Although it admittedly still hurt where Angora had kicked him just a moment ago, the pain was nowhere near as intense as it had been immediately after the kick. As vulnerable as that particular spot was and as all-consuming the agony he had felt had been – enough so that there had been passing seconds in which he had been convinced that he was about to faint – cheap shots like that mercifully did not remain debilitatingly effective for long, and the pain dulled much more quickly than that of a more lasting injury. At least he hoped that this was not a lasting injury...
But regardless, any pain he was currently in or had previously been in were not the primary factors that made Jaelnec declare his desire to kill the woman, highly uncharacteristic as such an utterance was for him. It helped alleviate any hesitation he had towards being hostile to a woman, certainly, but the aura did much more to lower his tolerance and increase his aggression than the pain did. He was confused, inexplicably frightened, felt like he was starting to get a headache, and the consequence of it all was that he simply did not have enough mental constitution in reserve to calm his rage. This woman had attacked them, had kicked him in a region that was rather precious to him, had admitted her intention to kill him and his friends, and – worst of all – she had hurt Thaler.
He did not exaggerate when he stated that he wanted to kill her; he was absolutely seething and had no patience left for her whatsoever. Had Iridiel and Domhnall not gotten in the way he would have impaled the frothing savage on his sword the second he felt that he had recovered enough to move without collapsing or throwing up.
Better than her? he grimly repeated Thaler’s words in his thoughts, staring at Angora and trying to resist the (somewhat disturbing and alien-feeling) urge to rip her throat out with his teeth. She is a fiend, only better than Usha because she is at least honest about her intent to kill us. I want to kill her so bad, it’s like a fire in my blood... in my...
Slowly he turned his head to look at his right hand, which still clutched the ornate hilt of Roct with desperate tightness. The sword felt painfully hot to the touch.

At least Aemoten seemed to be back on his feet, if only out of necessity rather than because he had recovered enough to feel well. Somehow the outlander’s being there helped calm Jaelnec’s fury some and cooled his blood, allowing him enough clarity to at least take some deep breaths to try to keep himself under control. Aemoten was there to take over, be the leader, make the necessary decisions... and he was there to watch and see what Jaelnec did, and would witness anything the squire did to personally judge his actions.
With his aura-muddled mind he could not help but to wonder what would happen if he really did ignore Olan and potentially defy their leader, if he just stepped up and murdered Angora in cold blood right there on the ground; not even using his sword, he would draw his dagger and jump on top of her, cut her throat, pause for a moment to let what happened sink in for her, then jab the weapon into the temple of her skull. He would probably cry out in primal anger as he did it, shrugging off anyone trying to stop him... he was the strongest one there at the moment and he could kill her in an instant, none of them would be able to stop him. And what then? He would probably start crying once he realized what he had done and remorse overwhelmed him. Then Thaler would come over and hug him, showing her sympathy, telling him that it was all right...
He blinked his eyes and swallowed a mouthful of bile, feeling the last of his wrath evaporate at the simple realization that he would, indeed, regret it after having killed the woman. He would be more than a killer, less than a squire; indeed, he would be no more than a cold-blooded murderer.
Better than her, he thought again, smiling softly this time. Right now I don’t think I am, but I usually am and I want to be again. You’re right, Thaler.

“It’s hard to describe,” Jaelnec replied when Aemoten asked about the aura, lowering his voice the same as the foreigner did his. “I feel disoriented and imbalanced, like the ground his moving under my feet... and I keep expecting to get attacked from random directions.” He shook his head, hesitating a moment before admitting to the most shameful part of what the aura made him feel. “And I’m scared. It’s like a fear that I can’t entirely ignore, but I’m not sure what I’m afraid of.” He shrugged. “Something like that.”

“I don’t know,” was Olan’s answer when Aemoten inquired as to whether Angora was possessed, throwing his arms wide in bewilderment. “It’s not a demon or an angel, I can tell that much, but... it’s weird. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like it is her, but it’s also in her. Like... a parasite, maybe.”
Olan then turned to Iridiel, listened to her instructions and turned to Angora, switching to true words as he addressed her. “This woman is going to try to make you better,” he told her, indicating Iridiel, “but she says it might hurt. You need to stay still and try to keep calm... we are going to hold you down, too, so you don’t hurt yourself. Do you understand?”

“The woman is angry with me, I learned a long time ago not to trust people angry with me. Especially with my health.”
Angry? Irritated at Thaler, maybe, if her shouting earlier was any indication... But not vengefully angry. Iridiel did not come across as the kind of person who would harm a living being purely out of spite - and if Sulis was anything like Reina or some such benevolent deity, then any favored of hers who inflicted senseless suffering would furthermore risk having one's powers revoked.
She had healed Etakar, despite him being a foreign beast who could easily crush her torso in a single hand if he only so desired; she had offered to heal him, in spite of him being no more than a complete stranger who stumbled across her when she appeared to be trying to recover herself, and now she was lending her goddess' power to heal an individual she has only a minute ago been ready to kill, and who had all but told her outright she had intended to kill her first... Healer first and foremost. Not a threat, or at least so his instincts - gut feeling, if one so desired - insisted. And in things like that, he was typically not wrong. Sometimes regrettably, as the happenings which had ensued after he had recognized the three-quarter-devil as trouble demonstrated. But the opposite was presumably true, too, and at some point their exceptionally bad luck had to run out.
Besides, even his feelings as a human man left aside - aside of it simply being painful to see a person he loved injured and hurting -, it was a matter of pure practicality. Where the man lamented over suffering, the warrior saw loss of function. Broken people could not go on, injured individuals made poor fighters, strength and willpower alike were resources, and could be depleted... Staying in a severely weakened state when amending the situation was both easily and quickly doable was not only pointless, it was actively harmful.
He guessed he would have to talk to Iridiel separately afterwards ... sort out the misunderstanding, if there even was one to speak of, explain there was no foul blood... That there was still an ounce of good left in people... That every now and then, there still were other options than either sacrifice or gritting one's teeth and enduring... People could not go on on their own indefinitely. Koraakan knew he would not have gotten this far if he were continuing on a solitary path, not with everything thrown his way...
But first things first. Figure out what to do with the woman... “And be careful.”

I shall try, Thaler. I shall try...

The outlander's expression, however, did not change as he stared down at their prone detainee, the worst of her visible injuries gone, but her skin still covered in her own and - Aemoten suspected - Thaler's blood, a slight notch left behind in her ear where the daywalker had bit her in her frustration. The male foreigner leaned closer to his companion, sheathing his knife and whispering something to her. Iridiel nodded, replying something in her own tongue, all the while the young squire beside him seemed to recollect himself and relayed the exact apparent effects of the stranger's aura on him.
"I see," he thoughtfully remarked to the younger nightwalker as he watched the brown-and-green-skinned man listen to Iridiel's words with puzzlement evident on his face, eyebrows furrowed.
Inconvenient as the aura's effect was, the warrior supposed it was actually preferable to an effect that would make people instinctively like her... Assuming that it felt the same to everyone, and did not depend on the woman's attitude towards any particular subject, or her current mood. Fear was doubtlessly an unpleasant and undesirable sensation that could divide men and women fighting for a singular cause - it could be crippling, even, but in a sense it was more honest. Unwarranted fondness was often more devious, as recent experiences had shown. Induced fear was more easily recognized for what it was, and more commonly resisted...
What Olan was saying, however, was perhaps of even more interest, even though even he did not seem to have a too good understanding of what they had at hand. “It’s not a demon or an angel, I can tell that much, but... it’s weird. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like it is her, but it’s also in her. Like... a parasite, maybe.”
"So not like Usha...? She is an actual human affected by something else?"
Koraakan knew they did not need another entity like she had been. Not mortal, not divine, not infernal, the bloody hell else it was? Although ... they had yet another entity somewhere among their ranks who was quite capable of commandeering at least Jaelnec at will ... who had furthermore both made an indirect threat on her host's and his own life alike, and had refused to properly identify herself. Thaler believed in her benevolence, on grounds he could not quite comprehend, but not even Jaelnec himself had any knowledge of her nature ... or even of her presence before she evidently decided he was free to be puppeteered. It only occurred to him now that Olan had not only been present both for their discussion over the matter and the actual act of possession, but also been the person who sealed the entity with but a single word.
"Or ... her? The one who Thaler compared to a mother tigress? Do you know who or what she is?" If they could at least get answer to one question...
When Iridiel spoke to Olan directly, rather than only at her companion (who, still appearing a bit confused, nevertheless nodded slowly to her words), and Olan subsequently turned to Angora, claiming Iridiel was going to help her, though it could end up being unpleasant, it gave the foreign warrior a pause.
"What do you intend to do?" he inquired, addressing it at the woman ... though the male beside him repeated it to her in their shared language, for obvious reasons.

“Not like Usha, no,” Olan confirmed with a shake of his head. “The woman seems to be completely human, as far as I can tell, with something else latched on to her soul.”
“Mother Tigress...” He shot a glance in Jaelnec’s direction. “She’s mortal, I can tell you that much. Beyond that...” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s like her soul isn’t fully formed, if that makes any sense. And she isn’t actually in Jaelnec; she’s in his sword.”

