the vampire would mentally comment, his weary gaze looking over the shattered floorboards, upturned tables, destroyed bar, and the stone wall that had taken the place of the few tables that had once been present. The damage that been inflicted to this place was absurd for the small window of fighting that had occurred between now temporary allies. ’Amazing how much destruction was brought forth…’

In all honesty, the vampire’s weariness was falling upon him quickly - too quickly. Even though he had fully feasted upon an innocent before this misadventure and had slept for more than a few hours, his supernatural efforts that he had forced upon his body were taking its toll. After he slept, the sniffer knew that he would need…sustenance once more. However, his companions did not need to know that. Bobbing his head once or twice, Morgan gave silent acknowledgement to the sister’s comments, listening to their words, but not really absorbing anything in paticular. All he wanted was a place to hide away from the sun and be rid of this weariness that had suddenly plagued him.

However, the warning that Violet brought forth definitely caused him to pay attention more, even to more so to the point where he felt the need to speak, “What’s causing that much of a problem that it would gather that much interest for your organization?” If the sisters decide to divulge this information, Morgan would look about to find a chair. If it were close, he would slowly prop it up, his body clearly reflecting his tired state.

But, if the sisters deemed such information classified, Morgan would nod his head twice, once to each sister before turning to leave. He would call over his shoulder as he did, “I don’t know about you both, but I am tired. And I doubt the innkeeper of this dump won’t hesitate to have a platoon of guards waiting for us if we decide to bunk here for the night.” Ducking further out of sight and around the stone wall to apparently exit the building, Morgan would continue, "And I, for one, would rather avoid any more entanglements with the Duke’s men…”

Rose looked at her sister, who shrugged at her unspoken question. “It’s not like their existence is a secret,” Violet pointed out with an uncertain smile, “and it’s not official yet anyway. We could be wrong; we probably aren’t, but we could be.”
The masked sister nodded, then turned to look at Morgan with an ominous intensity in her eyes. “From what we’ve heard from the Nemhimian refugees, it’s very likely that another unnatural harvester has appeared. You’ve probably never heard of harvesters – few have – because they are rare and usually not dangerous, but...” She shook her head. “I’d rather fight a demon lord than I would a harvester. They are the most dangerous thing you could ever come across in Reniam; even the power of all deo’iel combined probably won’t be enough to stop it.”
“There is a small chance that it’s just a very powerful summoner on a rampage, though,” Violet pointed out with a sigh. “That’s what we think, and we’re pretty sure that the leaders of our order will think the same. They won’t want to go to the extreme lengths it would take to bring down a harvester without being absolutely sure... but on the other hand, they can’t delay dealing with something this conspicuous for too long, or they would lose support.”
“So rather than deploying -” Rose began, but received a shove from her sister and a shake of her head before she could finish. “What I mean is, they are going to send a force of deo’iel that will be overkill for a summoner – a veritable army, probably, along with several of us sixth circle-agents, possibly even Lord Nightmare himself – but it will only be a distraction for a harvester. Only then, when they have confirmed that it’s a harvester, will they accept what needs to be done.”
“We could be wrong,” Violet reminded them with a cautioning finger in the air. “It could be that the leaders think otherwise or will learn more than we have before making their decision... but from what we have heard, it’s a harvester.” She bit her lip. “Another one like Sineater... which is why we are going to keep a low profile until the order ascertains what it is, one way or another.”

---

Grateful that the two had taken the hint, I'on relaxed slightly, the tension going out of his features and posture. Smiling briefly at the sisters he was about to open his mouth before he heard them mention the high probability of death if they did join any time within a week or two. His mouth summarily shut and he frowned, before his mind immediately rushed to the refugees. It didn't take long for the Vampire to ask exactly why the sisters thought as much, and so it was in the ensuing moments that they confirmed his suspicions. Shaking his head before pinching the bridge of his nose, the penin mage wondered if his day could have gotten worse.

On the other hand....

He glanced at his two companions and then considered that he wouldn't have learned of the possibility that a Harvester might be involved in the destruction of Nemhim. Eyes still narrowed, though now as if to pierce through the sisters to reach anything else they might know, I'on debated as to whether or not he'd question the two to see if they knew anything more. However, circumstances quickly rendered such pointless. There was something that the two might be able to do for him though. "If it were a Harvester," he begun, looking at the two, "Is there any way I could be informed? Dangerous as they are, I...have something of an interest in such things."

