Don’t let you catch me peeping? Gerald thought amusedly, smiling to himself as he glanced in Jillian’s direction as she went before averting his gaze and turning his attention back to his business with the campfire. As if you even could catch me, if I really wanted to look. Though he was far from skilled at moving stealthily and was furthermore currently located right by the only major light-source in the area, the warlock knew that it would be a fairly simple matter for him to spy on her with a Shadow Image if he really wanted to, either creating it below the surface of the water or in the air above her so that she would be unlikely to notice its black contour. Neither location would be ideal for the purpose of looking at her, of course, but for the purpose of avoiding detection that was just a sacrifice that had to be made.
Not that he was going to, of course... though it was tempting. It was sometimes hard to remember even for himself that he, despite his body being like this, was only twenty-eight years old and surprisingly close to being the same age as her, which also made her about the same age as his wife would have been by now. Jillian’s built was admittedly scrawnier than hers had been, and shorter, but he would be lying if he claimed that her appearance did not appeal to him or that he was certain that he would never amuse himself with fantasies of her. It was not even out of some sense of loyalty to his late wife that he opted not to spy on the witch – as far as he was concerned his wife, as much as he still loved her and had spent years plotting the her resurrection, had no business trying to control his actions while she was dead – but, surprisingly, rather as a favor to Jillian herself. He did not want to give her reason to distrust him, even less hate him, more than she was naturally liable to do with everything she knew of him, let alone his treatment of her thus far. It was a thin line to walk, keeping her at a distance without making her leave, but it was better that way.

Sighing to himself and making sure to keep his face turned away from the pond, lest she catch a glimpse of the fire playing in his naturally bright amber eyes and presume that he was really peeping, Gerald produced a pewter cup from his robe as he decided to make himself some tea after all... only to subsequently realize that he would have to go to the pond to fetch water, which would definitely be viewed with suspicion by his red-haired companion.
Cursing under his breath and pondering the wasteful nature of what he was about to do, particularly since there was a perfectly fine source of water practically right next to him, the emaciated magus held out the cup in front of himself in one hand while he gestured over it with the other, quietly muttering the word maaez while his fingers weaved the associated pattern. It was a simple single-word incantation the kind of which were often employed by rune-mages, but it worked well enough; with the spell invoked a gentle tickle of water appeared in the middle of the air, pouring into Gerald’s cup until he was satisfied with the amount and stopped feeding the spell energy. At least this way he was certain that the water was clean, but using magic for such a mundane purpose still seemed so very wasteful and unworthy...
Conjuring the water – or condensing it from the air, as was what he had actually done – had brought something rather interesting to his attention, however, namely that the spell had not required quite as much magical energy as it would normally have. Turning his attention inward as he set his cup aside he realized that he had nourished the spell primarily through the energy he had taken from the soul of Anaxim, which made sense since his own energy was attuned to shadow and would have been less cost-effective in needing to be converted to another element first, but it raised other questions that had not occurred to him yet: why was Anaxim’s energy still distinct from his own? Normally when someone acquired new energy, either through sleep, piaan or, he had discovered, by draining it from other people, one’s soul would convert the new energy to match the natural affinity of the soul pretty quickly and make it indistinguishable from what was previously the soul. Anaim’s energy should logically have been very easy for his soul to adopt and change considering that it would just be raw ambient magical energy constituting the flow through the plants of the forest, yet somehow it appeared as though it was downright resistant to conversion. The implications of that were... puzzling. Did that mean that Anaxim – and presumably other Living Woods as well – actually did have actual souls as opposed to a simple network of energy flowing among the plants? And the fact that it behaved differently than magical energy normally did, accelerating natural healing and decreasing the potency of spells... was it possible that this soul was not even entirely mortal?
Gerald shook his head regretfully, wishing that he had the time and means by which to investigate this further but knowing that time was a very limited resource for them, that the Anaxim Forest was probably destroyed by now and that the energy from the forest he already had would probably be cleansed from his soul after he had gotten some sleep. It did raise another question, though: if Anaxim had had magical energy distinct from other ambient energy resistant to reverting to raw energy, creating a semblance of a soul, what happened to that energy when it died?

As the necromancer pondered the nature of the energy within him another thought occurred to him, though, that was even darker and more dangerous: that if he was able to drain and use energy from the not-entirely-mortal Anaxim Forest, who was to say that he could not do the same with other non-mortal energy? Immortal energy, for instance, like that held within the pendant hanging from the chain around his neck?
He pulled on the chain and took the red, oblong crystal in his hand, laying it on its palm while he examined it more closely. It was so slight that not even he could detect it normally, even when he focused his senses on the crystal, but with the demon prison on the palm of his hand he could just barely feel a slight, subtle and slow tickle of infernal energy escaping the crystal, slipping through and gradually further eroding the seals that trapped what was presumably about half of Hazzergash’s power and which had originally contained all of it. He idly wondered whether the crystal was special and distinct from other crystal prisons somehow, created especially for the purpose of imprisoning a demon lord, or if it was purely the seals placed on it by the Nomad that had held the Swallower of Worlds in check for what was likely almost four thousand years? It spoke volumes of his how powerful the Nomad must have been, to have been able to make seals to hold something that potent for so long... and brought into question their own ability to renew those same seals, which would be necessary in order to prevent Hazzergash from escaping a second time.
More interestingly, he could tell by examining the gentle flow of demonic taint that the mirgration of energy was anything but passive, and that some force – most likely Hazzergash’s will – was drawing the energy out, even as another force was actively trying to pull it back. Most of the energy that escaped the crystal was quickly reabsorbed by it without Gerald even having to do anything, being sucked right back in by the seals that were meant to hold it. He suspected that the seals were the real reason that Hazzergash currently required a mortal host in order to act; not because he was incapable of creating a vessel for himself, but because he needed an anchor to tether his own soul to so that the crystal prison could not draw him back in on its own accord. It was an interesting thought, implying that any of Hazzergash’s energy that did not manage to form such tethers would inexorably be drawn back into the crystal...
And which meant that the energy within the crystal – half a deity – could be pulled out of there by someone capable of siphoning energy from others’ souls.
Doing so would probably be a bad idea, considering that immortal energy was generally quite toxic to mortals such as himself, but the thought that he could potentially control Hazzergash’s power... to say that it was intriguing would be an understatement.

Smiling grimly to himself Gerald tugged the crystal back inside his robe and retrieved his cup, staring at the water within for a moment before tracing a symbol on the bottom of it with a finger, his lips forming the word dregoth as a red light shone from the inside of the cup, and within seconds the contents were steaming hot. He got out a pouch and threw a few dried herbs from it into the cup, and was almost immediately rewarded with a pungent, acrid smell.
He took a sip and winced, but swallowed nonetheless; this tea was one of the main reasons he was still alive, so he was willing to forgive it for being thoroughly disgusting.
He sighed. Soon... soon it will be over. I will be rid of the Withering so that my body can recover, and I will regain the strength to pursue other goals... and I will have vengeance. Kreshtaat took everything from me with his damned plague, so it only seems fair if I take everything from him. Somehow, someday, I will be the one to destroy him.