“Not like Usha, no,” Olan confirmed, which was a relief, albeit whether a small or a great one remained unknown for the time being. Koraakan knew even small hindrances stacked up after a while, and this day alone had already thrown more devastation at them than most people had to deal with during their entire lives.
He had seen more than several lifetimes' worth long ago as it were, but with all due respect, he had lived on a farm for most of the years he had spent in Rodoria, only leaving everything behind once there was nothing left for him there, robbed by the infernal plague. He had considered "finding a cure" a quest for the sake of a quest - something to take his mind off the grief and the past, not something he actually expected to succeed, and until he came to be a part of this group, it had been a fairly uneventful endeavor...
Now? He did not know. They had found out something of note, probably, yet with everything irrelevant coming their way and trying to strike them down, their final goal felt perhaps even farther than before. Jaelnec was maybe the one most likely to genuinely believe in their quest - or at least Aemoten assumed he had, in the beginning. There was no telling whether the past week had changed it, and he was not in the mood for asking (nor was it the time). Completely unexpectedly, he had found a person he had fallen in love with, and then a thrice-damned literal devil had shown up...
It would have been all too easy to either just give up altogether or treat everyone and everything that did not immediately comply with indiscriminate rage. He did not even know how much of the inclination for either was indirectly caused by exhaustion and pain anymore..
If Olan was right - and while he still did not quite know how Olan knew things, he usually was - the current situation was, however, most likely not precisely Angora's fault. It could not be excluded that it might have been some dumb decision or another of hers that ultimately brought it upon her, but as a general rule, a person was to be exempted from any responsibility on what they did while possessed, for the simple reason that it was not really them who did it. Would have to figure out how did she become afflicted, though...
And none of it changed the fact that he himself simultaneously wanted to scream and punch a tree, and just drop face down to the ground and stop caring about anything at all.
It had not been the only question he had voiced, though - and much like he had suspected, Olan also had something to comment on the other matter (although the nightwalker was not quite as subtle as the foreign warrior in regards to the individual - or individuals - the question had pertained. “She’s mortal, I can tell you that much. Beyond that... It’s like her soul isn’t fully formed, if that makes any sense. And she isn’t actually in Jaelnec; she’s in his sword.” The outlander sighed.
"It answers at least some questions ... and raises others. Someone put a soul in an object? Does it technically make her a lich, the sword's thus a phylactery? One who is powerful enough to, well, do what we witnessed her do, yet somehow incomplete? Did they split their soul, then?" He guessed even his own sword felt like him after all these years... "...And that thing in Angora - I know it has this aura ... if you can see through it, does it feel malevolent? Do you think you could ask her if she remembers when she became like that?" He shook his head, slowly. "Or, if we have limited time, just hope whatever you want to do works..."
"I apologize," he muttered to Jaelnec beside him. She had last possessed Jaelnec when he was weakened, had she not? And that aura certainly did a number on him... Who knew what their big striped cat thought of him questioning her nature? Now he was once again functioning mostly on the rush of blood. "There is only so long one can walk in the unknown without any consequences..."
She had become unusually active by Jaelnec's admission, just very recently, no? What if she acquired fondness for having a body? Decided that the best way to "protect him" would be to stash him away indefinitely, out of all harm's way? Accidentally merged herself into him like whatever plagued Angora had? There was no predicting half an inhuman mortal that refused to identify itself, and running into another person overtaken by something did not exactly encourage... Better to get further away first. He looked Etakar in the eye - he would take care - and placed a hand on Jaelnec's shoulder.
"Come."


He looked at Iridiel with puzzlement evident in his expression as she explained that he would need to hold Angora down in order for her to ... do what exactly? Go into her mind? Sulis must have been a versatile deity indeed, though the thought of someone else rummaging around in his head definitely felt a bit odd (but then again, gods were gods, and thus could probably do whatever they damn well pleased, whether or not he wanted it or not ... which was even more of a reason to not needlessly piss them off, and possibly stay out of their attention altogether).
His companion was right, though... What was being said - about that possession thing and the whole lot - made sense. And helping with holding him down ... sure, he could do that. He nodded slowly at the éireann woman, and cast his eyes up at Olan and the stern foreign warrior who was commenting something to his squire, and then proceeded to have a short and perplexing conversation with the older black-eyes.("Usha"? Liches? Just who in the planes were those people?)
"He is asking what are you going to do," he noted to Iridiel, switching to Rodorian right after. "She is ... goin' to separa'e her and the thing in her - make an attemp' to, the leas', from what I unders'and." And back to his native... "Try to separate them ... yes? He says just go on if there is limited time..."

Listening to Aemoten and Olan talking about Angora, Usha and finally Mother Tigress, Jaelnec felt the last remnants of the rage that had been awakened in him drain away and be replaced by a sudden sense of fatigue and lethargy, making him want to heave a sigh, close his eyes and just hope that whatever happened next was not going to be as uncomfortable as he suspected it would be. Aemoten had said that he wanted to wait before dealing with Mother Tigress, though, and Jaelnec had offered that they could have done it earlier... it was not like it was his fault.
Are you one? he directed his thoughts at his disembodied supposed ally while at the same time trying to listen to what the others were talking about.
“Am I a what?” the female voice replied quickly, sounding genuinely clueless.
A lich.
“A lich? Oh, I see; I did think it felt like you’d noticed me being in your sword. But I honestly don’t know... my first true wielder and maker of the sword, Telagon Flamecleaver, never managed to figure out just what I am, and his son never cared to investigate.”
Jaelnec frowned. He knew that Telagon was the name of Freagon’s father, but the title of Flamecleaver was news to him. Besides... I had noticed, but the others are discussing it right now.
“Someone else noticed?” Again she both felt and sounded genuine, as though she really was surprised at this. “It was probably Olan, I think... so they want you to get rid of me?”
The Nightwalker ignored her question. You can’t hear them? They’re right next to us.
“Do you see any ears or eyes on your sword? I have no idea what’s going on unless you tell me about it or I feel it. For better or for worse I am stuck in this sword, unable to leave or interact with the world outside it unless it’s through a wielder that lets me flow through it. You’re a very emotionally insecure person, do you know that? Every time you’ve gotten upset ever since you got me, you’ve instinctively reached out to me for comfort, inviting me in.”

Meanwhile, Olan was trying to answer Aemoten’s questions, it seemed. “I guess? I mean there are similarities, at least, but I can’t say for sure whether she’s exactly the same as a lich... I’m not that good.” He shrugged. “And it’s not like something is missing from her soul, not like that; to be honest I’m not even sure that I’d be able to tell if her soul had been split. It’s more like, eh... normally a soul kind of looks like its body, right? Because it identifies itself with how it looks physically. But this one, it’s like it isn’t sure what it is. Does that make sense? It has a vague idea of it, but it doesn’t have a fully fledged identity.”
“The being in Angora...” he shook his head. “No, not malevolent. It doesn’t really feel like anything out of the ordinary, really, just... a blank canvas projecting raw emotion. If it wasn’t latched onto Angora I doubt I’d be able to see it at all.”
“I could ask her, yes...” He turned and addressed Angora in true words. “Do you remember how this happened?”

When Aemoten made to leave and for Jaelnec to follow, the squire complied without question.
I hope you can speak well for yourself, Mother Tigress, he thought at her as they went, or chances are that you’re ending up at the bottom of a lake somewhere.
“I won’t be able to tell the difference as long as I don’t have a wielder,” she remarked, and Jaelnec could have sworn that he felt her shrug inside of him. “And ‘Mother Tigress’ was just the easiest name to use, since the others already knew me as that. Please, go back to calling me Roct; the sword is named after me, after all.”

Thaler
Somewhere on the road to Zerul

It came to her as some surprise how much that bird began to weigh on her after a while, like a sack of sugar balanced on her shoulder. The bird herself barely moved, it dug in its long talons to keep purchase on bony shoulders and then hunkered down like it were a crab steeling itself for the tide. Even without her injuries the bird would have become heavy after a while, that said she did not complain or attempt to move it, it was a welcome weight, something to distract her from the rest of the aches and pains in her body.

Perhaps I was too hasty in refusing the others help. She mused to herself as she stopped again to take a breath and ignore the roaring pain that threatened to encompass her. The bird too, then it could decide if it really wanted to be here with us or not. She's lost everything, her owner, her home, her flight. Can't blame her for being grumpy.

with her breath caught and the scorched wings of her companion flapping impatiently against her cheek she stood and continued on her way. It was almost serene now that she had put some distance between herself and the group. The world was falling apart, with war and plagues and gods but it was so lovely too. There were songbirds in the trees which sang a gay and merry tune to one another, no doubt perched in trees or whirling over head somewhere. The sound of the wind against the trees and through the long grasses at the road side reminded her of the sea's waves. There were noises harder to hear too, the rustle of leaves, the sound of claws on trees from squirrels or other animals.

It was sobering to think that in between everything they had endured, everything the planes was enduring there was still such serenity.

Grand, Jillian thought, cocking her head. If they had been facing anything but Hazzergash they could see it coming… too bad they weren’t. It made her nervous; the idea that any one of them could become the unwilling vessel of such a creature was highly unnerving, not only because it meant the complete removal of agency over their own bodies but because it would inevitably force them to hurt or kill one another. There must be some way to avoid such a fate, she thought; there had to be.

“I have not,” the witch admitted when Renold asked if she had ever seen anyone produce large amounts of magical energy all at once. It was a vague question – large was a matter of perspective, after all – but she had, at best, only felt others doing this, not seen it. The fact that magical energy became visible at all once it breached a certain threshold had not been known to her up to this point. She wondered if such amounts of energy were reserved only for gods, demons and dragons, or if it was attainable for humans as well. Did Crone possess such large reserves?

Renold then demonstrated what this might look like, manifesting his power as tendrils of otherworldly, dull yellow fire that appeared to exist in a state of total separation from the laws of nature. Such was the core essence of magic, Jillian figured, as she gazed with fascination at the brief display. One day, she dreamed. One day, perhaps, she too could dazzle others with such a show of strength. They’d admire her, or fear her. Yes, it was the only way left for her. One day.

Gerald pointed out that they would be able to tell who was to be the target of possession, a clever observation that Jillian had failed to make in her ravings. True enough, if Hazzergash’s power manifested itself as these magical, burning limbs then they would almost certainly be directed towards whomever he chose as victim. Not that this was an enormous advantage as they were still helpless, of course…

“Luckily there’s an easy solution to how to deal with him potentially possessing us,” the necromancer then concluded, surprising not only Jillian but apparently everybody else too. As he put it, so long as everybody remained inside the binding circle, they could keep the demon lord under control no matter what – or at least, long enough for Gerald to return Hazzergash into his prison. It seemed logical enough but there was one problem Jillian noticed.

