'A Harvester.' A chill ran down his spine when the sisters revealed what the deo'lei were apparently gathering for. Morgan had only heard of such a being from soldier campfire myths. But that's what the sniffer had assumed that's all they were - myths. 'Glad we aren't going to be anywhere near that thi--' It took all that Morgan could muster in his tired state not to go slackjawed behind his mask as his other temporary allies began asking more questions about the creature, particularly because they were interested in such a thing. 'Are they mad?! Who would purposefully even seek out such a creature?!'

However, there was another aspect of the conversation that was troubling Morgan - the actual possibility if he stuck with these two, he would somehow end up recruited by the deo'lei. His inner beast strained at its mental shackles at the thought. 'Those years with the army... No, never. Never again.' Morgan wasn't about to relinquish his freedom, not again. Not after he had spent all that time running from the Seclryian Army and was now being somehow trapped into this "deal."

'These two have no idea what being in an... "organization" is like. Idiots!' The inner beast growled, threatening to say something that Morgan would have regretted, but the Sisters mentioned something that Morgan's sniffer side desired - a library. And not just any library, 'Information that isn't available to the public. Perhaps, the cure?' Morgan rubbed his tongue against his throat ripping fangs, careful not to cut his own flesh.

If there was one thing that he hated more than an army, it was his curse. Or rather, his other curse. It was bad enough being a sniffer, constantly absorbing others' thoughts and feelings, but to couple it with the constant want for blood and the ever ongoing battle with the beast within - he was tired.

Morgan leaned back into the chair he had managed to find, fully aware of the weight that the day had brought him. 'Should have just looked the other cursed way and minded my own business.' The sniffer thought bitterly. All of this was conflicting - he wanted to be free, but at what cost? His sanity, his morals, his life? The Fixer wouldn't rest - that much was made clear. And by the sound of it, there would be no hiding. There would be no avoiding insulting the Sisters if he flat out refused, and there would be no way to avoid raising suspicions as a threat amongst Ixion and I'on. In truth, there was only one option, and Morgan hated it, speaking in his monotone voice.

"We go to Fokon then. If there truly is a threat of a harvester, not to mention the revenge of the Fixer, I suppose--" Morgan would sigh heavily, "That is the only place for us to go. I, for one, don't want to be anywhere near the Harvester if it is close as you say."

For a moment, Domhnall continued to gaze into the nearby shrubbery, Jaelnec and the rest of their little "camp" left behind his back for the time being. As Iridiel appeared to be pulling out her crossbows (and seemed to be quite capable of standing on her own in spite of her recent fall), he, too, reached for the only weapon he actually had on his person there and then - the same knife he had been using for making ammunition for his crossbow when the others first arrived.
Now, he suddenly regretted not picking up his crossbow, overly precautious as it might have seemed to the newcomers. (Would they really have blamed him, though? They were just three people, one of whom exhausted and another hurt and asleep, whereas the newcomers were mounted warrior-looking fellows accompanied by a massive predatory beast.) And, for the matter, that his spear was a ways off. All in all, he felt woefully unprepared.
For the lack of any other options, he gripped the handle of the knife in his right and moved his weapon-hand back, took half a step forward, held his left arm and hand out in front of himself, and waited. Should he be lucky, he might even get to gut whatever it was before it succeeds in tearing his uncovered protecting arm off... (Though, one could suppose, getting one's throat torn out would be even worse than getting one's arm torn off, so risking an arm was the reasonable thing to do, as far as survival was concerned. Not that it was a particularly consoling thought...) Behind him, the older black-eyes commented something about it being "something new".
He thought there was a momentary rustle in the shrubbery, and on the next moment, several things happened at once. Something - nay, someone, it, she, was a human in tatters or something very close to it - burst forth from the shrubbery with a bone-piercing ethereal shriek and made a beeline for them - him and Iridiel specifically. The peculiar aura Iridiel had pointed out mere moments ago intensified, revealing this person as the source of it. It was ... distracting, made trying to determine the proper course of action a notch more difficult.
At the same time, Iridiel prepared to shoot the blatantly hostile newcomer, whereas Jaelnec had drawn his sword and rushed past both of them, preparing to parry the the frenzied stranger of a woman, and someone else screamed behind him. It was not exactly fear ... it was frustration, anger, the sound of someone being terminally fed up with something, well and truly. And then ... "STOP!"
It was not an order. It was a compulsion. It worked as a reflex not unlike that which makes one close one's eyes upon seeing something fly at one's face, or draw back one's hand with a flinch when contacting glowing-hot metal. It felt similar to the older black-eyes' speech earlier, somehow, yet it was actually Rodorian, not all the languages.
He complied - something which, in this rare instance, was actually easier done than said, since he was still and in waiting already.
Beside him, Iridiel was likewise frozen in place, seemingly having been a blink of an eye from firing two bolts into the savage woman's body, her expression one of shock. The first thing out of her mouth as she began to recover was a salvo of swears in her native language...
Behind him, the white-eyed woman hissed that she would kill - her? - with a mere word, should she as much as breathe funny. He was in full mind to believe her.



The noble beast had raised his head and honed his gaze on the commotion following the healer's fall from her perch, contemplating whether or not it was a situation that warranted his involvement. There was little investment or familiarity between him and the two not-humans, but the female of them had still mended the worst of the damage done to his limb; he owed her that much.
In the end, he decided the situation was best left to the humanoids to sort out, and was about to go back to idling when an oddity caught his attention. It was not truly a sound or sight, it was a faint ubiquitous sensation. A feeling. An uncanny, explanationless one. It smelled like magic.
Etakar hated magic. ...Well, perhaps not healing magic, provided the individual did nothing else funny. All other magic, however, meant trouble.
With a sigh, he pressed his right hand to the ground and got up, muscles which had spent too long compensating for the lack of a fourth usable limb complaining in turn. He did not get far before a humanoid burst from the shrubbery, emitting a - frankly - quite inhuman screech, and being responded in kind by Thaler.
For a long moment, he pondered whether or not to demonstrate the fact that if he wanted, he could be louder than either of them, but ultimately decided contributing to the altercation was beneath him. The confrontation between the woman newcomer and Jaelnec, however, was of concern.
He would move closer, and keep an eye on it.