“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?”

Angora chuckled and roused herself slowly and painfully from the ground, walking over to where she had dropped her sword in the fight and taking hold of it once more. She felt a surge of power emanate from her hand and cracked a small smile, testing the weight of the sword in her hand and nodding to herself - yes, the Black Blade was just as she could dimly remember before her... she struggled to find the right word to describe it to herself. Exorcism? That'd do. She sheathed it in the tattered leather scabbard that hung at her waist and made her way back to Olan and his two curious companions that weren't off in the corner, probably wondering what the hell the others were doing not killing her for her troubles. "Well..." she began with a grin, "If that's really the case and your run of bad luck continues, even more reason to bring me along, huh? You know I can fight, so what's one more sword-arm to help you reach Zerul? Besides... life debts aren't easily repaid, you know." She cracked her back in several places with audible noises; noises that made Iridiel cringe and mutter "Could you not do that..." in Eireann under her breath, but loud enough for Angora to hear. Not quite understanding the words, but understanding all too clearly their context, Angora bowed her head slightly. "Sorry." She looked around at the copse in which they stood - and then shivered slightly as the wind bit at her face and hands. "Strange, never really noticed the cold before now... must have been the spirit's doing. Maybe it doesn't know what temperature is, maybe it just insulated me from the cold, I don't know. Eugh... too many questions, not enough answers. I guess they can wait until we're back at Zerul. Might go and visit my brother at the college to see what he can make of it."

The green man spoke up again, in his strange, harsh-sounding accent that missed out a few too many letters for it to be Rodorian, that's for sure. "Can ye tell 'em tae put ou' the blas'ed ... aura or influence or wha's it?"

Angora frowned, missing the point of the question entirely at first. Eh? Aura? It took her a few moments to realise what the gods the man was talking about - it took her actually speaking out loud for her brain to finally catch up. "Aura... oh, right! Aura! Hold on, let me see if I can do something about it... I should be able to get rid of any side effects it'll have on people, though I don't really know if I can remove it *completely*. Let me try something." Cocking her head to one side, she closed her eyes a moment and concentrated on trying to draw the energy that was being given off back into herself. It took a few moments, but eventually the aura began to fade, until there was little more than a slight buzz about her that was about as noticeable as a small fly buzzing about a room. Giggling and smiling, she turned to the assembled trio and gave a triumphant beam to the three. "Ta-da! How's that feel?" She hoped that would be enough for now - maybe it might even give the other two the impression that she wasn't some demon from the hells that was given mortal form, or whatever it was they thought she was. But more importantly, it showed she had almost complete control over the spirit within her, as the painted woman had tried to accomplish. The sword, meanwhile, began to glow softly, though Angora herself didn't notice it.

"I'm Domhnall, and this is Iridiel, by the way."
Introductions! Of course, where were her manners? Just because she was a foul-smelling sweat-stained semi-savage with a seriously bad hair day (and a very empty stomach, it seemed, judging by the pangs of hunger), didn't mean that she could forget her own introductions! Besides... with the right word in the ear, she could be useful even in Zerul. "Well... well met, Olan, Iridiel, Domhnall." She bowed, her matted hair obscuring her face briefly before she swatted it out of the way, if only so it wouldn't get in her mouth. She most certainly did not want to know what greasy hair tasted like. "My name, as you know, is Angora. Angora Kelenwyn, daughter of Erik and Iora, younger sister to Reikard, Yvann and elder to Karl. My father is a metalworker in the city, who works with rare and precious metals, whilst my mother... well, she, ahem, works for the nobility, if you get my meaning." She winked and gave a smile. "And she has sticky fingers whilst she's there... As for my brothers... Yvann is in the City Guard, whilst last I heard, Reikard was a sergeant-at-arms in His Royal Stuck-Upness the Duke's armies. My younger brother Karl is at the College. All fine and noble jobs, I'm sure you'd agree... My own line of work, I'll confess, was not strictly legal. Ask me about it if you're interested. Maybe over dinner, which I'm sure some of us could do with..." Mmm. The prospect of food excited her, and it seemed to meet with approval from Iridiel, who spoke up in her own strange accent, though her Rodorian seemed much more hesitant than her companion's. "Food an' a wash sound nice."

"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."
Domhnall's accent (not to mention his skin colour) was intriguing - it was one that she had never heard before in all her travels. It seemed to be that of a far-off land, one perhaps not visited even by the furthest explorers. It would definitely explain both his voice and his skin... splotches of green and brown, and yet he retained human-esque features such as hair - a curious assortment of facial hair included - and skin that appeared soft and human to the touch. She resisted the urge to pry and poke at it to see if it was scaly or really just like her own, only a different colour. His statement worried her, however. From all accounts, both the tall warrior and the one he was with had not long been at her throat threatening to kill her... She would really rather try and compel these three to take her along with them rather than try and leave it in the hands of the tall warrior. She could feel the rage in his veins previously, he looked as though he had no qualms gutting her like a fish. Completely understandable, given the circumstances, but really, was she going to take her chances with him? No thank you, sir. "With all due respect, I don't think I'm in his good books at the present time... maybe after we've eaten, I don't look like a beggar who's spent a week in a sewage ditch, set up a campfire or something, and talked things over, we can come to an arrangement, but at the moment... Let's find that there spring I was talking about before, aye?"

Iridiel nodded, having partially understood what Angora was saying. "Food and water - good idea." she piped up, before turning to Domhnall with a sly smirk on her face. "I think she's talking about the wrong man over there, Domhnall... Might want to correct her on that one."

Approaching on bare, silent feet, Jillian tore Gerald out of his vengeful thoughts when she dropped her shirt on a nearby rock with a watery splat. She could only hope it would be dry enough to wear by the morning; at least it was somewhat windy. Next to the rock, she placed the sewn-together fabric that passed for shoes which were mercifully fashioned for her, though she hated wearing them all the same. A fresh breeze sent shivers down her spine and caused her arms to wrap protectively around her body. Spying her gloomy ally, the witch approached him with a certain stride and seated herself next to him on the stone he sat on.

“Don’t even think of protesting,” she began, pressing her shoulder against his. “I’m freezing my tits off.” Her eyes stared into the gentle campfire, longing for its warmth. For a while, she simply sat there in silence, soaking in what little heat she could and, eventually, also the stinging smell of his tea. Upon catching a whiff of it, she glanced at his cup and her tongue almost recoiled in memory of the taste.