“What if he targets you?” she asked, arms crossed and looking straight at Gerald. “I for one don’t know how to siphon him into the prison.”

“That would be ideal, wouldn’t it?” Gerald commented on the possibility of Hazzergash possessing him, shrugging at the notion of it being an issue. “I will need to draw Hazzergash into myself before I can put him in the crystal anyway, so him trying to possess me would just skip a step and make imprisoning him that much easier.”
“Not necessarily,” Renold pointed out, raising a cautioning talon. “The reason people recovered from the Withering near the Anaxim Forest, you might recall, was due to the Withering being choked and extinguished by Hazzergash’s taint that saturated the area.” He thoughtfully scratched the scales on his chest with a noise like blades on a grindstone, his gaze growing distant for a moment. “The trees around there were so ugly... corrupted...”
“Focus, please,” the warlock grumbled at the dragon, who seemed surprised to be reminded where he was and what he was doing.
“Right! Well, it stands to reason that if Hazzergash’s taint alone can quell the Withering, then Hazzergash himself might do the same.”
Gerald pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling suddenly very tired. “So you’re saying that Hazzergash’s possessing me might cure the Withering? That is what you’re afraid of?”
“It is a valid concern,” Crone agreed with her reptilian companion. “Lacking the plague will remove your ability to manipulate others’ energy and possibly prevent you from incarcerating our adversary. If that occurs, victory will be much more difficult to accomplish.”
“But I’d be cured,” Gerald hissed, glaring at the ancient dragon and sorceress with murderous intensity.
“And subsequently slaughtered when Hazzergash regained his full power,” the Green reminded him. “Please, we know that you are desperate, but there is much more at stake here.”

“Fine,” the necromancer sullenly agreed, averting his eyes from the dragon in disgust. He paused for a second, then sighed. “Hazzergash will know exactly where the crystal is, but he will need to physically touch it to undo the seal, yes? And he will be able to sense all of us, as well?”
“Presumably, yes,” Renold confirmed, hanging his head sadly.
“Then it’s simple: we will put the crystal in the middle of the binding circle so that it isn’t in my possession, but I can still get to it quickly; that way he won’t target me because I’m the one with the crystal.” He sighed again. “Without the crystal, he will merely perceive me as the weakest and most fragile of us, and thus as the least suitable host. That way the odds of him trying to possess me would be... pretty low. How does that sound?”

Jillian remained silent and watched Gerald’s brief protest with a mellow gaze. She felt truly sorry for him; not only was the world telling him that this unique chance to cure himself of the Withering was wrong, and that he had no right to hope for that kind of salvation, but the mere glimpse of this hope was enough to almost blind an otherwise extremely cautious and intelligent man to the obvious dangers this would entail. He must have been suffering for so long… that he still stood tall was nothing short of a miracle – or proof of his indomitable character. Even so, she pitied him, and it was this pity, she thought, that drove her to agree to the Grand Master’s risky gamble. But she would never tell him that she felt like so. He would only reject her.

“I suppose that might work. I understand that Renold is not exempt from being the target of possession, yes?” the witch asked for clarity’s sake, casting a brief glance at her large companion. “The binding circle would have to be sizeable to contain all of us. But circles mostly suppress magical power, don’t they? Out of us four, Renold easily does not need any of it to threaten us. This whole plan would have to be executed extremely quickly.”

It was a plan, but it seemed shaky. They had no time to practice any of this. They would have to be very fast. And any deviation from expected behavior could spell chaos, maybe defeat for them. Their chances were not very thrilling, she imagined. And when she died, the Grand Master came to collect. Unless she was to become Hazzergash’s vessel, in which case… well, who even knew what then?

“This woman is going to try to make you better,” The old man had told her, indicating the painted woman, “but she says it might hurt. You need to stay still and try to keep calm... we are going to hold you down, too, so you don’t hurt yourself. Do you understand?”

Angora nodded slowly... The painted one had already healed the worst of her injuries, and now she was going to try and help her, according to the old man. But now there were questions running through Angora's mind, seemingly cleared for the first time in months. Help her do what, understand herself? Help her free her mind from whatever it was had been prompting her actions? A spear of pain shot through her forehead, prompting her to cry out in pain. She looked up at the painted one, her eyes full of panic and fear - she knew that the painted one couldn't understand her, but hopefully if she made the point frantically enough, she would understand. "It... It returns! Please, be quick, I can't keep it back forever! It tries to claw its way back into my mind, into my senses, into everything!" The entity had recovered from the heightened state of emotion - evidently it had been overwhelmed with it all, maybe inexperienced with the high-intensity action of combat: Angora had been able to quickly overpower her previous targets, and not been bogged down in trading blows... nor had she been injured in such a manner previously.

The painted woman crouched down next to her, as the green-skinned man and the warrior from before held her arms and legs tightly. Angora scrunched her eyes shut, gritting her teeth as the waves of pain began to emanate from her forehead throughout her skull... And then she felt a gentle hand on the point of the pain. It seemed to dampen the throbbing somewhat, and then... she could feel influences within her mind. She could feel the entity conflicting with her. And then an external force intervened - the painted woman, and some divine entity! The power was overwhelming, the conflict seemed fit to burst, her skull felt like it was going to fracture! Angora screamed in agony, her eyes unable to remain closed in the throes of the battle within her head. The painted woman seemed to be murmuring something under her breath, something in her own language that Angora had no idea what it was, but Angora could see the light blue aura around the woman's hand and her own eyes... Tears flowed from Angora's eyes as she tried to thrash about, tried to wrench herself free from the tightening grip of the warrior and the green-skinned companion of the healer, tried to force the healer out of her head. "Get out! Get out of my mind!" The exclamation was not directed to anyone in particular, perhaps both to the healer and the entity, but it served to release a small amount of energy that had been building up... Angora struggled wildly, despite only being able to actually move her head with any degree of freedom - her muscles tensed as much as they could, as much force as she could exert against those who held her down. The fight in her head showed no sign of slowing.

It seemed like an eternity to Angora. The tears, the screams, the agony, it was almost too much to bear. Nothing seemed to dull the pain, not even the gentle touch of the healer, not even the attempts at comfort that the green-skinned man was able to voice in Rodorian. It was nothing but mental torture, the worst she had ever experienced. And then, after what felt like an aeon, something seemed to snap. Something in Angora's mind seemed to finally give, to at last cease its resistance. The pain was blinding, but there was nothing in the back of her mind any more. The screams continued, the tears, the excruciating pain... but she was in control. She was free. She could see her world around her. She had subjugated the entity. It was hers to command, not hers to share her body with.

"S-Stop! Stop! Please, no more! Please! Please..." was all she could cry out.

“I guess? I mean there are similarities, at least, but I can’t say for sure whether she’s exactly the same as a lich... I’m not that good.” Olan shrugged. “And it’s not like something is missing from her soul, not like that; to be honest I’m not even sure that I’d be able to tell if her soul had been split. It’s more like, eh... normally a soul kind of looks like its body, right? Because it identifies itself with how it looks physically. But this one, it’s like it isn’t sure what it is. Does that make sense? It has a vague idea of it, but it doesn’t have a fully fledged identity.”
"She has forgotten... Or she never was not just humanoid, but a living being as we know them altogether ... in spite of being mortal? Someone else ... made her?" Aemoten surmised to himself. Those were the only two immediately evident ways he managed to come up with in the way of making sense of everything Olan was saying and he had witnessed. Jaelnec beside him mostly just looked weary, even as this matter - which quite closely pertained to him - was discussed.
“The being in Angora...” Olan begun when the issue that had made Jaelnec's ... "passenger" more relevant than before was addressed again. “No, not malevolent. It doesn’t really feel like anything out of the ordinary, really, just... a blank canvas projecting raw emotion. If it wasn’t latched onto Angora I doubt I’d be able to see it at all.”
That did not help much. Nor was the pain, weariness, or altogether ill mood particularly conductive to effective thinking. But at that point, none of those was anyone particular's fault. Just that of circumstances.

It did not appear like Angora was capable of delivering any overview of the circumstances that led to her being afflicted thusly.
"Go on, then."