The creature had him pinned down; its tiny, vicious, venom-green eyes stared him right in the face, its many rows of needle-sharp teeth gnashing together mere two inches from his nose. The demon - if that was what it was - shrieked at his face, an inhuman, bloodcurdling screech; pain flowed into his head like molten lead. It had horns not unlike a deer's, and its eyes lit up like the Illusionist's once long ago.
This one here, it was a savage, though. It lacked the refinement and cunning of the sadistic psychopath of a mind-manipulator. It threw everything at him, raw physical and mental power - it was insane. Filled with sheer, unadulterated madness, its only intent was to rip and tear, to destroy and consume. It felt no fear. It cared not for pain. It was determined to break him; he saw it in its eyes. It laughed at him, a sinister, yet oddly childlike mocking giggle.
And he was losing. Its clawed appendages were digging into his exposed flesh, and even when he had grabbed it by its neck and was keeping its jaws at a distance thusly, bloodloss or being tired out would soon make his arm yield...

The pain in his head exploded, not unlike one might imagine an axe to the head might feel like, and he was abruptly torn from his nightmare and thrown back into the waking world.
The first things he felt were confusion at the evident lack of an evil glowing gaze and many rows of teeth about to tear into his face, and then the ungodly ire of of an infinitely exhausted man prematurely roused from much-needed sleep, combined with the cold sweat and trembling left over from pain-induced shock. He was pallid, breathing too fast and his pulse thudding in his ears.
It took uncharacteristically long for his mind to catch up on his surroundings, for him to realize that a duller version of his dream-headache persisted even now, for him to properly comprehend that whatever period of time he had slumbered, the world had gone to all hell once more, and the situation was far from fine.
At the very least, though he was far from rested or recovered, he personally - objectively speaking - felt a little bit better. His soul protested being brought back so soon, invoking irritation and impatience in his mind, and he still felt the familiar scraping pain in his chest and faint taste of blood in his mouth, but at the very least his soul was no longer trying to actively make his body implode to compensate for being stretched too thin. It had recovered at least some of its usual reserve of magical energy. And though still sluggish, he was more alert now, more coherent.
With some effort, he got up to a sitting position, leaning onto a single shaking hand, and tried to assess the situation, eyes moving from Thaler to their two new acquaintances to Jaelnec confronting ... a human woman?

---

Absorbing Ixion's words as well as the response of the sisters to them both, I'on found it a bit unfortunate that there was no likely way that they'd be made privy to the countermeasures that the Deo'iel had against Harvester. As a scholar and mage it was somethign that interested him greatly, but oh well, not all curiosities could be easily sated--in fact that was half the fun.

Then it was that their vampiric friend spoke up, having taken a seat. I'on nodded at his oddly rational response to the whole situation. It was true, being near a Harvester was just asking for trouble...even if it would allow for the possibility to find out what the beings were first hand--something the mage would generally consider invaluable. For the moment he decided to dismiss the idea altogether as it was indeed unlikely that any of them would survive if they encountered such an entity, let alone gain the chance to study it--in his case.

Noting that he'd had his own questions answered, I'on frowned, wondering where the two would stay now that there was damage to the inn. Then again, their rooms ought to have been entirely intact and the guards had ordered them to stay in the city--not to mention strongly suggesting they stay at the inn. It was then that he recalled that Ixion owed him an explanation regarding the true events in the alley earlier. However, noting the likelihood that he wouldn't want to hear it while still quiet tired, I'on decided he would take his leave and catch up with the two when he woke.

"Well, Rose, Violet, thank you for the information and I hope that what little we could offer you helps either you or the Deo'iel." He smiled at them then glanced at his two companions and bowed his head slightly, "If you've nothing else to request of me, I'll be taking my leave," he glanced between them then, on his way out he gave Ixion a glance, willing him to understand that he hadn't forgot that the man owed him an explanation.

With that he made his exit, doing so swiftly enough that no one could request much else from him.

Once out of the inn he made a sharp turn, heading away from the staring crowd, and headed in the direction of his home.

Within several minutes he'd be in his bed, and not five minutes later, his mind and body quite asleep.

Jillian stared at the ancient demon before her, captivated and hanging by his every word. Had she ever wondered why Rodoria was named the Land in the Middle sometimes? Certainly, but not for long. Like with most nations (and indeed, most humans), she had assumed that those from whom the name originated had simply seen themselves as the most important thing in the world, the center around which everything else congregated. Furthermore, from a cartographer’s perspective, it made a lot of sense to put Rodoria in the middle as every mapping expedition would find its beginnings here, filling out the map of Reniam in a spreading circle with Rodoria at its center. By the Ancient One’s implications, however, it became clear that he at least believed otherwise, saw another explanation.

Arms still crossed, she gave a light shrug after his presumably rhetorical questions and muttered “Have a feeling you’re about to enlighten me.”

So he did. He told her of his enigmatic arrival from beyond the darkness of Stupor. She had known that bit at least, being educated enough to have studied some ancient history. What she had not known, however, was that he was ‘specifically’ from another world. Truly she had never wondered where he’d come from, maybe the Union plane or simply Stupor itself, but if what he said was true, then the implications would be monstrous. Another world? Like Reniam? Were all beings there like him, or was he an exception? What was the world like? Was it possible to go there? And if there were two worlds, why not three? Could there be potentially many other worlds out there, beyond the grasp of any mortal, beyond the cold barrier of Stupor? Places that not even the Spirits or the Gods could reach or know about?

The Master’s voice tore her back to the reality of Reniam, though part of her mind lingered in the lofty heights, beyond the dark veil of the night sky and what mysteries might dwell beyond its farthest depths. Although he presented the witch with two options for reaching him, both sounded difficult and undesireable. Undoing the tower’s curse was clearly not an option; even if Jillian had the knowledge and the power to do such a feat, she would refuse to. Unleashing the Grand Master would be the last thing she’d agree to, knowing full well it would be the beginning of a new dark age for humanity. Swimming to the tower would be equally difficult, for the tower must be at a considerable depth and she strongly doubted that she could survive diving to such an extent. Nevermind that she was not a very good swimmer and detested cold water.