“You sure seem to enjoy that vile brew.” She rubbed her arms and looked for eye contact. “Say, Gerald. We… have a lot of unsaid things between us right now. We’ll need time to get through all of it, I imagine. Time and trust. Both of these are hard gained, as it turns out.” Her voice was soft-spoken and gentle, both as a result of feeling tired and cold, as well as because of her desire to approach Gerald cautiously; less so in an effort to treat him tenderly, but in an attempt to avoid his cold-hearted rejections that he so enjoyed throwing in her face every so often.

“But, we do have a little bit of time as it stands. Is there… do you want to talk about something? Maybe understand each other more, or clear up some misunderstandings. It’s kind of hard to believe,” she chuckled briefly, “but we’re still practically strangers, Gerald. To me at least, it feels like it’s been a week.”

Although Jaelnec understood and agreed with much of what Aemoten was saying, though not necessarily the way it was meant to be understood, he struggled to figure out why the warrior was giving this particular lecture under these circumstances. He was not a Sekalyn warrior nor was he even trained as a soldier; he had no family left and, while he was technically supposed to serve Rodoria, felt no particular fondness or loyalty towards the kingless kingdom, so for all intents and purposes he had no home, had no one somewhere waiting for him... but he could certainly agree that it was about those next to him, his only friends, and those in need of saving right in front of him. The part about not killing monsters for fame struck him as particularly puzzling, although it did remind him of the days when dragonslaying had been the object of so much admiration, with people hunting dragons for glory and wealth until their species had been nearly exterminated. It was because of those days that dragons were so rare today. Beyond that, however, he was confused.
The one thing he could not misunderstand was when the subject shifted to anger, which related all too strongly to his own outburst just minutes prior and the shameful apology he had just uttered. Willpower was one of the core values of the Knighthood of the Will, and for a moment he was afraid that Aemoten was going to accuse him of not having enough of it, but instead the Sekalyn just continued his lecture in a manner that almost seemed as though it was completely unrelated to anything that had happened recently, just another lecture. The only time he seemed like he spoke to Jaelnec rather than simply speaking his thoughts out loud was at the mention of the anger he – Aemoten – carried within himself, which was spoken in such a heavy tone that it could not be taken as anything but important.
All of them were tired, angry and frustrated, he said... perhaps that was true. Thaler had certainly demonstrated that she had reached her limit with the way she had attacked Angora, and even Olan had seemed a bit different back there, neglecting his usual speaking-habit and such and generally just being uncharacteristically somber and serious. Aemoten had to be in possession of almost inhuman willpower to just keep going without letting his frustration show.
Thinking of Thaler in context with Aemoten’s lecture ironically helped a little, as the squire realized that he, despite everything, had not failed completely. He had been angry – murderously so – and had let this show, but he had not acted upon that anger. He had wanted to kill Angora so desperately, yet he had stayed his blade when he could easily have slaughtered her. It seemed a small victory, but it was better than total defeat.

There was a lot to be said about Roct, naturally, but very little of which Jaelnec could comment on since he had no way of knowing the consequences of the entity’s actions, be those future or present, without asking Roct and asking her about it. The fact that Freagon had almost certainly never been possessed and most likely had simply shut Roct out entirely seemed likely, but more importantly came with the shocking realization that Roct had been in the sword the entire time Freagon had used it, too; that she had likely been in contact with him at some point, at least once. Considering that Freagon had supposedly had the sword since his childhood, there was a fair chance that Roct knew much more of his late master than Jaelnec did himself. He made a mental note to ask her about this later, no matter what... if nothing else, it would give him another person to share the reminisce with.
“I can calm myself,” he assured Aemoten when it was mentioned that he would have to learn to do as much. “Freagon made a point of teaching me that much, and I didn’t have Roct back then. I...” He shook his head. “Reaching out to her for comfort is just a bad habit at this point. I’ll try -” he stopped himself and grinned, “- no, I will stop.”
Even now he desperately wanted to reach for the hilt of the sword to feel its comforting warmth flowing into him, but he kept his hands firmly at a distance. From now on he had to be in complete control, or he would have to learn to shut her out permanently like Freagon might have...

Finally, the matter of Aemoten and Thaler going ahead alone... As much as Jaelnec loathed leaving Aemoten and Thaler somewhere he could not help them if anything happened, the warrior’s logic could not be dismissed: leaving Olan with two people they barely knew, even if the Nightwalker instinctively liked one of them, and a third that had actually attacked them and tried to kill them was not an option.
“I’ll go back to the others, then, and get them to Zerul City as soon as possible,” he said, half-turning to head back to where they had left the others. “It should be safe between here and there, but I’ve been wrong before... be careful.”



Though he was not about to admit it to her Gerald actually had been about to protest against Jillian seating herself so close to him and even leaning on him, feeling at once surprised at how casually she got this close to him and unnervingly conscious of her half-dressed state. Phrasing the announcement of her temperature the way she did certainly did not make him any less uncomfortable, and he soon found at least part of his anatomy in denial of his indifference toward her.
Her being cold was an issue, though, but it was not something he could figure out how to solve just now. He could give her his robe to wear, but he was not wearing much under it and would probably end up freezing himself if he did, and with his constitution chances were that he would get debilitatingly ill as a result. He could find a spell in his book to warm her with, but he very much doubted that he had anything that would serve that purpose better than the fire in front of them. Then there was the wind, but as far as he knew the only magic he knew that could possibly shelter her from wind would take significantly more magical energy than it was worth... and it would prevent her from being warmed by the fire. Nothing to do but accept her leaning on him, it seemed...

And then, inevitably, the topic turned to them. Jillian wanted them to get to trust one another, to get to know one another better, to bond; all things Gerald wanted to avoid like the plague, though he supposed he had already failed at that. Still, with the monumental tasks that lay ahead of the two of them it was hard to argue against the necessity of trust.
He closed his eyes and took another sip of his tea, feeling its soothing effect on his throat and the disproportionate fullness in his stomach as it did its work. With his digestive system as crippled as it was the tea was his primary source of nutrition, so it was quite literally keeping him alive. That aside it helped him breathe easier and speak more audibly, so when he spoke it was with a voice noticeably less hoarse than before, sounding almost as strong and healthy as it had before he had been taken by the Withering. He opened his eyes.
“You’ve probably heard of me, though I doubt you would see a connection between the rumors and me, especially since back when I lived in Zerul City I wasn’t ‘Glass’, but rather Gerald Remdal. Even if you haven’t heard of me you’ve probably heard of my stepfather, Dennis Remdal, the previous dean of the Zerulic Academy of Magic and the current personal advisor of the duke. He’s pretty much running the duchy by now, from what I hear...”
He shook his head tiredly. “I was an instructor at the academy for a year, eight years ago. Six years ago there was a fire there that destroyed part of the academy and several blocks of the city near there; the next day Dennis resigned as dean and I was exiled, on his recommendation. What you haven’t heard is that the reason for the fire was that Dennis discovered that I was experimenting with necromancy, and that the spell he tried to cast to burn my research materials failed and went out of control. Nearly killed both of us, too...”
He sipped his tea, grimacing. “Now that I think about it, how were you discovered? Were you exiled too, or...” He remembered the silver sword she had been lugging with her; the weapon of a witch-hunter. “What happened?”