He himself and Jaelnec were to be removed from the scenario - for a short while, at least. He did not lead the younger nightwalker in any particular direction, rather just away. Away from Angora's aura, from the others' range of hearing ... he could not feel the aura's influence as others did, but he could feel the distinct pain in his head subside as he put more distance in between himself and the source. It might have not been completely gone by the time he stopped, but at the very least it had become indistinguishable from the background of thirst, exhaustion ... and what was bound to be an actual mild headache. He had barely even realized earlier...
Their camp remained behind his back when he stopped, Angora and the lot by the other edge of it. He did not speak up immediately after halting, but rather stood in silence for a bit, just leaning on the other, head tilted back and eyes closed. Try and clear his head a bit. Maybe he should turn to the One for that purpose, once again after a while of notable amount of stress, but yet not doing so.
"Do you know why the order you're part of is called Order of the Will?" he finally mused. "Willpower, for one, is quite valuable commodity. One that can run out, not unlike physical strength. And much the same, it can be trained... Stretch it just a bit further every subsequent time. But run out of it at an inopportune moment, and the consequences are dire. Convictions get cast aside, principles broken, emotions listened over reason. Wear people down enough, and they'll start acting in ways they never would under normal circumstances. Koraakan knows we have had more than enough thrown at out faces, and no chance to properly recover..."
Pause.
"They also say the sense of futility begets anger. People get angry when things aren't as they'd like, and there is not much they can do to do about it. And that's followed by followed by either hopelessness or acceptance. By this point I would not be surprised if most of us were silently spending up most of our willpower just to not take the head off of anyone who dares look at us wrong." And to think of the fact that they managed to endure several days of her presence not all that long ago... Some of them had even advocated protecting her. "That aura - or whatever that is - is, was not exactly helping, either. That's mostly why I wanted to get away."
Finally, the foreign warrior sighed, lowering his head and opening his eyes.
You can probably guess I'm not too fond of that entity ... who is in your sword, apparently. At least it isn't another demon or devil or some such. But, you saw her," the foreign warrior ever so slightly motioned his head towards where Angora was. Whatever they were doing ... it probably hurt. There were screams. "Doesn't mean it will end well. I think I agree with Thaler - she is not evil. And she probably genuinely wants to help. But back then, I also saw a being - suddenly in your body, no less - who was arrogant, lacking in self-control and all too willing to make decisions over you in your stead - rather poor combination of traits."
A bit too reminiscent of someone else ... it was peculiar how often the opposite sides could end up surprisingly alike.
"She made it very clear that she was both ready and willing to hurt any of us - threatened me, wanted to kill the three-quarter-demon -, but any harm we tried to inflict upon her would just damage you. She is not humanoid - never was -, and cannot comprehend humanoids, of that I'm certain. And quite evidently, she doesn't realize what her attempts at protecting you are doing to you, either.
It doesn't even matter what her intentions were or are - she damaged you shutting you down and taking over back then, and in continuing to do so, she rends your mind apart, bit-by-bit. It might not seem much at first. One thought you can't tell whether is yours or hers, one memory which doesn't have a place in time and keeps intruding the present because for you it never ended... And that's on top of taking control of your body, and thus removing all choice from you. These things will accumulate. Might even explain why she herself doesn't appear to have an identity. Who knows."
Pause.
"If you want to remain, well, you and sane, she cannot be permitted to do that. Furthermore so because there is little predicting what she thinks You said you had heard the voice before, but figured it was just your own subconscious? She has become more active the past few days? Has she done it more than once, are any periods of time missing? Any thoughts or memories you're not sure about? It seemed she had arbitrary access to your memories and feelings while possessing your body ... I presume the opposite is not true - I don't think you should try, though. Not worth it; we have been through enough without any of us willingly sacrificing more pieces of ourselves when it can be avoided."
Too much talking. He thought he could taste more blood than before, and his throat was definitely raw. He should probably find something to drink ... and sit down, unless he wished to continue using Jaelnec as a crutch. As he took a look over his shoulder, trying to seek out suitable source for the first and location for the other, he became aware of the absence of something - or rather someone - who should have been there.

"Where did..." he inquired on reflex, his brow furrowing. It was the first time since parting from the others that his voice was anything but thoughtful. Now that he was actively trying to locate Thaler, it occurred to the warrior that she was not the only one of their numbers who was nowhere to be seen - the injured raven was also no longer on her by now usual perch on Immanuel's donkey's saddle horn. Had she gone along with Thaler? Quite surprising; he would have thought she was now Olan's bird, if anyone's, and that Thaler was a bit apprehensive towards her. "Thaler said she was going to get things ready for when we reach Zerul..." He elaborated, and then paused for a moment, eyes becoming unfocused as he was running the exact scenario through his head once more. "She didn't mean she intended to arrange something in Zerul City, did she?"
For some reason, it did not feel like Thaler would have outright lied to him - Aemoten did not want to believe she would, in any case. She probably did intend to say she is headed to Zerul City. Which meant that she would be trying to travel all the way over there in her current state. No mount, no one who would be able to help her if need be - probably no weapon to defend herself with, either, unless she had also retrieved her sword from the donkey's pack. Not that her current physical condition saw her fit for further combat to begin with. Or even an on-foot trek of that length...
And even if she managed to reach the city - she had never even met William, their designated contact and the person who was supposed to organize their stay. And naturally, she did not even have a token from them, and there were people who might recognize her in an unfavorable fashion... No matter how one looked at it, just hoping she would make it ... no matter one's belief in her abilities, it did not feel like a good idea. The foreign warrior heaved a heavy sigh.

Find a woman you love from the most unexpected of places. Be ready to stand whatever horrors the world had to offer and her, and see her do the same. Discover that the greatest of threats had for a long time been within her instead. Stare your greatest fears in the face and make mistakes. Let the woman you love go just to give her a bit of space. Go bring her back. Fight a deity over her. Dare take a break - or collapse after riding on sheer willpower for too long -, only to find her fending off another threat. Agree that she should not have to deal with the aftermath. And then go after her again. Perhaps this was how it was supposed to go...

"I think I should go after her, just in case," he commented after a couple of moments of thought. "Etakar should be able to take care of us both ... if we don't head back to meet you, just continue to Zerul and we'll meet there. Dou you reckon you can handle things here?"



It felt almost unbearably long, even though it was not him who was subjected to the treatment. The screams cut though bone, and though Angora was but one and they were several people holding her down, it took significant effort to handle just her closest arm.
His heart was racing, and though he hardly noticed, he was shaking himself, but somewhat unspectedly, one of the savage's cries stood out from the rest.
"Ye... Tha's Rodorian," Domhnall voiced, stating the obvious. "Ye unders'and me?"
His eyes flickered from Angora to Iridiel to Olan. She seemed ... saner? The aura, however, was still there, and her voice, though the words were now comprehendible, still had that unearthly tone.
"It's... We don' mean tae harm ye, ye know, righ'?"

Exempt from? Gerald thought with grim amusement, still avoiding looking in the direction of any of the others and instead fixing his gaze on a point somewhere around the middle of the pond, studying the gentle stirring of the surface of the water with great intensity. Considering that he’s an elder dragon he’s the most likely target. I don’t know how his magical power compares to that of Crone, nor am I too sure that Hazzergash would even care... He has plenty of magical power himself; Renold’s brute physical strength and durability will probably be perfect for him.
“I’m not,” Renold confirmed, prompting the occurrence of a sarcastic smile on the necromancer’s lips. The dragon seemed to avert his gaze as though uncomfortable at the thought, letting out a quiet croon deep in his throat before continuing. “Actually Crone and I hope that he will pick me if he really does possess one of us.”
“Binding circles only prevent the entity they bind from leaving the circle, don’t they?” Gerald asked grimly, unconsciously rubbing the spot on his arm where the illusory tattoo symbolizing the sealed Withering was hiding under the sleeve of his robe. “With all of us inside it, Jillian is right: he would be able to kill us easily with you as his host, even with his own power bound.”
“I suppose that is true with normal binding circles, but this is a special one Crone and I spent decades designing and tracking down components and information for,” the Green assured them. “It’s a specialized circle with Hazzergash’s name woven into it; it should prevent Hazzergash from moving completely and paralyze his host. Even if he does possess me, activating the binding circle should stop me from moving.”
Gerald’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It’s not so simple. It can’t be. Trapping a deity like that should logically be far beyond us.”
“Well, yes,” the other admitted awkwardly. “It’s going to require a tremendous amount of magical energy. Had Hazzergash had his full power he could doubtlessly have broken through it in seconds with just two or three of us sustaining the circle, but in his current weakened state...” He looked around at the assembled people, trying to appraise everyone’s strength. “We should be able to bind him for a minute or two. Will that be enough?”
As long as he doesn’t have any crusaders with him that might break the circle, sure, Gerald thought, rolling his eyes impatiently. “Once I’ve started pulling his energy into me he shouldn’t be able to do anything, circle or no circle. A minute should be plenty of time.”

The moment Angora had cried out, pleading with her captors-come-healers to stop their treatment, the painted woman had released her grip over her head, over her senses. The blinding agony slowly began to fade from Angora's skull, replaced by a feeling of euphoria, a sense of freedom. She was no longer just the Untamed, a mere vessel for the entity that had been residing within the Black Sword - she could remember her name, her family, she was Angora Kelenwyn, daughter of Erik and Iora Kelenwyn, sister to Reikard, Yvann and Karl. It was as though a veil of mist had been lifted from her eyes, from her very consciousness. She looked at those who had been restraining her, and she began to cry tears of joy. She was not seized with fear of them, there was no desire to destroy them, to slaughter them before they could do the same to her. Then, she began to realise just what these strangers had done for her, immediately after she had tried to *kill* them: she owed her healing, nay, her very life to these people. They had had the opportunity to butcher her like a common animal, and they had not. They had had the opportunity to subdue her and leave her bleeding on the side of a road or simply to leave her as a naked savage in the forests for a bounty hunter to track down and kill for some pitiful amount of money, but they had not. They had shown her mercy after (admittedly rather brutally) subduing her, they had healed her of her injuries, and now they had restored her control over her own body, perhaps arguably her sanity. She owed them. She owed them in a big way.

"Th-thank you..." she stammered out, before stopping herself out of surprise. Her voice: it still had the ethereal echo to it that Angora remembered had been present when the entity had first merged with her mind. She could still feel the presence of the entity in the back of her head, but it was not fighting, it was sedate and almost benign. She tried to reach out to it mentally, to communicate with it, and the response took Angora off-guard: it almost seemed to respond to her commands. She looked at the green-skinned man, who seemed to translate for the painted healer, who probably couldn't speak Rodorian well, and smiled. "Your friend's help... the presence within has been subdued. It almost seems to have become an ally, instead of a controller. It works with me, instead of controlling my actions. I think... I think there will be no repeat of my actions. You... you have my undying gratitude. I owe you all." She looked at the old man and the warrior as well, as she continued talking; "I owe all of you so much. You could've slaughtered me, but you didn't. You've saved me, helped me, healed me. I want to... I want to repay you. I want to help you somehow." Angora hesitated for a moment. "I don't know what you're doing, or where you're going - to the City, I assume - but I want to help you. I want to go with you. I don't remember much of the City, but I can remember enough. Let me... Let me go with you. I want to repay my debt to you, even if it costs me everything. You all deserve that much. I'm sorry. I look back at these things I've done when that... that thing was in control, and I shudder. I used to do the most horrible things..."