He made a point of not looking at either of his companions as he continued. "Not to mention that it would be a good thing to know if one of those terrible beings roamed the world during my travels. After all, I've not the intention to stay in Zerul more than a week longer." He almost winced as the last sentence rolled off his tongue, cementing that he wouldn't be staying in the place he'd made his home for much longer.

It wasn't just an idea now.

"Perhaps visiting your Headquarters in Fokon would be wise whether we choose to join your ranks or not, provided the order would be willing to give out information in regards to Nemhim once they've made their way through it," if anyone survives the trip that is... he thought ruefully.

Hopefully someone would.

“Not really, no,” the younger black-eyes asserted when he inquired whether activities such as meddling of deities' affairs were a commonplace to the lot. “Nor was hunting vampires or goblins, or crusaders... or demonspawn, or harvesters, for that matter.”
Domhnall meticulously shook his head in what was probably bafflement at the list the fellow was rattling off at him. All that had somehow come with trying to put an end to, what, the disease that kept killing people of these lands off? Not that he could ever begin to fathom how had hunting vampires become a part of the equation... Were they immune to it or something? Even if they were, one would assume that the slight detail of all the vampires he had ever heard of being bloodsucking monsters bereft of their original character would make vampirism rather unsuitable candidate for a cure...
"Ei'er ye lot have knack fer ge'ing in trouble, or yer means fer healin' folks are quite peculiar..." he commented. "Wi'ering, tha's the reason many of these places are almos' empty, nay? The one with the grey splo'ches?" He visibly winced. "Worthy cause."
He grinned himself when Jaelnec commented about dying to mundane things.
"Oh, you really don' laugh a' boars when you know wha' manner of crea'ure they truly are. Now, chocking on food, alone a' home, tha'd be an embarrassing way fer a hun'er tae go..."

Meanwhile, the forestfolk's fairer companion had been observing the companions in relative quiet.

Iridiel's concentration on Thaler was broken by a strange buzzing noise in her ears. Frowning, Iridiel looked up and around herself, convinced that there was some sort of hive of flying insects about from the sounds of things, but there was no hive to be seen. No bees, no wasps, no hornets (thank the gods, Iridiel hated those things), but still that bloody buzzing was ringing in her ears... well, it was less a buzzing, and now a more high-pitched noise, and it grew louder by... by the second, it felt like. The noise made her wince, and still it grew in strength, drowning out even the conversation taking place below the tree.
Iridiel tried to cover her ears in vain - the noise seemed to emanate from within her head and pressed outwards against her skull and her ears, whilst still growing in volume to the point of ear-splitting pain. Iridiel cried out involuntarily as her vision greyed, with the noise deafening all else around her, before her eyes were blinded by a bright white light, and then... darkness, and silence.

Domhnall was about to answer to Jaelnec's offer to tell their tale there and then when an unexpected motion and rustle caught his attention. He had barely enough time to turn his head in the direction of the disturbance before it was followed by a dull thud - and the realization that his companion had just fallen out of her tree.
For the briefest of moments, he stood as if paralyzed, eyes widened and unuttered words caught in his throat along with his breath. Just until his brain actually caught up with the fact that indeed, this had truly been what just happened. Iridiel did not quite have the natural affinity to climbing trees he had, but that had never happened before, not even when she had decided to pelt him with small sticks as a joke and subsequently tried to flee from him. The only logical conclusion he could reach was that his companion had, for whatever reason, unexpectedly passed out.
With his breath released in a sudden gust, he rushed forward to kneel by the highander's side and set a hand on her shoulder, the other uselessly hovering near her head as he studied her face.
"Iridiel?" he inquired, his voice more than sightly fazed, if not to say outright panicked. She was not unconscious - not anymore, at least -, nor was she dead (thank Sulis and whichever other gods might be listening), but she did have a strange distant gaze in her eyes - as if she were not fully 'there' yet.
She muttered something about them needing to follow those people they had just met, to help the people in Zerul - Sulis' orders. It was hard to discern properly.
Some of the concern on Domhnall's face gave way to confusion at his companion's words.
"The... Yeah, we offered to go to Zerul City with them, remember?" he muttered. "Do you think you're unharmed?"
"I... I'm not sure. I think so... Wait." Iridiel looked around, frowning, as if she had heard something. There was something unnatural in the air. A chill ran down Iridiel's spine as some sort of fell aura enveloped her, and she reached for her crossbows. "Domhnall... Can you feel that? Almost like... almost like I feel light-headed. And no, it's not from falling out of the tree. Something else." Iridiel looked about, her eyes scanning the nearby bushes for any signs of activity. "It's close by, whatever it is."
'Are you certain it's not something to do with you falling out of that tree - or whatever caused you to fall out of that tree, rather?' some part of him instinctively wanted to ask despite her immediate reassurances, but nevertheless he raised his head to look around and focus some on his surroundings, even if he kept a hand near Iridiel's back, just in case whatever had affected her struck again.
"Well, you did give me a start, falling out of that bloody tree..." he paused. "But no, you're right. I do think I can feel something, too... As if I were drunk ... also dread."
Slowly, he rose from his kneeling position, eyes shifting from Iridiel to the surroundings, that now emanated a strange and perturbing aura. When he spoke again, it was once more in Rodorian, and seemingly addressed at the people behind the two of them.
"We think there is something..."