Leaning in on Gerald – perhaps more than was necessary – Jillian’s overall impression of the necromancer’s body posture could be summarized thus: stiff. There was a kind of rigidness to his form that was not as readily apparent underneath the swaddling robe of his, but which she now felt very physically. He’s tense. Nervous, perhaps. Or at least uncomfortable. She could only wonder why; she knew that he had been married once, even expecting to become a father, so he clearly had no fear of women in general. Was it specific to her? Or was it just a more recent symptom, born of his tragedy? She couldn’t say, but no matter the reason, she could hear her inner devil whisper temptations of seeing just how far she could push the necromancer until he recoiled from her – or gave in. Briefly she wondered how he would react (and what he would think) if she leaned her head against his chest. Put her hand on his leg. Stroked. Purred.

It was all fantasy of course. She understood that she was pushing her luck as it was, and she was not trying to seduce him; she was legitimately freezing and wanted his warmth more than anything else right now. In fact, maybe it wasn’t her physical presence at all, maybe it was her question that made him uneasy. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy with having things about his person known to her or, probably, anyone. It was not inconceivable that he would avoid her question, change the subject, or at least only ask about her. Although he took a moment to savor his tea and consider his next move he did, to her surprise, open up and talk about himself, revealing far more than she would have expected.

“Remdal…” she muttered thoughtfully. Of course the name was known to her; not only was his name common knowledge for someone who lived in the higher stratum of Zerul City, but Jillian had furthermore been a student at the very academy that both Gerald and his stepfather had been associated with. Wide, viridian eyes stared at the necromancer’s face. Remdal… something about the name had a spicy aftertaste, like a half-forgotten memory about to rise from the ashes. It was there somewhere, in her subconscious, but before she even had to dig for it, Gerald spelled it out for her: the fire, of course. The scandal. It had been the talk of the city for weeks, speculations running wild. Now, however, there was no more need to guess as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place with a satisfying click.

“Huh, so that’s you. Makes a lot of sense now; not many bought the story of an innocent accident. I know I didn’t.”

The witch betrayed no smile, but felt glad that, for perhaps the first time, Gerald was so willing to open up to her. It was a good sign. His story was not yet complete, he hadn’t mentioned his wife yet, or his reasons for learning necromancy, but it could wait. Few portraits worth their Rodlins were painted in a single day, after all. She wondered what Dennis was like. Asking was unlikely to give her an objective answer; Gerald would almost certainly feel disdain for the man, given their disagreement. She couldn’t blame him. Unlikely that she would find him charming either if his stance towards necromancy was to burn it all to cinders. Well, at least she could appreciate his chosen method. Before she could ask about his stepfather, however, the necromancer tilted the spotlight onto her. How had she been discovered? What was her punishment? Well…

“Mh,” she murmured, “Not exiled. Not quite. I think you got off easy because you’re a Remdal. Hum, say, have you perchance heard of the Voice of Reason?”

In the likely event that he hadn’t, she continued: “As a necromancer, there was a small chance you might’ve. Put simply, it was a little secret gathering of like-minded individuals – influential people, I might add – with a desire to push for legalizing forbidden magics. Peacefully, mind you. And slowly, but firmly. My… well, my teacher – in black magic – was associated with them and through him, I was also introduced to their little round table. Long story short, though, something went wrong. Maybe we hid our trail too poorly, maybe somebody talked. Either way, our meeting was busted and we were all arrested on two charges: the practice of forbidden magic, as well as treason. They put us in the dungeon, had me neatly tied up from head to toe. Couldn’t move a finger. They had to, gave them the illusion of safety. They hadn’t gagged me for the interrogation, meaning I could have conflagrated half the dungeon with a single word. I didn’t, but someone else did I think. You don’t put that many sorcerers together into a tight space and promise them deaths of varying painfulness. Someone’s going to snap. And so they did. T’wasn’t long before the dungeon was in utter chaos and fugitives took to the corridors, overwhelming wardens and releasing more prisoners. They sent reinforcements quickly. Witch-hunters, mages, whatever it took. If they couldn’t contain us, they would purge the entire dungeon. I don’t know how we did it but Vince and I, we escaped with our lives, fled into the nightfallen streets. No idea what became of the others. We packed our things and left the city. Were pursued still, ran into witch-hunters on the Zerulic-Anaximite border just this morning. They… they got Vince. Almost did me in too.“

“There,” she nodded to the sheathed silver sword lying next to the bedroll that she had been sleeping in earlier, “that’s the weapon that killed Vince. Poor bastard. He didn’t deserve it. Never hurt a soul.”

“Much nicer than I ever was,” she added more quietly. She stayed quiet then, catching her breath after a rather lengthy answer. So, Gerald, there you have it. You’re cuddling not just a witch, but also a traitor. I don’t suppose that bothers you, huh?

If Jillian had not continued immediately onto a subject he was interested in hearing more about, she had easily earned herself a furious tirade for that absolutely horrendous assumption that he had gotten off easy because he was a Remdal. There was so much wrong with that statement that it was infuriating to him, enough so to make his lips draw back momentarily to reveal his teeth in a murderous scowl. Firstly, the fact that she called him a Remdal was borderline unforgivable; he was not and had never truly been a Remdal, no matter how much various Zerulics might claim otherwise. Certainly, to an onlooker it might have seemed like the house of Remdal was a wonderful thing to be included in for a mere commoner, and the story of Count Remdal himself falling in love with and marrying the hired maid, single mother that she was, seemed like something out of a fairy tale. And indeed, Gerald had enjoyed the game while it lasted, living as the stepson of a wealthy nobleman, getting to study at the academy... he might even have felt affection for Dennis for a time, until the masks fell away and the rug was pulled under his feet.
Secondly, it was a gross mistake to think that his exile had been a mercy. Mages were a valuable commodity, especially ones as skilled as Gerald; it was not unusual for magi, especially young ones, to look into the forbidden arts at some point of their lives and being discovered, only to get away with little more than a slap on the wrist and some harsh words. Even full-fledged necromancers, witches and summoners had at times been pardoned in order to not lose precious sorcerers, receiving little more punishment than an admonition against ever using the forbidden arts again and a demand that all of their research materials be destroyed. That Dennis Remdal had recommended the duke to exile Gerald for practicing necromancy was not a show of mercy, but of vengeful desire to get rid of him and save himself from the embarrassment of having a member of his family as a practitioner of outlawed magic. Whatever fondness there had once been between Gerald and Dennis had evaporated on that day, when Gerald’s crimes had been discovered. If it would not have been an even greater spectacle that would have disgraced his house even further, Gerald had no doubt that his stepfather would have made an effort to have him executed.
Dennis Remdal... Gerald had learned much of the man that he had called “father” since being banished from Zerul, some of which were mere suspicions but others that he had managed to confirm. He was a man driven by ambition and greed, not unlike himself, but more indulgent, more reckless. He was a powerful wizard, and both Gerald’s mother and half-brother loved him... but someday, eventually, Gerald was going to make that man face the consequences of his sins.
Power demands sacrifice; it was high time that Dennis Remdal did some of the sacrificing.