Angora slowly sat up, her headache still present but now simply a dull throb instead of the splitting pain of before. She looked around at her surroundings, the clearing in the forest. Then her attention switched to herself: she looked at the ragged and torn state of her clothes, at the myriad of jewellery on her hands and her fingers, and- Wow. That was a strong smell. It was her... Her face immediately blazed bright red in embarrassment as she realised what an absolute state she must be to these strangers. "Oh gods. I must not have bathed in months." Her hair was matted, greasy and filthy, her skin seemed to have dirt ingrained into its very surface, there were sweat stains in all the wrong places (furthering Angora's embarrassment). She looked at the ground and shifted uneasily. "I, uh... I know of some streams and such nearby. If you, erm, need water, or anything, I can probably lead you there?" She looked at the green-skinned man and motioned for him to translate for the healer. The healer whose name she didn't even know and who had saved her life in more than one way.

Angora's life had just taken a very very interesting turn.

Her breath was slow, controlled, even as her head lulled against the rough bark of the tree that was offering her support. Even the raven had settled upon her perch and closed her eyes contentedly. Thaler was exhausted, she couldn't deny there had been little wisdom in leaving the group, especially without supplies or healing. Her body hurt and she felt dizzy and sick in equal measure, despite this though she didn't feel she'd made the wrong choice. For the first time in days she felt more like herself, lighter, freer, less...serious. Had it not been a very unwise idea she could swear she felt like dancing, for the first time in days she had role to fill, no expectations to meet, no one to answer too, no act to put on and no one to protect -save the bid who clearly could protect herself-. It was a liberating notion and one to gladly come when she had been so close to giving up on everything.

With space between her and the group she could gather her thoughts without the oppressive guilt that hung over her in their presence. She smiled faintly and pushed herself from the trunk with a groan of effort. The raven shifted, fluttered her wings and settled, gazing with far too wise eyes at the path they were taking.

She thought back on all the skills she'd seen displayed by those in attendance, of the group, gosh how many came and left without much of an impact, she could barely gather all their names in her head anymore. It was a slow realisation but she had something none of them; save perhaps Olan, had. She was a thief, she was as silent as a barn owl, as quick as a snake and agile as a cat -not at this moment of course- she knew the best places to hit and when to hit them. She couldn't be a thief anymore but there were other words for her skill set and she hadn't always stolen things had she? Sure she was no warrior, no knight, no healer or monster, in fact physically she was the weakest of all of them no doubt. She was likely to out live most of them though out of sheer cunning and cleverness. Not that you've displayed a lot of that recently, she reminded herself.

That was likely her mother's blood calling her, running into danger, protecting strangers, how different things might have been if she'd just left them to face the vampires alone after their party clumsily tripped into the temple. So she had value, whether they saw it or not her skills were useful, anyone could cleave a man in two, it would take skill for the man never to know you were there.

Her behaviour had changed drastically after the betrayal of the three-quarter demon, the blonde haired paladin had been the cornerstone of the group. Jalenec had loved her, others liked her -save Aemoten- and while nothing but cruel to Thaler even she had noticed the fundamental role she had played. She had tried to kill them all, very nearly succeeded. Hurting everyone in the group both psychically and mentally, that was when Mother tigress first appeared. An entity that seemed to cause nothing but disdain from Aemoten -was there much he liked though?- and confusion in the rest. Even thinking back to it now Thaler didn't think the creature, whatever it might be, was dangerous. Had she not awoken when she had Jaelnec surely would be in a shallow grave at the road side. The spirit had stepped in before the demon could kill the emotionally distraught Nightwalker. She had completely taken him over, to Thaler's thinking there was nothing to stop Tigress doigntghis again if she wished it, the Nightwalker barely held her back in the grove after all, so why hadn't Tigress taken over Jalenec the previous night when all were sleeping at the guard post and slaughtered them all? Answer, she didn't want to. Be it laziness or compassion the creature seemed to be no real threat to Jaelnec, while not innocent per-say her actions and words had seemed...honest to the daywalker.

On the subject of strange things she briefly visited the idea of the feral, she hoped it had been dealt with but she knew her people better than that and wondered just how long it would be until the three men and their three new friends would be attempting to catch up to her. There was no real need for Thaler to like them, civility was all she really had to show -if she stayed of course- and with careful practice and effort she could easily avoid them even if they were travelling together, she'd travelled with Annabelle after all. She had no issue with the other two, the archer who fell from trees and the strange man who accompanied her. She might even find she liked them after something to eat, clean clothes and a decent nights sleep.

The raven squawked quietly and Thaler stopped, she drew her breath and stayed silent and still, there was a sound, a cart, horses hooves and big wheels clacking down the dirt path. "Thank you Beatrice." She uttered quietly, stepping off the path and onto the road side as the horse and trap rumbled closer up the road. Swallowing the nostalgia she kept walking along the matted roots of plants and trees towards her destination, waiting for the cart to pull in front so she could get back on the road.

Annabelle had a lot to answer for, the fear that had been carved into Thaler's heart that night. It was all well and good for her friends, they could see what was happening, she hadn't. She had heard the sound of flesh being rended and the screams of the dying, she had smelled the sulphur, the blood and the bile, she'd felt the floor tremble as bodies hit it. During the fight she hadn't known if her friends were living or dead and after she had little clue how badly wounded they were. Just as they had no clue how scared she'd been.

That fear had been following her since and built on every bad decision she'd made, that poor guy in the middle of the road, the fiery witch on the river bank, Rilon... She had become quite pessimistic. Sure she had never believed much in the kindness of mankind, it was pretty thin on the ground before the withering started and was certainly thinner now but the darkness in others had never bothered her as much as it did now. Perhaps that was due to the travelling with such optimistic people? After all curing the Withering was a very optimistic ideas was it not?

The cart rumbled further up the path, she could feel it through the soles of the over sized boots, it would be upon them soon. With a shiver she paused and waited. Soon enough the cart rumbled passed, the horses breathing thick in the air as they pulled the wooden wagon along. It's owner didn't notice her continuing on his path.

It had passed but she was still by the road side, a realisation had dawned on her. She was a little lost, she knew the rough direction of the city but she had no idea how far from it she was. Even if she managed to get there and get in without being identified as a thief; an easy enough feat if she was healthy but not now, she didn't know any of the people; or where to find them, who were supposed to be their contacts. Further, they didn't know her either. So ultimately she could do little to help them, she'd not bought her sword in her haste to get away, so she couldn't even take that to get fixed and any of the sparse belongings she still had were on the donkey, so she was unlikely to be able to get any money together to get a new scabbard made. She almost laughed and shook her head lightly, "Guess I'm not as smart as I thought." She muttered to her feathered companion, gradually sinking back into the dirt at the road side, now she'd have to hope for her little group; or kind strangers, to happen upon her and pick her up. Shifting Beatrice of her exhausted shoulder she put the bird down in her lap, across her crossed legs. The bird shifted unhappily, hopping out of her lap and into the grass nearby.

They had spent decades designing this circle? Jillian found this hard to believe at first but, reminding herself just how old Crone and Renold had to be, a decade to them was likely little more than a year to her, if even that. She had no reason to doubt the circle’s effectiveness – even if it was, essentially, entirely untested and aimed at containing something akin to a deity – but she shared Gerald’s apprehension. What if the circle didn’t work as well as everyone hoped it would? If Hazzergash truly did possess Renold then it would take little more than a casual swipe of the arm to kill any one of them. A single, momentary lapse in the binding circle’s holding power and they were done for. The elder Green’s reassurances did little to ease the witch’s mind.

“A minute?” Jillian asked skeptically, “Am I to believe this is the best case scenario? What if he’s not as weak as we think he is? What if he’s not alone? He almost certainly isn’t. Each of us will have their hands full binding him to the circle and Gerald will deal with sealing him in the crystal prison. We don’t have any means to deal with interruptions.”

“And what do we do if things turn sour?” she continued, her voice betraying her irritation and worry as she paced back and forth, arms stemmed on her hips, “I didn’t sacrifice everything I’ve ever had just so I could die for nothing.”

It was a blessed relief to put some distance between himself and Angora, a refreshing sensation similar to getting into a tub with warm water after a day of hard toil in the cold. Jaelnec could feel his muscles relaxing as the world ceased moving under his feet, his thoughts started to flow more easily and the horrid paranoia that had gripped him before softened into mild anxiety. He sighed softly as his shoulders slumped, finally starting to feel properly like himself again. Being in that aura for extended periods of time, he thought, would be a nightmare.
He could not allow himself to relax all the way just yet, though; Aemoten would not have requested that they spoke privately unless it was something important, and the squire owed it to him to take the situation seriously. The first thing that occurred to Jaelnec might need to be discussed between them was Roct – the sword and the entity within it – which seemed disturbingly relevant with Olan having just revealed to the others where the previously dubbed “Mother Tigress” truly resided and with Angora’s condition having turned out to be unnervingly similar to his own. He tried to guess what the Sekalyn would say about her that would be this important, and nervously realized that there was a pretty high chance that Aemoten would demand that he got rid of Roct as he had with Black Thorn. And why would he not? Roct had proven dangerous, so why not just discard her first chance he got? It was not his responsibility that she, whatever she was, would apparently be condemned to total solitude without a wielder... was it?