The sisters didn’t mind that all three of them needed the time to consider their offer. However, Ixion initially thought it was strange that they requested to join the organization later than immediately. Normally, organizations would be more than happy for someone to join their ranks. When they go into the details about the events leading to the surge of refugees in Zerul City, he could understand why there was an influx of people and explained why they suggested waiting. Anything that dangerous would lead to a few casualties and the assassin still needed time to recover from his injuries. So it was logical to wait, even after giving some time to decide on the proposition, before going to Fokon. “If things are going to be bad, as you say they would possibly,” he started, looking at everyone before looking at the two sisters. “Then waiting would be an ideal option. That’ll also give me time to recover.”

Morgan asked about what was causing the problems in Nemhim, which did intrigue the assassin about the problems. He did recall Rose pointing out that there was a monster that was causing the trouble, which got him thinking. Is this monster really that powerful, to cause chaos in a city? Would someone like the Grand Master want something such as that in his growing army? Something that powerful would put him in favour with the demon lord himself, but more information was needed before he decided on whether to pursue such an avenue to claim such a creature’s soul.

The vampire’s question was soon answered. A Harvester, Ixion thought, raking his mind. He heard of such a creature before, but the information about it was little and vague in scope. However, the sister’s had confirmed on some of the information that he knew about it: they were dangerous creatures. Something that the Grand Master is interested in. However, all the information was just speculation as a summoner was another possibility for the destruction. Their grand plan seems too ambitious for even both options that were on the table, whether Lord Nightmare was there or not. Despite all of the suggestions of a monster coming to light, I’on had his interests piqued at such a prospect of the information. “Yes, I would also like to be informed if the monster in Nemhim is a Harvester as well. Need to be kept informed on such events occurring for future travels for work.” The penin’s intentions to not staying in the city did surprise Ixion a little bit, though he showed some interest in the Stone of the Doom Mage in the Bane once it was revealed before. The assassin wouldn’t be surprised if the penin was some sort of a treasure hunter or adventurer.

The suggestion on going to Fokon was an enticing one regardless. If the group decides to go and join the deo’iel, then they needed to be there. However, it is always handy to know about information and think of possible targets to go after. “The information that could be at the headquarters would be useful, especially in the final decision on whether to join the organization or not.” The assassin thought about the possibilities that could result from this and the pleasant thought that would come from them.

It had been two days since her last clash. Two days since the last time she had slaked her blade's thirst for the blood of her foes, two days since she had last eaten fresh meat. The cuts she had taken with her were beginning to grow dry and were proving to be poor quality nourishment, though Angora had difficulty remembering why that was. The outsider's incessant thirst for knowledge had sadly replaced much of her psyche - ironic, really, considering that what Angora used to know was exactly what the outsider wanted; the experiences, the sights, the smells of the material realm. And now Angora was having to rediscover it all herself. Last night she had a dream... A dream where the names "Yvann" and "Reikard" kept appearing. People were shouting unintelligibly in the background in a strange language that Angora thought sounded familiar, but she couldn't understand head nor tail of it. She was playing in a garden, with a wooden sword, sparring against two slightly older boys, which looked similar to her, but Angora didn't know why - and then an older woman came around, and said something in the strange language. And as if by magic, Angora and the boys stopped whatever it was they were doing and came inside? It was both intriguing and discomforting to Angora. The scene seemed vaguely familiar, all of it did, but she couldn't quite place-