“I would be lying if I said I was not intrigued,” the witch admitted, slanted, attentive eyes fixed on the floating image of the great demon as she paced back and forth, “Were you a man I’d love nothing more than to share a bottle of wine or two and listen to your tales of this other world beyond Stupor, but alas. As you clearly know, I’ll not be able to get to your tower without help, nor anytime soon. Presuming that I still live after our little bargain is done with, we can talk again then if you’re still offering.”

“And don’t think that I have forgotten that you neglected to mention your interest in my visit,” Jillian added stern of voice, extending her right index towards the Grand Master.

Gerald scratched his chin thoughtfully, looking at the Grand Master through narrowed eyes as he listened to Jillian and the demon’s conversation, which appeared to have taken a new turn entirely. A lot of very interesting things came up, and the greedy scholar eagerly latched on to, memorized and began analyzing every new piece of information that came out of this incredibly dangerous fraternization.
The main thing to be mentioned was the fact that the Grand Master’s arrival in Reniam had indeed been more than just myth and allegory, but according to the creature himself apparently entailed a very literal arrival to the world by plummeting from the sky... or, at the very least, materializing while maintaining some kind of prior velocity. The most intriguing part of this was of course the mention of another world, one which the Ancient One originated from and which was presumably even older than Reniam, and which he possessed artifacts from. The other thing, which was still quite fascinating to the necromancer, was the immense power it must have taken the Grand Master to cross Stupor like that. While Stupor itself was inherently unknowable and impossible to navigate and thus impossible to determine how long it would take to cross it or how much power would be involved, the Grand Master’s arrival offered a previously unfamiliar hint as to how much he had used, at least. If Center Lake was really a remnant of the crater after his impacting with Reniam... Center Lake was more than 250 miles wide. It was massive. And judging by the slope of the coasts, it was probably not too far-fetched to estimate that it might be nearly two miles deep at its deepest. The power required to produce an impact like that was staggering... as was the fact that the Grand Master had been able to reconstitute himself afterward. Would he have been anchored to Reniam upon arrival so that he could afford dying there, or would doing so have returned him to his original world? Had he survived? Impossible...

“My interest? You mean beyond the fact that you obviously can’t swim here and would probably have to undo the seal in order to enter the Skull Tower?” the Grand Master chuckled, apparently seeing no need to hide what was a fairly transparent intent behind the suggestion anyways. “I have been locked away in here for thousands of years, Jillian, trapped in this tower of mine with but a handful of my closest servants to keep me company. Even with the occasional mortal contacting me to make a contract with me, it gets unfathomably boring. Saying that I’ve gotten stir-crazy would probably be an understatement. Do you know how often I get the chance to just talk with someone?” He sighed. “Additionally, if I were free, I could literally cure the Withering in an instant.”
“I believe that your presence has outlived the extent of its utility,” Crone croaked from behind them. “Your visage shall be undone –”
“One moment if you will, Eliza,” the Grand Master requested sleekly. He turned back to Jillian and Gerald. “This is one piece of information that I am always willing to hand out for free: the Nomad was not strong enough to seal me by himself. He used a trick, which resulted in a means to undo it that doesn’t hinge on the power of the one trying to do so. My generals and their crystal prisons are the keys to my seal... so please, do defeat Hazzergash and restore his seal. I need him inside the crystal in order to free myself.”

Jillian tilted her head as she gazed at her partner in pact. Of course she could understand his motivations; if she had not felt so before already, now would be the time that it would click for her, that she would come to see his wants and needs as thoroughly human, as opposed to them being unfathomably alien as one might expect of a being which is immortal and from another world. No, all he wanted was power, ego and entertainment. Like most men she knew. Like herself even; were she an immortal, she’d fit right in, she thought to herself. Yet understanding his desire for freedom or not, it was not an option she was willing to consider at the time. Curious about his secrets from beyond the great dark or not, she was not willing to bear the enslavement of the human race on her shoulders as the price. Doubly so because she herself would most likely end up suffering under the Grand Master’s rule. Be that as it may, she found in him an interesting creature, one she would relish to have more conversations with, preferably without the impending doom of a Damocles sword in the form of a contract holding her very soul at ransom.

The witch was about to dispassionately shrug and tell him how freeing him from his prison was sadly not an option for her when Crone, who had been silent for a long time now, chimed in from behind her and Gerald, deciding that the Grand Master had spoken enough for the time being. Moments before dispelling his image, the latter requested one final moment to speak. His permission seemingly granted, he was able to elaborate on one last detail that he felt the witch and the necromancer ought to know, namely that to free him, neither power nor any additional knowledge to what he was about to say was required. Apparently, the key to his prison, or keys as it were, were the crystal prisons which could be used to trap his generals. With all of them returned to their crystalline vessels, one would presumably be able to unravel the seal that binds their master. Having said that, he encouraged them to defeat Hazzergash and return him to the crystal prison which dangled from Gerald’s neck.

Jillian had no reason to doubt what he told them, but it put a new light on their venture regardless. Imprisoning Hazzergash could be seen as positive because it removed him as a threat to Rodoria and its people, but now it seemed that doing so only brought the duchies one step closer to a far greater threat. She also began to wonder where the other crystals were at, and whether or not they were filled. It all seemed rather precarious and ominous, and she felt like her destiny, and that of the Ancient One, were somehow becoming more intertwined by the minute.

“How very generous of you”, Jillian jested, a cheeky grin on her pale lips, “to part with this information so willingly. I wonder why. Either way, I’m happy to learn more about you, partner; I’m so very enthralled. So, since our company is getting impatient, I suppose this is goodbye for now. Farewell, oh Grandest of Masters.”

Jillian bowed courtly before the demon’s image, again feeling somewhat flustered by her shabby appearance. She had spent her entire life in fine silks, her current apparel disgusted her so much that she would rather choose a life in the nude than spending the rest of her days in this and similar garbs. Even so, there were simply more pressing matters for the time being, a fact which in itself vexed her. Maybe she would get lucky and could find something better on her journey, maybe loot something from one of Hazzergash’s underlings or elsewhere. Nigh anything would be better than this sorry blanket she used for a skirt.