Hearing about the Voice of Reason was what ultimately calmed the necromancer’s ire, and he listened to her description of the group and the events that lead to her current situation with great interest. The extreme measures taken against the group was... not unusual, to be honest. A single magus could get away with practicing the forbidden arts with hardly any consequences besides being watched more carefully in the future, sure, but an entire group of them? A coven? That kind of thing called for a much harsher reaction from not only the ones deciding punishment, but also from the force sent to capture them. And if the members of the group were indeed influential and determined to peacefully legalize the forbidden arts... well, there was one person in particular who would see such a group as an immense threat to be destroyed at any cost, who hated the forbidden arts deeply and who had no qualms bending the law to his own purposes and even had the influence to do as much.
Dennis Remdal.
It was more than just a suspicion, too; the series of events she described was simply not possible without some kind of foul play at work. The cells in the dungeon of Zerul used for holding criminal mages were warded against magic to prevent escape attempts to be made like this. Someone had sabotaged the entire thing somehow – either someone had tampered with the wards to allow at least one prisoner to use magic or, more likely, someone outside the group had started the fire and the prison break – to have an excuse to use deadly force to stop them. Legally the Voice of Reason would probably not have been subject to death penalty and some of them, depending on just how influential they were, might even evade banishment and suffer little more than some harsh fines, so doing things like this was the only way for them to lawfully murder the group.
How many of them, he wondered, had realized just how dangerous their group was? It was one thing to seek to change ancient laws, but to furthermore try to change something that so many powerful people felt passionately about? And in a manner that could, eventually, potentially succeed? What they had experienced was a legal political assassination, the consequences of which could all be blamed on the dead and a faulty ward in a destroyed cell.

He did raise an eyebrow when Jillian concluded her tale, though, by telling him that her fellow escapee, Vince, was killed by witch-hunters, and with the silver sword she had been dragging around all this time, no less. What puzzled him was that he strongly suspected that her “Vince” was the Vincent that the Grand Master had mentioned, her teacher, and that the demon had claimed that it was not witch-hunters that had killed him, but rather her own magic. Granted, she had protested at the time, but even now Gerald could not imagine why the Grand Master would have lied about it, considering that what he had told them about him had been completely true.
Not that he was about to call her out on a lie, of course; she seemed much too upset for that to be appropriate. Did she expect him to feel sorry for her, he wondered? To show compassion, to comfort her and assure her that she was not so bad or some such gibberish? To mourn this Vince with her? Or maybe even to be shocked at the revelation of her past?
“I see,” was all he could spare in that regard, sipping his tea. “And then you came to the Anaxim Forest, looking for me.” He frowned. “That’s a pretty big leap, going from peacefully trying to change the country to fighting armies of cultists and demon lords to save the world. I realize that you just wanted to learn necromancy at first, but even then...”
He shook his head. “What about your family?”

“You don’t say,” she snorted amusedly, shaking her head. “If your friends had told me I would be going through this I might not have set foot in that forest. But maybe that would have been a mistake.” Because we’ll make it, Gerald. We’ll actually change something in this sorry world and they’ll all eat their words about witches, necromancers and the rest. And maybe, just maybe… it was even going to be fun.

“And I still do want you to show me sometime. I can teach you some of my knowledge too if you want. Some other time, when we’re less busy.” Bet I can teach you some non-magical things too. She flashed a brief but mischievous grin at him before thoughts of her family washed it away.

“My family? They’re not involved. They don’t know any magic. Sister runs the shop now, her husband does the smithing. Mother helps take care of the children. They’re fine.” Right? A cold shiver ran down Jillian’s spine when she realized that, in fact, she did not know for sure. They’d have no reason to harm them. Maybe ask some questions about me, nothing more. Reina’s mercy…

“They wouldn’t do anything, right?” She could not help herself but ask for his opinion on the matter. Her quivering voice betrayed uncertainty and worry. Given the extreme measures taken against the Voice, it suddenly seemed not inconceivable that all might not be well.

“Thanks,” Gerald figured was probably the polite thing to respond to the witch’s offer to teach him whatever she knew, even though he sincerely doubted that she had any practical knowledge that would actually be useful to him. He still did not approve entirely of black magic, its ease of use and its difficulty to control, and could simply not see any real advantage to using it instead of arcane magic, barring the need to blurt spells quickly and thoughtlessly, which he would not want to do anyway.
“I hope you realize that, even if you succeed in learning it, necromancy is a slow skill to obtain; it probably took me several years before I got to the point where I felt justified in calling myself a necromancer. We will also need materials... for practice.” He decided to leave the nature of those materials unsaid, as he figured she could probably guess what they were. “Without them we could practice controlling the flow of energy within yourself, but doing that alone would get you no closer to being a necromancer than a warden.”

When it came to Jillian’s family, though, Gerald was not entirely sure what to say or think. Jillian had been part of a coven plotting to change the country, after all, which would most likely cast suspicion on anyone associated with any member of the coven as well. There would be investigations, interrogations and they would most likely end up under surveillance, but other than that? If they really had no connection to the Voice of Reason aside from being related to Jillian and were not even magi, there worst that could happen legally was that some bad rumors started going about, affecting their business negatively. The problem was that the one that orchestrated the destruction of the Voice of Reason – most likely Dennis – had already proven ruthless and willing to skirt the law to achieve what he wanted. The fact alone that witch-hunters had been employed to catch Jillian and Vince was a bad sign, since witch-hunters were people that walked the line of what was legal and illegal, since even practitioners of the forbidden arts generally were not subject to death penalty and could not be killed except in self-defense or if they were rendered outlaws... Even if the mastermind behind it all did not tell them to, any surviving witch-hunters from the band might decide to harass the Veldaines on their own.
“I don’t think they can do much if they really aren’t involved,” he ended up telling her, thinking that it was better not to worry her needlessly. “At worst they’ll take a hit to their reputation, I think, and maybe have some of their merchandise destroyed in a faux search for cursed items, but legally they’re safe.” Whether “they” were bold enough to do something overtly criminal just to get to Jillian, however, was a different matter entirely.