A snap of a branch and the sound of a falling body hitting the ground brought Angora back to the world around her. Drawing her sword instinctively, Angora looked about cautiously, scanning for any movement in the immediate vicinity, before she walked over to the side of the dirt road that she had been following for the last week or so ago. There were odd sounds that she could hear dimly - sounds that she had never heard before. She recognised it as a language, but what exactly it was she had no idea - indeed, not even the locals sounded *anything* like it. Were they foreigners to this land? Were they from far away? But most importantly, were they a threat? Angora slowly crawled her way through the undergrowth in the direction that the noise had come from... She caught her leg on a thorn and growled under her breath, pulling the leg free and scratching it in the process. Blood oozed from the small cut, but Angora paid little attention to it as she carefully made her way through the bushes and long grass that covered the dirt of the forest. Finally, Angora was able to reach the undergrowth on the other side - a small clearing opened up, and in it were several figures. Angora gripped her sword tightly as she scanned over the people before her. An old man, with a very pale-skinned woman who looked to be almost hanging onto his sleeve. Neither appeared to be well-armed, and posed little threat to her directly... but they would have to be dealt with. Then there was a man on the ground, who appeared to be well-armed and armoured, but his demeanour was one of exhaustion - Angora reckoned she could deal with him quickly, unlike the men in steel plate on horseback that she encountered every so often. Then there were two over by the tree, with a branch having fallen from it nearby. These must have been the people that caused the initial commotion in the first place. The one female looked to have her crossbows at hand - she was a very dangerous threat and required immediate neutralisation, whilst the male looked more like a hunter - he had a knife in his hand and was looking about nervously. Had she been seen? No, his movements weren't of discovery, they were of confusion. Finally, there was the man with a sword who was up and about. He was the primary target - he looked to be the most capable of defending them and himself... Angora tensed, and prepared herself for the carnage that was about to commence.

The woman with the crossbows had to be dealt with first, before the man with the sword. Then... the others were free to do as she pleased with them. Angora would eat well tonight.

With a bloodcurdling, inhuman scream, she leapt from the bushes, her sword raised above her head, a wild look in her eye and a thirst for blood on her lips. The Untamed had come.

Choking on one’s food... Jaelnec mused, interestingly enough not feeling particularly amused by the prospect of something that random and, most of all, pointless being able to deliver a humiliating death to even the most skilled and powerful warriors, and sour the ends of even the greatest legends. Just several days ago he might have laughed at the thought, perhaps even offered other alternatives as to how even the most famous and accomplished fighter could potentially die disgracefully, but now... after Freagon’s death, the thought brought about much too strong associations with the Withering, and how it had taken his master’s life.
On one hand the inevitability of it all and the ominous relentlessness of the plague was terrifying, and almost enough to zap the hope of anyone wanting to stop it. It had killed millions, and its list of victims now included royalty, nobles, powerful mages and legendary knights and warriors. Freagon was literally the single most skilled and powerful fighter Jaelnec had ever seen – his prowess in battle had been almost unreal, to the point where recounting the tales of his exploits would sound greatly exaggerated to anyone who had not personally witnessed them – yet he had been helpless against the Withering. If the great Sir Freagon Nightmaregaze had been defeated by this hulking, indomitable monster – a true nightmare (an association the Nightwalker ironically did not realize how close was to the truth) that walked among mortals as an unseen specter, snuffing out their lives with the indifference a man might show while blowing out a candle flame – then what chance did he stand?
But on the other hand, even though the task seemed as hopeless as ever, the thought of it also fueled the determination that had spurred him on through everything that had happened since Freagon’s death, and had given him the strength to carry on despite it all. Wicked humans, feral monsters, vile creatures of darkness and shadow, even gods and demon lords; none of them were going to stop him if they did anything short of killing him.
It was his quest, and whether it failed or succeeded, he would see it through to its end. No matter what.