The fact that the seal holding back the Grand Master was primarily fueled by the power of his own generals was quite interesting to Gerald, as was the fact that all five of these generals – apparently all of them still in their prisons at the time – were required in order to undo the sixth prison. But as much as Gerald wanted to examine the mechanics behind such an enchantment more closely and perhaps learn how to replicate it or something similar, and as much as he would almost have been liable to consider setting the Grand Master free simply to save himself from his imminent undoing at the hands of the Withering, there was really no way to do either without possessing all five imprisoned demon lords, of which they currently had none.
Interestingly, this also provided a rather unusual insight into just why the crafty Ancient One had not managed to free himself in all this time, and why he had not just arranged for his mortal servants – such as the so-called Fixer he apparently had so much confidence in the abilities of – to collect the prisons and destroy the seal. To Gerald’s knowledge, up until now – with the discovery of the prison of Hazzergash – only one prison had officially been found during the entire history of Rodoria. Even with Hazzergash’s prison they were still missing three out of five, none of which they had even the faintest idea of where they might be. Maybe, in time, one would be able to track them down if one looked for disfigurement of nature similar to the one he had witnessed in Anaxim Forest around where Hazzergash’s prison had been buried, among the roots of the Tree of Life... but far from all hiding places would have surroundings so easily corrupted as the trees there. The other prison had been found in the old Gazzeral city on top of which Wenal City had been erected, enshrined in a tomb of stone, so chances were that the others could have been placed under similarly solitary circumstances. And if they found the three other prisons? They would still need to get the fifth one from deep in the bowels of Castle Wenal, past royal knights, court sorcerers and an entire army of soldiers and guardsmen... Wenal was supposedly the strongest of the ten duchies of Rodoria. It would take a army of their own to get in there.

Another thing that Gerald could not help but to wonder was just how bad it would actually be if the Grand Master was indeed set free. Obviously he was a demon, which meant that it was generally a fair assumption that things would only get worse by unleashing him upon the world, but how did he compare to the alternative? Right now the Withering was steadily working to wipe out all life in Reniam, all the while feeding Kreshtaat more and more power as it did so, which presumably meant that if the Withering was not stopped, Kreshtaat would eventually grow strong enough to cross the Divide and inflict the full horror of his being upon all the planes.
Kreshtaat killed; that is what he did, according to the Gazzeral records of the Age of Darkness Gerald had managed to read. During Kreshtaat’s rule demons reigned supreme in a fashion unlike any other period of history, with no demands being made to the mortal populace besides offering themselves to the demons as entertainment. Demons and mortals alike had run amok during this time, robbing, murdering and raping ravenously, and as long as these demons and mortals were sworn to follow Kreshtaat, opposing any of them meant dealing with the Lord of Darkness himself, who only administered death. Anyone who met him was killed. Kreshtaat literally did not care about anything beyond obliterating any opposition against his absolute rule.
In comparison, the Grand Master must have seemed like a generous ruler, as would mortal tyrants in the ages since. While Kreshtaat had not cared about anything and was content to watch the world burn, the Grand Master had been recorded as being someone who actually wanted an empire, and who was happy to ensure that his realm was sustainable. He had technically enslaved all mortals and made them his servants, that was true, but he also assigned them all land to call their own to cultivate and maintain, allowed them a right of ownership much like one Rodorians had today, and enforced laws that served not just to keep his subjects subservient, but to keep them relatively content and enable them to live. Records showed that he had not only outlawed thievery and murder among mortals, but he even enforced a prohibition against demons abusing mortals, and was known to have punished demons who failed to show restraint severely. Naturally the records of such a distant age were vague, incomplete and – in this case – in a mostly dead language, but by the sound of it the Grand Master definitely seemed like the proverbial lesser evil, and perhaps not even all that worse than some of the horrid mortal rulers the world had known since.
Still, avoiding to unleash ancient forces of evil – no matter how well-behaved they had apparently been in the past – was probably a good idea.

“If I was the ‘grandest of masters’,” the Grand Master remarked when Jillian said her goodbyes, “I would be speaking to you in person, not through an enchanted stone. Feel free to -”
Just what she, or they, could feel free to was anyone’s guess, however, as the projection of the Grand Master atop the water’s surface abruptly vanished and his voice was silenced, the connection with the sigil stone apparently severed.
“Such an unpleasant and abominable individual,” Crone grumbled unhappily as she moved past them to get to the water’s edge. “But you desired immediacy and certainty to a path of lesser hazards.
Now that you have entered into an infernal wager with temporal limitations with that despicable creature, do you still foremind your participation and assistance in reimprisoning Hazzergash before he can retreat to safety?”

Jillian’s brows twitched with annoyance when her infernal ‘partner’ was cut short so rudely. His projected visage gone, the witch turned around to face Crone, who was approaching. Arms crossed, she listened to the old woman muttering about how unpleasant she thought the Grand Master. Initially, Jillian might have agreed but now, after their exchange, she was not so sure anymore. The Ancient One did not seem that great an evil to her. A schemer, devious and perhaps a bit malicious, but he had been relatively forthcoming considering both the circumstances and his obligations to them. For all this talk of how demons are meant to be these chaotic, villainous monsters, this one seemed quite reasonable indeed, which was more than she might be willing to say about certain human individuals. Although she might never admit it, she was in fact looking forward to speaking with him again. Perhaps out of mere curiosity, perhaps in order to strike another, more personal deal. She didn’t know, but she was not entirely dishonest when she said she was ‘enthralled’. Jillian wondered what Gerald thought of their partner; was he similarly intrigued, perhaps willing to use his demon prison to help free him? Maybe they wouldn’t have to go all the way – they might be able to use the demon prison, once it has been filled, as part of a trade with the Grand Master. They could give him his general and gain something powerful in return. Risky, perhaps, but the other prisons were most likely difficult or impossible to obtain, considering that this all-powerful Fixer had not yet acquired them for his master, not even the one hanging from Gerald’s neck now. Time could tell, but she might confide the necromancer in on her idea when the time was right. Certainly not now, and certainly not in the presence of Crone and Renold.

“None of us asked, let alone agreed to summoning the Grand Master. I feel like you could have asked us,” Jillian complained in reply to Crone, “Just because you struck a deal with him does not mean you should be so willing to shove others into the same kind of contract.”