Jaelnec’s brow furrowed in effort to understand when Aemoten actually started speaking, setting immediately into, of all things, an explanation of one of the core values of the Knighthood of the Will, which was also the namesake of the order and something Freagon had lectured him on at several different occasions, and which his old master had made a point to frequently test to its limit, all while goading him to defiantly push that little bit farther every time. Yes, willpower was certainly a resource that could both be depleted and trained, and Jaelnec had experienced both and thought that he probably possessed a stronger will than most... though nowhere near that Freagon had had. How could one compete with the willpower of someone who carried on his knightly duties even when inflicted with the Withering, right up until his body finally gave in to the plague?
It was the part about principles being broken and emotions listened to that made the Nightwalker realize why he was bringing it up: Jaelnec’s stated desire to kill Angora just minutes ago. The young squire shrank visibly at the thought, avoiding their leader’s gaze in shame as he – now much more clear-headed than before – recalled the thoughts and emotions that had passed through his head when he had stood over Angora, remembered the sadistic bloodlust that had consumed him in that moment, and was shaken to the core of his being by it. He trembled, thoroughly disgusted with himself, and found that it was even more shameful that his left hand kept clutching the hilt of his sword in desperate search for comfort.
“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, still unable to meet Aemoten’s gaze. But the human was not done speaking just yet, it seemed.

Now the subject turned to Roct, as Jaelnec had suspected. The squire actually made a point of taking his hand off the sword once the topic was brought up just to be completely sure that he had severed all connection to the entity within it, and forced himself to pull himself together and face Aemoten, lest he ended up nervous enough for the compulsion to seek comfort from the sword to overpower the conscious decision not to do so.
“I only started hearing her... well, after Master Freagon died,” he explained when Aemoten inquired about him hearing Roct before. “But then again I didn’t have the sword before then, and it was a pretty emotional time for me. She was completely silent for a while after that day, when she took control of me, but...” He shook his head. “I didn’t think anything of it back then... I think she has always made it a point to speak when I’m distraught, though, or angry. To try to calm me down.”
He paused a moment to think before commenting on the rest of Aemoten’s questions. “I don’t think I’ve had any... no, that's not true. I don't think she possessed me, but she made me black out this morning, when Rilon's child form appeared. Said it was to stop me from trying to move. But...” He paused again, straining himself to remember. “When... the time I was possessed... I think I have a vague memory of... dying? I can’t remember the specifics, it was like a dream, but I remember the dread and the desperate realization that I was going to die, and that I wasn’t me. I think it was one of Roct’s memories. So... I think it does go both ways, yeah.”
He sighed. “I’ve learned to shut her out and can sever the connection between us by letting go of the sword, but I don’t think I can isolate myself from her completely unless I get rid of the sword. Maybe you should speak with her, see if she really can’t comprehend humanoids? And if she can’t...” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to find a new sword.”

After a bit of confused anxiety in regards to Thaler – anxiety that Jaelnec shared, to the point where he was about to start running off back towards the road in an effort to locate her – it appeared that Aemoten decided to split their group up, at least for a while... a decision Jaelnec did not like one bit.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay without me?” he asked, afraid that something might happen to his only two friends in the world while he was not around to at least try to protect them, but undeniably also hesitant to return to the others and subject himself to the full intensity of Angora’s aura once more, probably for much longer this time. “If you want me to go to the others I will, but the three of you... none of you are at your best, right?”



Olan tumbled backward onto his back once Angora’s trials seemed to be over, panting heavily with exertion as his chest ached and his arms and back hurt, and rivulets of sweat drenched his face and his tunic, both front, back and under the arms. He breathed so hard that it made him feel nauseous and light-headed – even more so than Angora’s aura did – and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried desperately to regain his composure.
It was more than just the strain from restraining the not-entirely-human woman while Iridiel did her deed, a part of him pointed out, and he knew that it was true even without investigating the matter any further. Yes, holding down Angora had been hard, but not that hard. The way his stamina felt drained and the soreness in his muscles... he had not even felt it before because it was relatively minor, but exerting himself definitely made him conscious of how magical exhaustion was weakening him. It was merely first stage of exhaustion, to be sure, and was far from his limit, but it was still unnerving to realize that speaking in true words – even without invoking power through them – could drain him that much, even if he had spoken quite a few of them. Recalling times before he had lost his memory when he had used the power of the words, there could be little doubt that he was weaker now, for some reason...
So naturally Olan was doubly relieved when Angora proved to have recovered the ability to speak and understand Rodorian; there was really no telling how long he could have kept speaking in true words before he would have started progressing along the stages of exhaustion.

“Slow down there, you know?” he chuckled between heavy breaths when Angora profusely declared how she owed them all a lot and wanted to help them to repay what they had done. “It’s great that you’re feeling better, but you just went through something pretty bad... and you don’t even know who we are, you know? Or what we’re doing.”
Seeing as Aemoten and Jaelnec were both a bit off into the distance for the moment discussing whatever they needed to discuss, Olan figured that he might as well continue speaking on behalf of his group, as he had done thus far. “My name is Olan, and my group – Aemoten, Thaler and Jaelnec – are trying to end the Withering, you know? And yeah, we’re going to the city, but I’ll warn you that we’ve had the worst luck... I mean, we’ve learned a few things about the plague, but only in-between fighting demons, monsters, cultists and gods, you know?” He chuckled again, wiping his face with his sleeve. He shot a glance at Domhnall, hoping that he would realize that the warning was meant for him and Iridiel, too. “You might not want to get involved.”



“I didn’t sacrifice everything I’ve ever had just so I could die for nothing.”
Gerald closed his eyes, feeling a throb of a pain he believed himself accustomed to that was strong enough to nearly break his resolve, however strong it was and however long he had held on, and make him surrender to oblivion. It was not the Withering, though that certainly inflicted both constant pain and tested his resolve... No, this was an even older agony that had lived in him since years before he contracted the plague, one that was far worse than any physical torment he had undergone before or since, and one that had worked both as the source of his determination and the force that pushed him ever closer to the abyss of hopelessness. A wound to his heart, a poet might call it, though he doubtlessly sneer at and mock anyone making such a statement.
“Sacrifice everything I’ve ever had”, Jillian said, and she most likely had; being recognized as a witch was bad enough, but if she had become a murderer since, chances were that all that awaited her in Zerul City was a potential disownment from her family and the consequent loss of whatever wealth might have been hers, the loss of her magical abilities as she was made a sniffer and a prison cell. Her name, home and wealth had certainly been sacrificed, though at least she still had her health and her magical power. He did not even envy the fact that she had those two things, though, even as both his power and health waned more with each passing day... but even if she were to lose that, she still would not feel the truth of how deep loss could cut, how cruel the world could be.
How many times had he contemplated simply ending his suffering in his darkest moments? Especially in the beginning, back when he was still an instructor at the academy and had yet to delve into necromancy, his will to live had been diminished until it was negligible and he would likely have allowed anyone with the inclination to do so to end him with little more than token resistance. But he had lived... in spite of it all he had lived, even when most thought it impossible for him to do so. Through the murk of his own sorrow, through disgrace, persecution, sickness and danger he had continued living, always moving on, always with the resolve to sacrifice anything. He had killed, tortured, exploited and stolen until he was so thoroughly permeated by evil that he barely cared anymore, and he had to live with despising what he had become.
No, however true the words might be in a practical sense, Jillian did not know what it meant to truly sacrifice everything one had. That did not invalidate her statement, though.... and he certainly did not want to die, either, least of all for nothing. Not now.

“I could manifest minions, conjure undead or summon wraiths to support us against assorted servants under Hazzergash’s command,” Crone told Jillian, addressing the matter of what to do if the Swallower of Worlds was not alone, “but doing so would leave me less energy to sustain the circle. Furthermore, they would be destroyed or evade domination if Hazzergash were to possess me, unless the demon seized control of them instead.”
“That won’t do,” Renold admitted sadly. “As for the minute, that is the worst case. At best we might be able to hold him for several minutes, but I dare not guarantee more than one minute.”
“You won’t need a minute,” Gerald muttered sharply, sounding even more irritable than usual. “Once I get my hand on Hazzergash’s host and start moving him he won’t be able to do anything, circle or no circle. Once I’m in position you can abandon the binding circle and take care of whatever others he might have with him.”
The Green nodded, apparently pleased with this piece of news. “As for if things go wrong...” He sighed. “There is nothing we can do. Even if Crone doesn’t get possessed and still has enough energy left to teleport and get away with the crystal, Hazzergash will probably have a fresh host by then and teleport to follow her. If this fails there most likely will be no escaping him...”

“I’d like to share your optimism,” Jillian sneered, “But I find it hard to believe that what happened at Gariel Downs was anything but the worst case. I have no reason to assume things will go better from here on out. But if this is the only plan we have, then that’ll do. I owe you a debt, after all.”

“Just wishing we could have gotten this over with before I promised my soul to our mutual acquaintance,” she grumbled, casting a brief but scornful glance at Crone.

To her mind, she owed every person assembled here her life. Gerald had replenished her woefully drained magical reserves multiple times, and that was not even mentioning his brave defense of her unconscious form which she was not aware of. Crone and Renold, meanwhile, had saved both of them from the ruined forest and the inferno devouring it. There would be no shortage of people who would speak ill of Jillian's character, but she had at least as much of a conscience to honor the debt she owed. To think that she ended up here, all wound up in this mess, just because she was looking for kin, for someone like her who chose their own path in life and was ousted for it.

Perhaps that was why black magic, necromancy and the like were banished? That their wielders inadvertently attracted misery and loss? Or was it because their wielders were crippled by a world dismissive of their courage and tolerance that they could not help but be forced into hardship? She had to believe that the latter was true and the former was not, for that was what life had taught her so far. But what was Gerald’s story, she wondered. How did he end up a vagabond practicing the forbidden arts? Was it because of the Withering? Unlikely, considering the disease would have killed him long before he would have learned how to suppress it. A side benefit then. What was it that the Grand Master had said? Something about saving his late wife and unborn child, if he had become a necromancer sooner? Could they be the reason he risked so much to become a necromancer? He could not seriously be thinking of bringing them back, could he? So much time must have passed by now; there would be precious little left of them. At least, it would explain his bitterness. Jillian knew she gave up much in life, but she was happy in that instant that she did not have to see her own child die, if she had one, though she did lose her lover, superficial as feelings might have been.