Jaelnec also heard the rustle, but did not immediately react to it since it came from the location he knew was occupied by Iridiel, and he simply presumed that the noise was her moving around up there somehow, perhaps even doing as little as rearranging herself in a more comfortable position. It was not until he heard the unnervingly familiar sound of a body hitting the ground that it even occurred to the squire that something was awry, at which point he turned to look in the direction of the sound as well, only to see Iridiel having fallen to the ground.
It was not the fact that she had fallen out of the tree that had Jaelnec clench his still-sore muscles, throwing his cloak back and out of the way fully as he focused his senses; climbing trees could be challenging, especially when it had rained as much as it had lately and the branches were liable to be wet and slippery. No, falling in itself could perhaps even be entertaining for spectators, but the way she fell and hit the ground... she had made no attempt to catch herself on the way down or to brace herself against hitting the ground, as one was would normally instinctively have done in a situation like that. She had just fallen, limply, and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Domhnall moved to her, as Jaelnec had hoped he would – he would rather the one rushing to her aid be someone she knew and trusted, rather than someone who did not even speak the same language as her – and left the Nightwalker by himself, ready to move to help if necessary, though not yet entirely certain what he could do... and... Why did he feel a compulsion to blink his eyes constantly? And for some reason he just felt uneasy. Maybe he was just getting paranoid.

“We think there is something...”
Jaelnec did not even question it when Domhnall uttered those words, the hairs on his arms and neck already standing on end as something was triggering his instincts in ways he was far from accustomed to. Freagon had taught him to hone his instincts and intuition and to be able to react to these by reflex, but there was something nearby that did not only give him the usual vague notion of ‘danger in this direction’, but rather an even vaguer sense of wrongness. It was not that his instincts were reacting to something in particular, it felt like, but more as though something was seriously messing with them. He kept wanting to duck away from one direction or another, and reflexively twitched and looked everywhere, but there was never anything there.
If anything this only served to further prove that something was coming; out of everyone here – horses and donkey notwithstanding – he was the one in the best condition, the strongest and most rested, and there was no rational explanation for him feeling the way he did now. He reached for Roct and seized its hilt, only to immediately feel its warmth seep into him and dull the discomfort of the something Domhnall and Iridiel had already identified.
“Why, that’s interesting,” Olan commented while the younger Nightwalker watched and listened carefully, the golden-purple metal of his ghiril cuirass bared with his cloak out of the way. “This... this is something I don’t think I’ve experienced before, you know. Something new.”
Jaelnec was just about to tell the old man to be quiet, when the something abruptly had his hairs stand on end anew with a sound that fit an undead or a demon better than the woman who burst from the undergrowth not too far from there. The woman – if that was indeed what she was – seemed wild, almost feral somehow, except the fact that she was wielding a sword that definitely did not belong in the hands of anyone who did not know what they were doing. It was black, with glowing runes and expert craftsmanship... a masterpiece to rival Roct, by the looks of it.
But the woman... though one might question her motivation for attacking them – a group that outnumbered her and was furthermore accompanied by two different huge creatures foreign to this land, even if one was sleeping and the other wounded – her intention seemed clear: she was heading straight for Iridiel and Domhnall, sword raised and murder in her eyes.
Roct sang as it slid out of its scabbard, as it had ever done, but with a slight break in its song marring its usual perfection when the notch in the blade emerged. Jaelnec did not think, nor did he need to: he simply rushed immediately to stop this attacker before it could reach these new acquaintances of his, at least one of which seemed in no condition to defend herself.

He slipped past the trees, flew past Iridiel and Domhnall, and kept rushing forward, his muscles protesting against being strained like this so soon but not hindering him, his cloak billowing behind him and making him wish he had discarded it entirely. Too late now.
Gripping the handle of the Sartal sword with both hands, trying to ignore how his sense of balance seemed somehow off and the sense of uneasiness grew to one of unnatural fear, he grit his teeth and moved to parry the crazed woman’s strike. He just hoped that those glowing runes did not mean that it was going to blow Roct straight out of his hands...

“You tell us,” Rose shrugged when I’on and Ixion both requested to receive word of the deo’iel’s verdict on the nature of the Nemhimian menace. “We’re demonspawn, inherently incapable of ‘normal’ mortal magic; we can only use our infernal powers. If there is some magic that would let us find you wherever you were and send a message to you, it would have to come from you.”
“As for a harvester roaming the world,” Violet commented, “I can only say that it probably won’t be doing that for long. Although we still wouldn’t be able to destroy one even if we brought every agent of the deo’iel to fight against it, we... The deo’iel takes harvesters very seriously. Our predecessors were completely unprepared and unable to deal with it when the Sineater appeared, but the Order has spent the time since then preparing for the appearance of another one like it. We have means to combat harvesters – to destroy them – but the seventh circle won’t deploy them unless they are absolutely certain that it’s a harvester.
Once they know, however...” she waved her hand in a vague gesture, “the harvester will be annihilated at all costs.”