“Be that as it may”, she continued with a mild sigh, putting her hands on her hips, “I’m guessing it will work out for us in the end. And yes, we’ll help. Hazzergash is partly responsible for my present state and I’d like to return the favor.”

“Gerald? What do you think? You haven’t said anything in a while,” the witch remarked, gesturing towards him and gazing expectantly.

Ixion had, at that moment in time, forgotten the fact that the deo’iel weren’t able to use magic that is outside of their abilities. As the conversation carried on, the assassin understood some of the extent of the organization’s preparations when encountering dangerous creatures. He concentrated on Violet as she mentions the libraries on such beings, which would most likely mean ways in which they could be defeated. All that information would be extremely useful for him in any future endeavours. Rose’s interruption broke his train of thought and warned them about the countermeasures against Harvesters. This annoyed the man in red, visible only to the sniffer. Not because he wanted to see what can kill such creatures, but the huge warning signs in his mind about such creatures but he could not recall the information on them, despite hearing something like that in passing. He would have to read up on them if they go to the library in Fokon if the group decided to go there.

When the vampire spoke, the assassin just looked at him. Something about his comrade seemed off when they were speaking to the Sisters. Perhaps he isn’t keen on heading to Fokon and joining the deo’iel, he guessed, recalling a lot of reluctance the vampire gave off beforehand. “Fokon is not the only place for us to go,” Ixion responded, correcting Morgan. “There are always other places we could go to. However, seeing as there is information there that could help improve our abilities whenever the Fixer returns and increase our chances of survival, it is a more logical one. Being a part of the deo’iel or not is something we still got to decide.”

I’on spoke, thanking the sisters for the new information about Fokon. He saw the penin turn to them, letting them know that he was leaving. He did notice the glance that was given to him, still remembering that he owed an explanation to the events that occurred in the alleyway. However, that was to the circumstances that gave rise to the confrontation between himself and Blue. As all was concluding and without any major hitches, Ixion turned to the sisters. “I suppose that is everything that you needed from us? If so, I suggest we could convene for the rest of this waning day and get some rest. I need some rest from the exertions of the day.” As he started to head to where the rooms were, he remembered something. “One more thing,” he started, turning to the demonspawn. “If I was considering joining the deo’iel, are there any prerequisites that are needed before joining?”

While Gerald would like to think that he was fairly indifferent about seeing the Grand Master’s ephemeral projection suddenly dispersing, he could not help but to feel a hint of annoyance that the old demon had not been allowed to ramble on longer about the doubtlessly vast amounts of knowledge he had accumulated over the ages. Not that he was going to put too much faith in most of the things he had been told today – aside from the things the Grand Master had been obligated to tell them through their contract with him, everything he had said could easily have been lies – but even having some kind of basis to work from, information that could potentially be proven true or false, was an interesting exercise of the mind, if nothing else.
In truth though, while he would never have admitted it and certainly never agreed to actually make a trade for the information, some of the first things the Ancient One had told them remained on his mind, teasing him for not knowing. One thing was about Jillian’s past, which he was undeniably interested in knowing what related information could possibly be considered valuable, but the other, perhaps even more puzzling thing, was that the Grand Master had claimed to know something interesting about Gerald’s father. Surely the fiend had meant Dennis Remdal, his stepfather... in which case there was likely a huge amount of dark secrets that could have been brought to light in order to destroy the treacherous filth’s reputation and standing in Zerul. Gerald already had a strong suspicion that Dennis killed his first wife, or at least caused her death indirectly somehow... if the Grand Master had proof...
He had to have meant Dennis Remdal. Surely. Gerald’s real father... he was no one. A worthless peasant with nothing of value but his name, which Gerald had taken to spite his stepfather.
Although... what did he know about his real father?

“You retained the freedom to refuse,” Crone retorted when Jillian argued that she had no right to force them into making a contract with the Grand Master. “The deal was yours to make or reject; not I nor the Grand Master forced you to agree to the wager and sign the contract. I gave you the option and you took it. The fault, as the consequences, are yours alone.”
“That’s not fair, Crone,” Renold grumbled from his place in the background, surprisingly easy to forget when he was not speaking considering that he was large enough to almost be viewed as part of the scenery. “You did force their hand a bit, you must admit...”
“It was an effective option,” Crone shrugged. “The Grand Master is nothing if not resourceful. He can be... difficult to refuse, I admit. Tempting. I suppose I expected this outcome, so perhaps part of the blame is mine.”

Gerald only raised his gaze from the ground immediately in front of his feet when Jillian addressed him, but did not jolt as one might expect from one deep in thought, instead calmly moving his attention from nowhere in particular to his red-haired companion. His yellow eyes, though intense as always, were calm and unwavering.
“What do I think? Of course we’re going to stop Hazzergash if it’s up to me; the only thing different now compared to before is that you’re risking your soul doing it. Besides, we already established that these two pretty much need my help to capture Hazzergash.”
He sighed and sat down on a rock. “I am somewhat curious as to how we’re going to accomplish that, though. We will still need to pacify Hazzergash so that he doesn’t kill me while I’m returning him to his prison, and since we’re going to him this time a binding circle is hardly an option. Before we do anything we need a plan, and then we need some sleep... if for no other reason then just to replace the energy I borrowed from Anaxim with proper magical energy.”


“Prerequisites?” Violet repeated at Ixion’s final question, shrugging at it with disinterest. “Nothing official. You do need to be ready to be a deo’iel, though, and understand that as long as you are one you have the responsibilities of one. You’re expected to hunt monsters and obey orders, and in turn pretty much everything else will be taken care of for you. And if you decide to quit or retire, make absolutely sure that you do so officially and get confirmation from the seventh circle that they approve of your dismissal... The deo’iel do not take kindly to deserters.”

Much like Jillian expected, Crone at first refused to admit that she was part of the reason that the contract was struck. To this, the witch simply shook her head. Seen objectively, the old sorceress was right – nobody strictly forced her hand, or Gerald’s for that matter. But putting the responsibility for the decision solely on Jillian’s shoulders was unfair because it would completely disregard the pressure that was on her at the time. She owed Gerald her life, at the very least in part to her knowledge, and even disregarding that she would know that Gerald’s fate might well depend on her accepting the contract. Refusal could easily have meant the necromancer’s demise in the near future and his continued misery in the best of cases. The general expectations that the people around her had could not be denied either. Silly as it might be, she was not immune to feeling pressured by the expectations of others. All in all it was not a decision made in a vacuum, devoid of outside factors, and it appeared that Renold agreed with the witch’s thoughts.