What a sad world they lived in.

“So,” Jillian began, speaking softly as the onset of fatigue ate away at her, “I suppose everything’s clear then? We have a lot to do tomorrow, so I’m thinking we should use what little time we have left today to ease up a bit and catch some rest.”

“At least, I could use some,” she added with an impassionate shrug.

“Not the worst case,” Gerald muttered under his breath when Jillian cited the events at Gariel Downs as such. “We survived, Hazzergash didn’t get the crystal and most of the crusaders with him were killed. Bad, certainly, and a loss on our part, but it could be even worse.”
“I meant worst case in regard to that single isolated thing,” Renold specified, his head drooping sadly at being reminded of the disastrous battle in the Anaxim Forest. “Believe me when I say that what happened today is one of the greatest regrets of my life, and I have lived a long time. Every time I lose myself in old memories and come back, it feels as though I lost my friends from there all over again...” He shook his head slowly from side to side, heaving a sigh so deep that it was accompanied by a small puff of flame. “But there will be time to mourn later, and for my part to keep mourning for the rest of my life. Facing Hazzergash with just the four of us is far from ideal, but it is our best and only chance to stop him before he returns to his lair with an army to aid him. There is nowhere else in Reniam that we can hide the crystal; as long as Hazzergash remains free, given time, he will find it.”

“Dedicating the remainder of today to recuperation seems fair,” Crone agreed, raising her right hand into the air almost as if to signal a show of hands. There was a splash from the pond within but a couple of seconds of her doing so, however, which marked the sigil stone emerging from the water and darting swiftly through the air, making a beeline straight into the palm of the old sorceress’ hand. She casually pocketed the artifact as she turned her back on the rest of them and started walking to the most isolated corner of the area. “It required much of my strength to escape and come here. I shall rest.” She still seemed completely unapologetic as to bringing the Grand Master to them and consequently getting them to make their deal with him.
“Rest does sound good,” Gerald sighed, tiredly rubbing his face with his spindly left hand. “This has been a very long day...”
“Then it’s decided,” the Green nodded his head, standing up and tryingly spreading his wings as if to see if there was enough room for them where he was. “I’m hungry, so I will find something to eat before getting some sleep. I suggest you do the same.” With that and several powerful beats of his great wings, Renold took off and disappeared over the surrounding rocks.
“Maybe some tea...” the necromancer murmured to himself. If Hazzergash did not kill them tomorrow, he would need all the strength he could muster to have a chance at achieving the first of his goals.

The squire physically attempted to shrink when he mentioned the frustration, anger, and even violent tendencies most of them doubtlessly harbored after this entire ... spectacularly poor run of luck which could easily make one believe the entirety of Reniam held a very personal grudge against them.
Moreover, the young nightwalker was actually trembling - something that Aemoten could not help but be aware of, as he was still in large part using the other for support. The foreign warrior suspected it was for reasons other than physical struggle or the ambient low temperature.
“I’m sorry,” Jaelnec uttered, and though the young nightwalker obviously could not not see it for studying a patch of ground before his feet, Aemoten actually raised an eyebrow at him as he was trying to read his expression.

Not fear, was it? Jaelnec did not fear some kind of punishment from him, did he? Shame? Admission of guilt - even if it was one they all shared? Jaelnec had merely voiced what had doubtlessly crossed the minds of most of them - he knew the truth about himself, and Thaler's actions as she untangled herself from this Angora had spoken a language that was clearer than words.
The foreign warrior had to admit that being the leader, the one who made the decisions was inevitably a socially unfavorable position - and one with the heft of all the rulings made. At the top, you're alone... Unless a decision was unanimous, you had to overrule someone - in some instances, even everyone. Some duties were beyond the interactions between a handful of people. You did not sacrifice the entire world for but a few.
The warrior had to be a harsh individual where the human man yielded to emotion. The warrior had had to protect the world, the human man could not bear the thought of losing what was dearest to him. Not a pleasant combination to experience - from inside or out.
He tended to be a pessimist on the best of days, had been throw amid everything after years of fairly peaceful life, and atop of everything was, by nature, a relatively passionate individual. Easily angered, principial, and stubborn to top it off. It was all kept in check by sheer willpower, and Koraakan knew it had long been on the way of becoming a scarce commodity. Whatever his feelings told him, for the most part his rational mind - the warrior's mind - kept censoring it. The result was probably that or a cold, goal-oriented man. Lack of emotion was an easier facade to uphold than a different set of emotions, and where hope died, mechanical functions lived on. Set target. Figure out a way to reach target. Repeat. It was not healthy, it alienated people, but for a while it worked. Out of some manner of momentum or inertia of normalcy... It could not continue indefinitely. He, of all people, ought to know the importance of morale and restoration of will... It was as he had said, earlier: conviction all will only carry a person so far. It was intricate, balancing between taking care of people, yourself among them, and taking care of goals. Broken men did not save worlds.
Do not fall apart. No not let anyone else fall apart. Get things done. And amid all, somehow manage not to neglect those without whom you would have not had an ounce of a change of getting even this far. It was all too easy to fall into having those who were still able run all the errands and take all the risks - and run them down in the process, too. Even if they were your friends and loved ones. And you could not carry any more yourself, either, for the imminent threat of collapsing for good yourself.
At the end of the day, they had probably each seen the worst of the worst the rest had to offer - and if they all found one another worthy of each others' presence even at their lowest, then anything less should be endurable, should it not? At least there was that.

"It's always about those fighting beside you, and those back home ... hardly ever those you face," the foreign warrior further mused as he looked up once more. "The warriors' right included that of opting out, but with that option came the knowledge that, far more likely than not, the others would still be fighting for you, and should they fall, the fight would come to you regardless, however then there would be none to fight beside you..."
There was not a hint of anger in Aemoten's voice, just tired thoughtfulness.
"'Us' and 'them' is an easy distinction to make ... a necessary one, even. But on the other hand, perhaps less so for monster-hunters and keepers of order, but definitely for warriors and perhaps traditional knights, 'them' is no different from 'us'. Many of them are good men and women, brought there by duty; who were to take pride in having killed them would be halfway to becoming a monster oneself. Not even monsters should be killed for fame, only so they cannot harm another. While we may be honorable, what we do is not always... 'There is neither honor in killing nor glory in war'."
Pause.
"But, yes... Anger. Born from futility, it seeks to take control by means of force instead, impeding the ability to make unbiased decisions - eliminate, subjugate, doesn't matter to anger, as long as it deals with whatever incurred said wrath. In many ways, it's the violent cousin of fear, as the latter, too, is born from lack of control.
I don't think it is ever possible to get entirely rid of anger - or fear -, especially if the world keeps throwing things at us, but it can be kept from manifesting in unfortunate manners as long as there is enough willpower to suppress it. One has to also learn to recognize when their thoughts are rational, and when they're influenced by something. To stop and analyze, to understand the why of one's own standpoint before carrying it over to others. To know your limits and realize when you're close to snapping and step away - in mind or body. Or both. Learn to let go.
When I said I expect most of us to carry substantial quantities of anger or frustration within, and having these feelings surface more easily than normally due to us getting no rest, I meant it - not even I am exempt from that." The last part of the sentence was said in an unusually heavy tone. It would have taken a very specific kind of heartless individual to see Thaler getting roughed up by someone after all she had already been through and not care. Not that he would ever want her - or any of them - hurt... "All of us, besides, perhaps, Olan. I think that man is physically incapable of staying angry for extended periods of time. I suspect we don't appreciate that quality of his nearly enough..."

He was silent for a while as Jaelnec relayed as much as knew or was willing to spare about his and ... Roct's interactions.
Roct? So she had finally decided to part with a name for herself ... he had heard it before, had he not? That same day... It was the same as the sword's, was it not? Had to be... So someone must have known. Jaelnec's late master had most likely known - but neglected to relay the necessary tidbits before perishing.
What Jaelnec said was concerning, though ... even though what he said also seemed to sport the theory that Roct was not deliberately malevolent, or at least was not ill-intentful towards Jaelnec specifically.
"There are three or four different things which I see as being of concern - one is the diffusion of your person with hers, another is you being taken choice and awareness from you while permitting the use of your body for whatever she sees fit, regardless of whether you or I'd ever agree to what she goes for, and lastly, whenever she does any of it - possibly to a very small extent when she just speaks to you -, she weakens you to all other mental attacks and also damages whatever parts of your mind she shuts down or overrides," Aemoten attempted to summarize, "and said, those changes are probably very small and not noticeable at first, but will accumulate over time. Of course, there is also a difference between just talking to her, and her going in and just knocking you out when you momentarily let your guard down."
The foreign warrior glanced at Jaelnec.
"I suspect she never possessed Freagon, or at least did not do so during the time you traveled with him ... it was rather jarring and visible, you'd have noticed. I wouldn't also surprised if he cut her off altogether after a while, just to protect himself ... calming yourself down is something you have to learn to do yourself, especially since she did not appear to have more than very marginal control over her own impulses and not much more over not reacting impulsively upon your emotions in addition, so I wouldn't be surprised she's trying to calm you down in part to avoid being overwhelmed by your emotions in turn ... add to that that she is weakening your control a very small way when she interacts with you or through you, and combined that is liable to veer down the wrong path sooner or later.
It probably doesn't do much harm if she just talks to you every now and then - that's something I figure you'd fairly easily recover quicker than be wear down from, under normal circumstances, at least, less so when everything is bent on putting us to test or you're already under duress -, but it would definitely be better if she never, well, just overpowered your entire being with brute force as she sees fit. Again. No matter how 'necessary' she deems it. It's one thing to willingly sacrifice some of your own mental or physical wellbeing to save someone you care about, or to do so as a last resort when you know you'd definitely die otherwise, but another to have some of it arbitrarily taken from you. And then there is this little matter of her trying to attack someone you hadn't agreed to attacking, using your body no less ... things like that, I figure you'd agree she shouldn't be permitted to do, either.
If she can strictly adhere to those things, at least, it probably isn't necessary to get rid of her, even if it were ultimately preferable that she lived in something other than your sword. There'd remain the risk she'll decide to ignore whatever limitations you set her at an unfavorable moment, perhaps even so that her-in-your-body would have to be intercepted ... it's a matter of how much you're willing to risk either that or very slowly becoming something that is in many ways both her and you. Does that make sense?"
He paused for a further moment, absently rubbing the side of his nose with his free hand.
"Should I talk to her, though... I am already weakened; if I were to try myself here and now, there is a high chance I'd just end up collapsing on the spot - I'm not willing to try and see whether I'm correct. Through you, as you suggested earlier ... not by letting her possess you, but by you repeating what she thinks ... perhaps, if you figure it'd help set things straight."