“They’re not,” Jillian assured, “My family makes a point not being political. Wouldn’t make sense to antagonize part of our clientele and all.” Then she scoffed: “Cursed items. That’s exactly the kind of rumor that could ruin a business in Zerul. So long as they don’t hurt anyone… Still, they could be forced to go elsewhere if their reputation is harmed too much. Maybe Relimon or Wenal.” It’s not fair they should suffer any consequences at all. It wasn’t about them, never was. It all just made her hate Zerulic culture and law even more. Worse, she figured that, no matter what would or wouldn’t happen to her family, she was almost guaranteed not to see them again. And if she did, it would be anything but pleasant. Not unless she could prove to them that it had been worth it. That she hadn’t meaninglessly destroyed a life given to her on a silver platter for nothing. That she had burned the old to make something better. Prove them wrong, or die in a ditch. There was no in-between anymore for the young witch, and her desire to live was as fierce as Gerald’s even without his wasting affliction.

She realized that she had been quiet after that for a handful of awkward seconds and startled. Looking to keep the conversation going and break the silence, she reiterated on a previous point of his. “Materials, huh?” She stretched out her legs, one folded over the other, towards the fire. The pale-skinned things were rather spindly, unaccustomed to exertion. The last few days of journeying had probably been the most taxing experience they had ever been subjected to.

“I thought necromancy was more about the control of energy than the fabled desecrating of dead bodies. Or is it intertwined? Personally, I find reanimation distasteful.”

It wasn’t, strictly, that she lacked the bravery to face – or even create – undead minions, though they certainly were a disturbing sight that she was not (yet) accustomed to. Simply, the prospect held no appeal to her. Controlling lifeless, mindless dolls seemed so boring and predictable. The witch in her recoiled at the idea of a minion that simply executed. What she desired, though she did not know this, was a minion that had a will of its own. One that would act in revolt, question its master. One that could be bullied and forced into submission. Something that would give the magician the tremendous satisfaction of having conquered a creature and having made it their own. Not control, but dominance.

It was the siren’s song that lured Jillian into the depths of black magic, a false pretense of being able to master the untameable.

“It probably won’t be that bad,” Gerald felt the need to point out in regards to Jillian’s family potentially having to move to escape their reputation as one that had fostered a witch and a murderer. He could still make no promises as to whether they would be hurt, but... at least they were unlikely to get killed. Hopefully Jillian had managed to wipe out the witch-hunters in their last encounter, in which case no one would be left to do anything too sinister and dastardly against her family. “It would have been worse in any other duchy, actually; in Zerul they at least have plenty of mages around that can confirm that their goods aren’t cursed, so once the official search is over most people will probably not be too bothered.”
At least Dennis Remdal and whatever other noblemen and politicians included in the list of subjects that could have staged the destruction of the Voice of Reason were highly unlikely to do anything. Especially Dennis, who tried so hard to seem nice and be popular, and who aimed to eventually fully take over the duchy once Marcus died and his only heir had been married off to Pelgaid... or who, at the very least, would want his son to do it.
Despite all their flaws, these people were not stupid; they were not going to endanger themselves just to hurt what was potentially the last surviving member of a small revolutionary group.

After a bit of silence during which Gerald drained the remainder of his tea, Jillian appeared to return to the topic of necromancy, causing the man to raise an eyebrow attentively, only for his eyes to be drawn downward when she stretched her legs out in front of her, which made him quickly avert his gaze from her entirely. While it might have seemed like a bashful thing to do it was nothing of the sort, really; under most circumstances the withered little man would likely have enjoyed the sight of her bare shapely legs as much as most healthy men and would have gawked at them shamelessly, but... her feet were naked. That was why he looked away.
Gerald found bare feet repulsive.
“It is about that,” he confirmed her assumption about necromancy, “but... can you tell what your energy is doing?” Experimentally he set aside his cup and held up his hands in front of himself with the palms facing one another and, imperceptibly, started weaving tiny flows of magical energy between the two like threads in a rope. By the time he lowered his hands again he realized that he had just been sitting there staring at his hands for more than ten seconds, too focused on casually demonstrating the subtlety of magical energy to continue speaking.
“Reanimation isn’t the skill you really want to learn as much as a means to an end. Your magical senses won’t get sharper from nothing, and manipulating energy within your own soul is a different experience from manipulating it remotely, so being able to sense one sharply doesn’t mean that you’ll be able to do the other.”

Realizing that he probably was not making too much sense to someone not a necromancer or a warden – or even a sniffer, for that matter, though they were ironically blind to their own energy – Gerald scratched his chin and heaved a sigh. Then he had an idea.
“Let me try again. When we sense magic, you and I probably sense the same thing, only I know how to interpret it better and analyze it in greater detail. That extends to your own magic, too; you need to understand how your energy feels and behaves before you can learn to tighten control of it and recognize patterns in the energy of others. But on its own...” He reached his hands out in front of him again, only this time grasping an invisible object and making vaguely circular motions with both of them, closing and opening his fingers with even intervals so that it happened the same time with every circular motion. “...you can thrust energy into the air and make it do stuff to your hearts content, but you won’t actually gain much insight into what you’re doing or how well you’re managing. Corpses...” He stopped gesturing pointlessly with his hands and picked up his staff from beside him, bringing it up in front of himself and resuming the hand-motions from before, only this time using them to nimbly twirl the staff around. “...are puppets that can tell you what your energy is doing. You learn what it feels like to bend limbs the right way, then how to coordinate the limbs, then to control facial expressions. Animating a corpse is a way to see your energy, and once you know how fine control feels, you won’t need to see it anymore.”
He stopped twirling his staff around and made to put it away, but then stopped himself as he stared at it, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Actually... maybe we won’t need corpses. Omni responds to and changes according to magical energy; maybe we could use it instead.”