“Indeed. We could have made the contract after dealing with Hazzergash,” Jillian remarked upon Gerald’s first thoughts, “But somebody thought we should rush this and now we have to deal with two problems on a tight clock.”

The more she thought about it the more she wished she could make contact with the Grand Master on her own terms. The one thing Jillian agreed with Crone on was his resourcefulness. She wondered how resourceful he was in fact. What were the limits of his contracts? How much could he give Jillian, and how high would the price be? He had already proven that he had interest in things beyond simply souls, so maybe she could obtain certain powerful gifts for him in return for untold power or knowledge. Maybe, thought she felt sad even entertaining the option, even offering the souls of others. Not those of the innocent, mind, but the souls of undeserving scum. Criminals, servants of evil, that sort of people. This, in turn, made her wonder if there was a difference in quality between different souls, and whether or not the Grand Master cared for these nuances. Did someone’s virtuousness play a role in a soul’s value? If nothing else, a magician’s soul ought to be more valuable by virtue of its sheer capacity for power. And what about non-humans? Could Jillian possibly substitute her own soul in a contract for that of a goblin or two? Or a troll? Or did the creature have to be more sentient than that. Something like a Tarke, Melanian or Deigan even? A shudder ran over her fragile spine when she reminded herself of the dark depths her thoughts had taken her to.

“Well, if we know where he is headed,” Jillian suggested, “then we could set a trap. We’re most likely much faster than he is right? We could try and find a good place one day ahead of him and set up an ambush. If we’re lucky we’ll buy ourselves enough time in the confusion and chaos to incapacitate him. If his body has human weaknesses, that should not be too difficult.”

The witch shrugged in response to her own plan. She was no tactician and fully expected either Gerald or someone else to point out the dozen flaws in this, but maybe it would inspire the others to think of a better solution. Hell, if Crone was half as powerful as she made herself out to be, she should be able to render Kevalorn unconscious all by herself, while culling his escort. If she were to receive help by a dragon, a witch and a necromancer, their chances should not be all that bad.

“We do possess greater mobility than he, thanks to your efforts,” Crone confirmed Jillian’s presumption than their little group would be faster than Hazzergash, while also deciding to elaborate on why that was, probably in an effort to appease the witch. “It was the destruction you wrought during the battle that prompted Kevalorn to unleash the sinister power within him, and our escape with the prison that enraged him so that he spent even more of his strength incinerating the forest. While Hazzergash’s might is practically inexhaustible, Kevalorn’s body and life is not; by now, Kevalorn is likely much too weakened for Hazzergash to invoke his power anymore, or he would simply have teleported them to Cave Bear’s Keep. Thanks to you he is slow, weak and vulnerable... unless he discovers a new suitable host, the likelihood of which is quite low.”
“We do know where they are going,” Renold agreed, “but we can’t be sure which way they’ll go. The only way to be sure that they would happen upon a trap would be to set it at the doorstep of their keep itself... which would put us in range of even more crusaders.”
“The alternative,” Crone sighed, “would be to use the prison as bait. Without the ambient magic of Anaxim to dull his senses and conceal its presence, Hazzergash is likely capable of locating the prison with pinpoint accuracy from miles away. If he recognizes the presence of that, I have no doubt that he will seek it out without fail.”
“That’d be extremely dangerous, though,” Gerald pointed out grimly. “Actually it will be stupidly dangerous no matter what, since we need to get the prison to him in order to seal him. But at the same time, if Hazzergash gets his hands on it, he will revive fully and become pretty much unstoppable.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Logically, then, I will need to be the bait. Presuming that Hazzergash doesn’t outright kill me on sight, you three would need to be ready to activate a binding circle as soon as he gets close to me... and then maintain it long enough for me to return him to the prison.”
“It’s much too dangerous,” Renold shook his grand reptilian head. “Even if Hazzergash doesn’t kill you, he could easily leave Kevalorn’s body and possess you or one of us instead; he could not only get a fresh host, however unsuitable we might be, but also gain access to our strength in addition to his own. And if he possesses Gerald -”
“Let him try,” the necromancer chuckled darkly. “That would make stuffing him back into the crystal all the easier.”

Angora tensed as she felt the magical shockwave pass through her body as the white-skinned one yelled some word of power at her. Angora didn't understand what the woman had said, but it seemed that the rest of her travelling companions had - the two blue-lipped ones had stopped whatever they were doing and looked at her blankly - the blue-lipped painted woman had even dropped her crossbows (which Angora hadn't noticed were loaded), and the male's stance was that of confusion and unreadiness. Angora, by some sheer luck, now had the upper hand - the only immediate threats to her were the charging male warrior, who had also stopped, and the large beast in the background. Angora knew she had to act quickly - whatever had stunned her adversaries would wear off soon. Crouching and shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet, Angora hissed at the male warrior. He would be first to die, first to slake her thirst for blood.

Angora darted forward and brought the Black Blade downward in a great stroke, using all of her strength to hopefully smash through whatever defence the male was able to put up in response and cleave into his body. If anything, it would give her the upper hand, and would render the assistance of the blue-lipped painted female useless - who would dare fire into such a melee?

“STOP!”
That one word, as ephemeral and simple as it should have been, hit Jaelnec like a hurricane, rooting him to the spot so immediately and effectively that he nearly stumbled and fell face-first to the ground and only remained standing by catching himself with Roct, desperately stabbing the sword into the soil to use it as support... and even then he still nearly fell, making him regret having moved to a more open area.
What was worse was that Thaler’s word persisted... kept him locked in position in this particular arbitrary spot. He had been affected by Thaler’s strange magical words before and been able to undo their effect through sheer force of will, of course, but this time not only did he have the impression that the word was much stronger than any of the ones that had affected him before, but there was also the fact that he was simultaneously being affected by whatever this other thing was. A good chunk of his mental fortitude went to minimizing the sense of confusion and mounting fear that inexplicably dug its claws into him, and even when he tried to ignore that and concentrate on getting rid of the word to allow himself to move freely, he was still too distracted and demoralized to succeed.
Retrieving his sword and wobblily resuming a somewhat upright if somewhat swaying and unsteady stance, the squire winced at the realization that the murderous stranger, whoever she was, was still coming straight at him, seemingly unimpeded by Thaler’s word. He would have to fight her while being unable to move from the spot and while his sense of balance and his instincts honed for battle were crippled, leaving him with... what? What did he actually have left, being unable to dodge and reliably parry incoming blows without being knocked off balance? Unable to maneuver and with his dexterity diminished, his abilities were basically reduced to what they had been ten years ago, before he had started training as Freagon’s apprentice. The only real advantages he had now compared to then was experience, since his time in Reniam had doubled since then, and his physique. Still, trying to fight purely with brute strength and speed was something that had gotten many would-be warriors killed over the ages.