Listening to the same two men pondering to visit the branch-headquarters in Fokon, Violet could only nod. “We don’t withhold information that concerns everyone; if you ask, you will probably be told.” She paused, thinking. “Also, the Order has entire libraries on dangerous creatures, magics, substances and artifacts, and record everything learn and observe. Information there is usually unavailable to the public, but... as before, if you find a fourth circle-member or higher and tell them that you have our approval along with our names, they will let you see it.”
“But before you ask,” Rose broke in sternly, “you definitely won’t be seeing our countermeasure against harvesters; only the sixth and seventh circle are allowed to know about that. The only way you’re going to be seeing that is by being near the harvester when it’s deployed... Which you probably wouldn’t survive.”

Thaler had been content, neither happy or sad just indifferent. She enjoyed the quiet, this brief reprieve from all that was wrong and broken in the world. She may not have trusted the strangers but unlike some they'd shown no reason to be unworthy of trust. Jaelnec liked them, Olan too and Aemoten had been okay with them before he'd fallen asleep and for now that was enough. It was the last detour, the last distraction. No more attacks, they'd promised her, no more stress, they'd said, no more anything, at least until they get to Zerul. That was their promise at the edge of the road before running into the foreigners, when Thaler all but stubbornly refused to follow Etakar.

There was a rustle No he promised. It was there again, a skulking predator. Too large and clumsy for a wolf, too small to be anything like a bear or cat. No. She repeated to herself. No more fighting for a while, no more bloodshed, no more demons and gods and monsters, no more men trying to kill them. This was a quick detour, they were getting these foreigners, going to Zerul and they were all going to have a good night's sleep. Thaler trembled slightly be it from fear or suppressed anger even she couldn't tell anymore.

What good was a deal with a stupid damn god if they didn't give her a break? What was the point in getting rid of Rilon if they were just going to get attacked again. No. She heard the foreigner speak, she heard Olan and Jaelnec and as Jaelnec moved, as the rustling creature burst forth a dam in Thaler broke.

Turning to the sound she screamed, not the scream of the angry but the scream of a frustrated, exasperated, exhausted woman and she uttered one word that reverberated around the air like shattering glass, that translated into all but no language, that compelled a person to do as it instructed without thought, without pause but with utter obedience. The word had been so close to being a different one, so very close to a three letter word that would end this stupid problem for good. Die. Such a short, beautiful word, such a marvellous word, a word that would silence her problems completely. A word though she'd promised Olan she wouldn't use, a word that she wasn't sure wouldn't hit her friends. A word that in her soul she knew shouldn't be used. Although it was tempting, so very tempting.

She didn't care that she'd just warned Olan not to be frivolous with his gift, she didn't care that it might hit the foreigners, perhaps even Jalenec -she'd lost track of him as she hit breaking point- she had just had enough. "STOP!" One word, with all the power of a falling tree, all the urgency of a final breath. It was deeper than rivers and taller than mountains and it demanded respect. Stronger than when she'd used it before, in controlled and measured ways but as always with emotionally charged works of the arcane it was charged by her utter resentment of the situation, it was fueled by her disdain for whatever thing had decided it was time to ruin their day a little more. She couldn't see the sword, the creature, all she had was its intent palpable on the wind and the fact her leader had drawn his weapon. Jaelnec never unsheathed Roct for anything but a fight.

Thaler held what gaze she had on the area her voice had been projected, she stood without breaking that point of contact, every ounce of her will behind the word she had unleashed. This was why she'd wanted a weapon, a real one, one to keep things like this away from those she cared for. Of course she'd always had one, she'd never wanted to use it as a weapon before, to get her own way but never to kill or harm. Although now perhaps that was why Rilon lost, perhaps he'd known she'd snap, perhaps he'd felt her potential. The True Voice was going to rip her soul apart but if it meant that they could have an hours peace, she just didn't care anymore. "If you so much as breathe funny." She hissed quietly, "I'll kill you with a word." Thaler was done playing games, this was no idle threat, this was no empty promise, if the thing so much as sounded odd to her ears she was going to use that 'forbidden' word and rip the life from its body. She was eerily calm, eerily still, she wasn't acting on emotion anymore but on pure instinct. Another promise broken, when will I learn?