“I can calm myself,” the young nightwalker assured him. “Freagon made a point of teaching me that much, and I didn’t have Roct back then. I... Reaching out to her for comfort is just a bad habit at this point. I’ll try -” the foreign warrior raised an eyebrow when Jaelnec stopped himself, and actually grinned at him “- no, I will stop.”
There was still conviction left, and faith in oneself and one's companions, was there not? It had been but minutes ago that the foreign warrior had wondered over such matters to himself - more than he had outright told Jaelnec. About how many of them actually had - or had ever had - faith in this quest of theirs. Of how Jaelnec had been the most idealistic, and also perhaps the most naive of them all. Of how days, not weeks or months, had been more than enough to have the world bite back for seeing good in a doomed being, and for one setback to follow another. Would it have been odd, then, to begin to doubt their greater aim? To give up all enthusiasm and just do because you thought you had to, it was right?
He himself had been ... just as cynical and pessimistic as ever, chances were, but both physically and mentally much better off than he was now. And restless and mournful rather than dutiful and in love... And everything else he could not care to even begin to list. But most discernibly, he had undertaken the quest to do something, not out of belief in what they were doing. In a sense, he had been escaping his past - in action. If he managed to do any good in it, then the better, but it had not been the main aim of what he was doing. In the end, it was a pleasant surprise, then, that for all the hardships they came across, they had ended up doing some good, after all. Set a few things right. And find people to set one's trust in and count on.
It was always about the people fighting beside you, and those back home. He had seen Jaelnec almost broken after the whole affair with the three-quarter-demon ... it was heartening to see it was not so today. Today was mostly between Aemoten himself and Thaler, and to a lesser extent Olan, who had been caught between the gears - or dragged into the path of the Blood Devilgod's wrath as it were. Sort out their anger and let go of it, move on. Perhaps there was yet hope for mending the damage, however long it took. Perhaps.
Jaelnec was a good man. Not without fault - none of them were, himself included, but he could only be thankful that they had managed to overcome their little misunderstanding back there (which, in retrospect, they largely
had Roct to thank for in the first place), and to have him as someone he could call a friend. Koraakan knew he would have to tear himself to shreds and still fall short if he were to continue onward on his own...
"At the end of the day, what matters most is that our wills have remained unbroken," he surmised, tilting his head back and focusing his gaze in the distance once more. Broken people do not save worlds. For the briefest of moments, something akin to an echo of a tired smile moved over his features.
"Will" was a word with oddly many flavors, his muddled mind supplemented for reasons unknown ... perhaps he should point it out to Olan; seemed like the kind of thing that would fit his musings.

Jaelnec contemplated for a moment when he explained his reasoning for splitting te group into two in the manner he had descibed, and from his reply, ultimately appeared to agree with his decision - “I’ll go back to the others, then, and get them to Zerul City as soon as possible.”
Aemoten nodded, once. As per his culture, it was the norm for people to question the words of their leaders if they were not immediately understood, or seemed suboptimal. A slave did as told without asking questions. The warrior and the common denizen acted with known purpose and reason. The whys of one's deeds and decisions were important. The leader was supposed to go with the best decision, not whatever they had managed to come up with first - and if the leader was incapable of coming up with a decent explanation for doing as they told, chances were their proposed course of action was not a good one.
“It should be safe between here and there, but I’ve been wrong before... be careful.”
"I shall," he agreed. "You too."
The foreign warrior and a human man sighed. Whatever Iridiel had done with this Angora who had stumbled upon - nay, leaped screaming at them - seemed to have worked, as much as she could seen walking about on her own and retrieving her weapon. Quite notably without any her former savagery ... and then apparently going back to talking to people who were not Olan, seemingly in a quite normal fashion.
"Time to let the others know of our plans and get going," he muttered, setting way towards the rest. He guessed it was the least he was obligated to do in the way of "deciding what to do with her" as he had put it to Thaler. At least introduce himself properly as opposed to just inquiring whether she was possessed and wandering off with one of his companions. And letting them know what he was doing in general was just common decently, and what a leader should minimally do. Besides, Etakar was also there, observing the quad with an air of languid interest - if anything, he bore an almost disturbing semblance to a lazy cat observing the antics of nearby sparrows. It was not even a detour.
He hoped there would not be much to discuss. Just ... decide what they would do with her and set off towards Zerul city. Exactly as he had told Thaler he would do before she wandered off.



Domhnall watched quizzically as Angora fetched her sword and went forth to explain her reasoning for coming along.
"If that's really the case and your run of bad luck continues, even more reason to bring me along, huh? You know I can fight, so what's one more sword-arm to help you reach Zerul? Besides... life debts aren't easily repaid, you know."
He supposed. Besides, who was to say the gray brute was not only the first sign of their own troubles? (The had found that one on their own, as he had been quick to point out to Olan.)
She looked ... young, though. Besides the squire, who looked even younger than her (and squires were supposed to start their service quite young, were they not? By appearances, the fellow had been in training for at least half his life...) everyone here had at least a decade on her. Absolutely speaking, anyway - it was not like Éireannach and humans aged alike. Speaking of which, he was not exactly sure how black-eyes' aged, either ... for all that he knew, the slightly adolescent-looking black-eyes could be anywhere from five to five hundred years old...
"Woul' ye like a blanke' or somethin'?" he reflexively inquired when the girl remarked at the cold, shivering. He was slightly cool in his current attire ... he figured their newfound acquaintance was much worse off. Iridiel, in turn, probably did not mind the autumn cold. Came with him originating from the jungles and her from the mountains, he figured - something about the climate one and one's ancestors grew up in. They never seemed to agree on the temperature ... arguably, he was better off - Rodorian summers appeared worse on Iridiel than the winters did on him. It was generally easier to warm up than cool off.
Questions, answers ... too many of the first, not enough of the latter. Sounded 'bout right. Her mention of a brother raised another question, though...
"Ye think the ci'y's safe fer ye tae go abou'?" Unless, of course, most people simply would not be able to associate the banshee-voiced savage they first met with her once she was, well, cleaned up again. And... As he pointed out her aura, the girl appeared confused, but then perked up and focused for a bit ... and indeed, the odd sensation of being piss-drunk and hungover at once subsided to the point of nigh imperceptibility. Yeah. That would make putting two and two much more difficult.
Domhnall blinked. "Yeh. Mos' of tha's gone now. I's a relief fer sure."
And then he blinked some more as he listened the girl rattle off a whole list of relatives and their respective roles in society, more and less respected as they were. He was terrible with foreign names, and he had just acquired a bunch of new acquaintances. Hopefully just managing to remember that the one before him was Angora would suffice for now... Angora, Aemoten, Jael...nec?, Thale? Thala? Olan ... and the big beast. The warrior fellow had introduced this one separately, too, and implied it was more intelligent than one would expect. E-something.
He was torn from his attempt to recall at least the names of his new companions when Iridiel hesitantly agreed that food and wash were in order. Yeah ... he had already vocalized his agreement with finding a place to clean off dirt earlier, if mostly to spare the girl some embarrassment as they went through the city gates.
Food... He himself was not quite hungry yet, but by the time Angora had had the chance to clean herself, he probably would be. Unnoticeably, a fair amount of time had passed since he and Iridiel had finished breakfast and packed up their camp, only to meet the gray brute and then stick around a bit longer to recover themselves, and then meet with the little group and wait for Aemoten to recover and now deal with Angora... In other words, some time had passed since breakfast indeed. Lunch would be in order soon enough. They would still make it to Zerul City during this day all right, chances were. So ... the warrior fellow would probably agree with this further little delay.
Angora had reservations for discussing matters with this apparent leader of the group, though. Domhnall absently scratched his bearded cheek as he was trying to make sense of the statement ... and find a resolution of some description to it thusly. (Why was he the one people seemed to look at for solutions, again?) Not in his good books... Well, Angora had woken him from his much-needed slumber (the poor fellow looked about to fall from the saddle when they first saw him), she had kicked his squire in the balls, and scratched up and probably broken the nose and a few ribs of his ... what exactly was she to him? Girlfriend? Wife? Something of the sorts. There was little mistaking how the guy looked at her, and she had sat by his side running fingers through his hair most of the time he was out of commission.
Yep. That definitely summed up to "not exactly a favorable first impression".
But on the other hand ... they had to tell him something, no? They could not just up and try to sneak off for an unnegotiated delay of unspecified duration with one of his companions after they had already agreed to group up for the remainder of the trek to Zerul City. No matter how bad the first impressions, that would fly even less. No skipping facing the guy if they wanted to even have a chance of getting Angora into the his "good books".
Iridiel - in a manner of seemed slightly conspiratory - suggested that Angora might have gotten her people mixed up. Had she? Worth trying to put his conclusions into words and pointing out the man once more, in any case...
"He did ask if ye were possessed or somethin'," he finally noted, dropping his hand to his lap. "Don' think he woul' bo'her tae ask if he were to blame ye fer everthin'. 'Sides, how woul' ye la'er explain us takin' off withou' a wor'?" If his beast would even permit them trying to leave ... he had been watching them all too intently all his time. Must have skipped Angora's attention, somehow. And... Judging from the motion in the corner of his eye, they were a bit late to do that whole "sneaking off without the warrior fellow being informed" anyway, seeing as the man himself and his squire both had their eyes on them once more and were quite decidedly heading over. Speak of the devil...
"Tha' woul' be him ... the one in the black coat," he finished somewhat sheepishly, pointing his thumb at the mentioned individual. This description, coupled with his gesture, should be unmistakable, at least ... the squire, in addition to being almost half a head shorter and looking barely over half Aemoten's age, was wearing a brown leather cloak, as opposed to the warrior's long, black wool coat.
Much as it had been when he had first questioned the (still possessed) Angora, the warrior's face remained equal amounts of stern and weary as his eyes moved from Domhnall to Angora, "Yes?"