The woman moving to assault him was luckily not the brawny sort and opted for her first attack to be a powerful but heavily telegraphed vertical chop, probably meant to – and capable of – killing him in one blow. Taking his left hand off Roct’s hilt to grasp the blade near the tip, hoping all the while that he would not accidentally cut himself in doing so, he held up his sword to block the other’s strike, having no choice but to absorb the full force of the blow. He was stronger than the assailant, luckily, and was in a good position to receive the attack, but it still hurt throughout his entire body, especially his arms. He pushed back against her sword, hopefully hard enough to stun her and allow him to grip his sword by the hilt properly with both hands, and to gather his wits enough to think of a way to counterattack that did not leave him completely vulnerable.
“That sword...” he heard Mother Tigress mutter in his head, an almost hungry tone to her voice. Jaelnec grit his teeth in frustration; he did not need to have to keep Mother Tigress at bay at the same time as he fought this woman, heavily handicapped as he was. “Incredible...”
As little as he wanted to admit it he was probably at her mercy. Right now, he seriously doubted that he could muster the focus to push back Mother Tigress if she decided to take over.

The clash of blades sent shivers through Angora's arms, and the shock of obsidite on sartal rang in Angora's ears - she growled in pain as the shock coursed through her very bones and the ringing in her ears echoed through her head. She'd underestimated how quickly this male was able to recover from the stunning effect, and she'd definitely underestimated his strength and skill at arms. The counter-push on her blade also caught her off-guard, though Angora was able to counter-balance herself in time to avoid being pushed back completely. Angora's aura flared upon the impact of sword upon sword, the outsider within Angora now fearful for its host's life in the face of this counter-attack. Nevertheless, Angora knew she still had the upper hand - at least for now. Angora pushed back against the male, driving forwards fuelled by adrenaline and mindless fury, before attempting to slide her sword off of his and charge with her shoulder at full power against his chest. Hopefully, that would force the combat into close-quarters, where Angora's savagery would benefit her more with her fists and teeth than with her sword. If it didn't, she was definitely about to lose the initiative, despite her promising opening attack on the male. She wouldn't get another chance to attack him like that again, especially if he was controlling the pace of the fight. Then, there were his comrades to deal with - Angora briefly wondered what the others were doing in a moment of lucidity in her rage, but it was quickly lost in a torrent of adrenaline and raw animalistic passion for blood. Should the painted woman, or the green-skinned man, or even the white-skinned woman intervene and attempt to wrestle her away from her opponent, Angora could be in trouble. She just had to hope that the white-skinned woman's word of power was still taking its effect on them, or that her aura was making logical thinking hard to accomplish.

After all, she was outnumbered some 4 or 5-to-1. Some dim part of her mind screamed at her that this was a mistake, that these people might not have even been enemies, and that she was going to lose, no matter what she did. But it was to no avail. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. This was turning into one of those times where the going was getting tough. Was Angora tough enough to get going?

The passing mention – and appreciation – of her efforts alone were enough to send a revitalizing jolt of bliss through Jillian’s mind, even if she knew that someone like Crone had little need to praise a witch who was so far beneath her own power and wisdom. It didn’t matter; the fact alone that someone noticed and saw something good come out of her work was enough for her to feel good about herself. If it were up to her to give out praise, however, she would have to give it to Gerald, whose shadow image made it possible for her to deal such phenomenal damage in the first place and whose energy-transferring trick empowered her multiple times. When she thought about it, the idea seemed quite charming: her, laying destruction and flame upon whomever stood in their way and him, expanding her energy pool manifold and keeping her alive. A romantic little idea that she was sure Gerald would have no patience or approval for. She could hear him now, grumbling something along the lines of “I must use my power sparingly, Veldaine”, justifying it somehow.

Listening to their exchange, Jillian got the impression that no matter what approach they took, it would be really dangerous, to the point where calling a particular strategy dangerous was redundant. They were trying to defeat and imprison a powerful demon lord, after all. So far, it seemed like using the prison as bait and laying a trap was the smartest solution, as letting him reunite with reinforcements at his keep was pointless and stupid. What worried her the most, however, was this talk about possession. Just how vulnerable were they to this? How quickly could he do it? From what range? Was it telegraphed? Reversible? So many questions. Gerald, for his part, seemed unconcerned at least, most likely because he could use his necromancy and maybe the Withering to try and transfer Hazzergash into his crystal vessel or something along those lines, she figured.

“How does possession work? You make it sound like he could take over any one of us at a whim. If that’s true then we’ve got a bit of a problem, no? Can we see it coming somehow, stop it?” Jillian asked nobody in particular, putting her concerns into the round at large as she looked at each participant in turn and waiting for anyone to pick up the torch and answer.

Thaler was holding onto the vain hope that for a glorious moment the madness would stop and she'd be able to think straight. She'd be able to figure out what to do with the two new strangers and the wild, whatever, that had sprung from the bushes, what to do with Aemoten and how to help Jaelnec and of course Etakar. She had the vague notion that she'd be able to get things sorted and they'd get to Zerul and they'd all eat and laugh and everything would be okay.

She felt the change in the air pressure even before the blades crashed and that vain hope disappeared, her eyes dropped close for a moment as she gave a rueful sigh. They honestly were cursed weren't they? She carefully moved to her feet, they tingled a little, she was pushing herself too much. Still, no doubt poor Jaelnec and the others were affected by her words and they'd last, well as long as they lasted, which meant she had another mess to clear up.