Jaelnec expressed his concern over his, Thaler's and Etakar's safety, should they go ahead without Jaelnec. Aemoten pondered for a moment.
"None of us three is at our best, that is true ... myself and Thaler more so than Etakar. Etakar should be mostly good to go, now, thanks to our new acquaintance... Aside of him being fast and capable of tracking, I mostly figured not many would be willing to start a fight with him by virtue of him being a dekkun alone, and if we happen to encounter someone wants to start something ... then he's still almost as dangerous as he would be when at full health.
I would rather Thaler was reached as soon as possible and that no one of us was at greater risk than the others ... do you reckon Olan would be as safe with these three alone as I and Thaler would be with Etakar?"
Would it be possible for all of them ride to Zerul City? If Etakar, the paladin's horse and the donkey were to each carry two people, perhaps...



"The ... ye can 'ell 'em wha' tae do?" he inquired when Angora explained them that the entity - whatever the thing in her was exactly supposed to be - was now under her control rather than vice versa. "Can ye tell 'em tae put ou' the blas'ed ... aura or influence or wha's it?" He soon added, remembering the old fellow's request. "Would be bes' tae not have passersby in the city wonderin' why they feel like they'd downed a pint too many..."
That said, he glanced at Iridiel again, before switching to his native, "It's not gone, but she says it's ... pacified? Like it were a ally; she doesn't think she'd be losing control again. And, uh ... she is thanking us in all possible ways, and wishes to come with us and help, as she now owes us her life ... y'know, for taking the effort to help her, rather than just kill her, as would have been easier. Wants to repay for the horrible things she did while not in control, too."
He shifted his eyes back to Angora, some part of him reaching the slightly uncomfortable conclusion that with the departure of the warror-fellow and his squire - whatever it was they so desperately needed to discuss right there and then, in the middle of Angora's releasing -, both Olan and Angora seemed to look overwhelmingly at him for words of decision. Of course, he was the main speaker of the two of them, and Iridiel was not exactly fluent in Rodorian, so it was probably nothing but the logical thing to do, but it nevertheless felt like he was speaking in the name of at least one person too many... And what he was saying now was in the name of more people too many.
"'twas the decen' thing tae do. 'twas no' really ye who a'acked us, aye?"
Olan interjected, insisting that Angora was rushing things by promising them her life before she even got to know them and their quest, looking at his direction in addition. He suddenly also realized he and his companion had never been properly introduced.
"The younger black-eyes already told me mos'," he pointed out. And true, as soon they had settled down, they had been attacked by someone, so perhaps there was some truth to the insistence that they had horrible luck with encounters. Then again... On a sudden thought, he raised his arm and flicked his wrist to point a thumb in the dead and mutilated gray brute's direction. "Bu' this one, that we found en'irely on our own, no thanks tae y'all. How can ye claim it's only yer luck tha' brings all the beas'ies out jus' as we appear tae have found the firs' of our own? Bes' stick toge'her les' we end up lacking the know-how once we meet an even bigger one." He grinned. "'Sides, my companion here's informed me tha' good old Sulis herself has reques'ed we go with ye..."
That said, he leaned closer to Iridiel again.
"He says their quest is dangerous and we might want to consider whether we really want to go with them ... but safety in numbers, yes? Who's to say we're not going to meet bigger things than the gray brute, or a lot of 'em Crusaders. And you did say Sulis wanted us to go with them, yes?"
He had already managed to forget the introductions...
"I'm Domhnall, and this is Iridiel, by the way," he quickly went to amend it before he could forget that little piece of mandatory social interaction again. "If ye really wan' tae go with 'em ... or come with us, as it migh' be, I'd think you need tae talk tae the tall warrior-looking fellow when ye ge' the chance, he's the leader of the lot, they said." Well, it definitely ain't me... "Tha's the one called Aemoten, I believe."
Angora had meanwhile had the time to assess her own appearance, and embarrassedly made an observation over it. She also mentioned she might be able to locate them a stream. If she had been a respectable citizen before ... everything, then doubtlessly showing herself through the gates in her current condition would probably be quite shameful...
"We'd need tae heat the wa'er in the cauldron or something, then, I think," he muttered, scratching his cheek. It was not a warm autumn morning. He noticed her motioning at him and Iridiel. "She says she could find us a stream?" the forestfolk noted to his highland companion, in a slightly confused tone. "She says she knows some nearby..."

Jillian felt a tinge of pity for the great, winged creature when he expressed his feelings of sorrow over the loss he had felt this day. She could not even guess at his true age; hundreds at least, possibly thousands of years. An unfathomable time span for a mere human. Most of it he must have spent in the forest that she had just witnessed being turned into a wasteland. His home was gone, and so were all of its inhabitants save for Crone, if indeed she had always lived there. She doubted this. Loss on such a scale was difficult to accept and Jillian felt a degree of kinship with Renold. After all, she too had lost the things dear to her, even if in a less violent fashion, for the most part. Gerald too had known great loss, the only unknown here was Crone. She was old enough, certainly, to have been able to experience similar tragedies, if only by virtue of outliving the people dear to her. Everyone’s personal tragedy near this pond felt like a bonding link that tightened their alliance, if only by a little.

“Then it is decided,” the Green declared after everyone had agreed to back down and rest for the remainder of this evening before taking off into the sky to hunt. Similarly, Renold and Crone each went their own way, leaving the witch to figure out what to do with the time given to her now. Originally – before the communion with the Grand Master – she had intended to wash by the pond, preferably using Renold as visual cover. Reminding herself of this, she once again felt thorough disgust towards her filthy clothing and greasy, ungroomed hair. She’d simply have to make do without the great dragon.

“I’ll try to get some of this filth off of me,” Jillian said, grasping at one of her sleeves in an effort to appraise just how badly worn her attire was, eyeing it with revulsion. “Assuming the water hasn’t been tainted now and makes me catch some kind of demon plague.”

“I better not catch you peeping, Glass,” she chidingly added over her shoulder while she was trotting off towards the pond, her gait somewhat sluggish and saggy.

Moments later, coming to a halt just at the water’s murky edge, Jillian cast one last look behind herself, seeing Gerald by the campfire, evidently paying no attention to her. Unsurprising; she had come to know him as a quiet and introverted type, more interested in their own thoughts and goals than the outside world. Maybe her impression was wrong, however, as she’d only known him for less than a day. He resembled Vincent in that regard, although the latter had been more impressionable and less willful than Gerald. Jillian wondered how the two would get along if they had had the chance to meet, as her shirt fell into the damp grass to her right.

“Kreshtaat, it’s cold!” she muttered to herself, clutching her meager arms around her emaciated chest. After a brief moment, she outstretched her right hand and traced a handful of symbols in the air while softly whispering under her breath. Within seconds, a bright orange flame burst from her palm, which she cradled near body. With the other hand she fumbled on her makeshift skirt until it too became loose and was dropped on the ground. Then she carefully dipped one of her feet in the water, finding it expectedly cold. All she could think of was a luxurious tub filled with steaming warm water. What she wouldn’t give to have one now. Clenching her teeth, she sunk one foot, then two into the water, feeling them sink into the soft earth below the surface. She could only hope not to step on anything revolting. When she was at about waist depth, she knelt down and made her brightly burning flame vanish. Submerging herself in the water, she began scrubbing her body, then later dipped her head and hair underwater and thoroughly rubbed through her scarlet mane.

Some fifteen minutes later she returned ashore, dripping wet, quivering body and chattering teeth. Only the biting wind listened to her incessant, mumbled cursing, foul words to lament a foul fate. She grabbed her shirt and submerged it into the pond next, kneading it as best she could in the murky waters. While doing so she was reminded of the unusual foreigner who had given it to her, as well as his colorful group of followers. What a disastrously awkward meeting that had been. Was he from Catohlone? Golerin? He threatened Jillian at sword point (even going so far as to train his bizarre war animal on her), wanting to judge her for her actions when he had no authority over her, and seemed to keep that other insufferable woman around for unknown purposes, though the witch could hazard a guess. It would fit the bill for a Catohlone. But maybe she was mistaken. The woman had shown some aptitude for magic of some sort – the kind of which Jillian had never seen, seemingly able to inflict orders on other people. She would have to ask Gerald or Crone about that, maybe they could explain to her what she’d witnessed. Could have been favored power of some kind.

When she was done, she wrapped the blanket that had previously been but a skirt around her entire body. The cloth was plentiful enough to allow her to decently cover herself from the breasts down to just under her knees in thanks to her modest height. Dangling the wet shirt in one of her hands, she slowly returned to camp, curious eyes spying about for her companions and what they might have been up to in the meantime.