She felt around but realised she had left her blade some ways off. Typical, she thought to herself. Rolling her shoulders she turned to the sound of the swords, shifted her position and she charged for what she hoped was the beastial attacker. She wasn't really sure what she planned to do, her usual fighting attacks wouldn't work on a beast and honestly she was too tired to care right now about form and grace. When she could sense the closeness of the fighting duo she leapt and attempted to wrap her arms around the creature's neck and pull back while closing her elbow tightly across her throat and barring it off with the other arm, her legs went to grapple hips if she found purchase so she'd have more weight and strength behind her.

Her worst nightmare had come true. The white-skinned woman had outflanked her during her brief spat with the warrior male, and was now leaping towards her, almost in a manner Angora would do. She was now actively fighting two people, and was unlikely to be able to finish off the white-skin before the male was able to exploit her failed shoulder-charge. Never mind. She could fight them both - at least, she would try. The white-skin's leap cannoned into Angora's back, the force knocking Angora into a stagger, but not to the ground. The white-skin attempted a choke-hold grip around Angora's throat, but Angora was having none of it - she drove her elbow into the white-skin's kidney area, and attempted to headbutt the white-skin's face with the back of her head. At the same time, Angora dug her nails into the white-skin's arm around her throat as hard as she could, and tried to wrench the arm away from her throat to allow her to breathe - or at least gain some leverage so she could sink her teeth into the white-skin's soft, tender flesh on her arm... The male was now not her priority - the white-skin had Angora's full attention. Finally, even if the previous actions had forced the white-skin to release her grip somewhat, Angora threw herself backwards, trying to force the white-skinned woman to release her through sheer pain, if not deal her some serious damage with the force of the impact and the weight of the Untamed on top of her at the same time. On the ground, Angora would be able to keep up with the fight. She hoped.

It was a strategy more of desperation than anything else. Angora would have to force the white-skin to release her by dealing her enough pain that she simply couldn't hold on any longer, or Angora was finished - she could feel the lack of oxygen to her head beginning to affect her already, especially with her heightened state of aggression with her adrenaline up. However, it didn't frighten her, merely intensify her fury, and Angora was able to gasp out a strangled scream of rage, no doubt echoing in the heads of those who could hear it...

The woman did not relent when he pushed against her, but rather seemed intent on trying to overpower him, pushing back and turning it into a contest of strength... something Jaelnec was somewhat baffled by, seeing as he could tell that she would not be able to crush her way through his guard through sheer force. Confused, distracted and generally reduced in his mental prowess as he was it did not even occur to him that her refusal to fall back was just a step in a longer series of planned events. This strange thing that affected him had gotten even stronger after receiving her attack, and by now it seemed that even trying to focus his vision on his opponent was getting difficult. He was, in other words, in a seriously bad spot.
Mother Tigress, on the other hand, was apparently having the time of her life. “Yes, keep pushing into the sword like that! So much energy... that sword is flush with unbound magical energy. Delicious!”
Please don’t interfere, he begged her in his thoughts, desperate at the notion that he was practically at the mercy of this creature. Please...

But before anything else of significance could happen, the extra weight suddenly pressed into the squire’s sword for a moment before it faltered, the two clashing swords parting – earning a disappointed groan from Mother Tigress – as the attacker staggered back, now seemingly forgetting about him in favor of dealing with a new nuisance in the form of the white-haired, white-skinned and white-eyed woman that had just materialized out of nothing – or so it seemed to him at the moment – and simply jumped at their enemy’s back. Thaler...
Desperate to do whatever he could to help the woman who was at once his apprentice, his friend and the love of another friend, the Nightwalker tried to move forward, only to find that he was still rooted to the place. Growling in frustration he fought against the compulsion to stay where he was, all while the world kept feeling more and more as though it was a ship swaying on sea in a storm, as though the ground was moving beneath him and horrors of indeterminable nature kept threatening him from all directions. He had to move, had to help her... Move his feet, one ahead of the other, come on, come on!
“I know you told me not to interfere,” that unwelcome voice commented in his head, an unbidden distraction from his vain struggle against Thaler’s power, “but you will have to forgive me for giving you what you need rather than what you ask for. That sword just fed me months’ worth of energy, so I’ll use some of it to undo the true word. The rest I’ll leave up to you.”
Jaelnec felt a pulse of intense heat pass through his body and suddenly – so suddenly that he almost fell on his face for the second time in a very short period of time – he found that he could move again.

Gripping Roct by the handle with both hands, the squire threw himself forward at the two struggling women, determined to at the very least distract their opponent to stop her from hurting Thaler.

Thaler had no intention of letting go, the elbow to her body was painful but for all the fury the wild thing had Thaler could match with her own frustrations and so she held on. A backwards headbutt was obvious to even the blind so she kept her head turned and close to the aggressors back, it still connected, it still hurt but Thaler was holding on. It was supposed to be an easy job, get a few trinkets, sell them, go home. She thought to herself while tightening both her legs and arms as much as she feasibly could. I should be at home, having that guard cook for me and making conversation about our day. The creature tried loosening her arm with her nails and Thaler winced and fought the pain to keep the choke hold in place, she'd regret all this later of course but for now she was just as determined as the feral beast.

Of course had she done the job and gone, had things run smoothly she would never have met Olan, Jaelnec or Aemoten and that would indeed be a sad thing but she could not help but feel nostalgic for the simpler days of a single week ago. The creature threw herself backward and Thalers leg grip loosened as her back was jarred in the dirt. She cried out but she kept her arms as tight as she could. Had it been any other day the beast may well have easily dislodged the daywalker but unluckily for Angora, Thaler had reached her limit and the same blind fury that spurred on the attacker, spurred on Thaler.

While she vaguely heard some motion somewhere nearby, Thaler's attentions were focused completely on the task at hand, she was listening intently to the ragged breaths, the heartbeat beneath her grip. Thaler had choked people out before, she'd been very careful to let go before it had become too deadly for the victim. That wasn't why she was listening to the heartbeat this time. She had made the beast a promise and she fully intended to fill it. Until there was nothing but silence in her ears Thaler had no intention of letting go. The only way to completely ensure that this thing was no longer a threat, was to kill it.