"Woul' ye like a blanke' or somethin'?"
The green-skinned man - Domhnall, she think he'd said his name was - had obviously taken an interest in her wellbeing, which had definitely improved Angora's chances of remaining with the group. Even if it was purely out of courtesy, it was nevertheless welcome, and Angora could perhaps sway her assumed perception as a screaming barbarian into an actual civilised person who wasn't strictly in control of her own actions during her little tryst with the group. "Er... thanks for the offer, but I think I'll wait until I've cleaned up - be a bit of a waste to put a fresh blanket over a dirty body, right?" She looked over the healer with interest - she seemed very adapted to a colder clime, muffled up with wolfskins, heavy fur and leather as she was, as well as what looked to be some odd orange-ish mail of some kind. Some form of copper-rich bronze, maybe? Further glancing over the actual barbarians, she noticed both Iridiel and Domhnall preferred bronze equipment and weapons - perhaps their society was not as well-stocked with iron goods, or perhaps iron was a sign of nobility, and bronze was more a utilitarian material? She'd have to ask them that later, if only to get more used to Domhnall's accent when speaking Rodorian. It was thick, and almost gravelly in its tone, and missed out plenty of letters in the words. Still, it was comprehensible enough for Angora, and if she didn't know what he was saying, she was sure that the old ma- "Olan..." she silently reminded herself - would translate for her. He seemed to know every language all at once, and speak it perfectly - a perfect translator and linguist, and most definitely a man to be protected and treasured in his utility. Particularly in the city itself, what with most of the city speaking varying languages from all areas of the known world - such was the cosmopolitan nature of Zerul. Speaking of the city, Domhnall then spoke up about her own safety within the city, to Angora's amusement. Just because she was a screeching banshee outside the city, doesn't mean that she was known to be one inside the city. She giggled and shook her head to his question. "No, no, don't you worry. I know the city very well, I don't think there'll be any problems on my part. You and your friend, on the other hand... well, I don't know how big your cities are in... wherever it is you're from-"
Iridiel spoke up to interrupt. "The Contaetha." Angora stopped for a moment and looked at Iridiel in confusion, raising an eyebrow. Understanding the look of query, Iridiel clarified as best she could with her limited command of Rodorian. "The Contaetha is er... how do you say... our home. We are both from the Contaetha... your language would call it the, uh... the Counties. And our homes are not big, they are small. Oh, I forgot... a moment." Iridiel knelt and began to rummage around in her backpack as the others continued.
Well, you're in for a hell of a shock when you reach the city... Angora thought to herself, nodding as Iridiel explained the situation. The Counties, eh... sounded interesting. Almost like the duchies in this part of the world, a collection of various states. Angora somewhat regretted that Iridiel seemed to lack fluency in Rodorian, otherwise she'd ask a lot more about where they were from and what life was like over there. Wet and cold from the looks of her attire at the very least. Her attention was diverted to the approach of the two warrior-looking men - Aemoten and Jaelnec, Angora remembered Olan naming them - which sent a chill down her spine. Angora swallowed nervously and gauged the men's moods... the news was not good. It was probably not a good idea to interject about her fate in the group at the moment, what with a mixture of sternness and weariness in Aemoten's eyes. She gave a sheepish smile and tried to keep her voice from wavering... failing miserably as she did so "H-Hi there... I, uh... I'll be just cleaning myself up, actually... best not wait much longer, right?" She gave a half-hearted laugh and quickly excused herself, walking off towards the direction of a nearby brook that she remembered the location of whilst she was still under her affliction.
Angora, you fucking idiot! you need to make a better impression of yourself if you want to try and change their minds about you... She cursed herself under her breath multiple times as she made her way through the undergrowth away from the group, who she hoped would make a decision about her without really needing her input. She walked past the trees and listened to the birdsong, thinking about how differently she perceived the world around her without the meddling interference of that entity clouding her mind. It was a welcome relief, truth be told - she just wished that it didn't have to come at such a high cost to everyone involved. The healer seemed exhausted from her efforts after she'd finished, and she bitterly regretted her violence towards the woman who had tried to strangle her, and the squire... not to mention the agony of the ritual that Iridiel had performed. Angora reached the stream's edge and sat down, the wind reminding her oh-so-clearly that it was most certainly not a warm summer's day. Still, it had to be done some time, and the sooner it was over and done with, the better. Angora first slipped off her various pieces of jewellery which she had collected during her time under the spirit's thrall. The rings came off, one by one, the faces of those to whom they had originally belonged flashing before Angora's eyes as she did so. She frowned, and thought about throwing them in the stream, to be lost in the flowing water. They were little more than plunder from murders most foul, trinkets and shinies that the spirit had found interesting from some strange primal instinct, and they reminded her of what she was: little more than an animal, feasting on the flesh of the fallen, and butchering those she came across. And she could remember it all so clearly... and why? Because the spirit had demanded it? Because she had reverted to simple primal urges for meat and fire and gold? Did the spirit really imagine that to be human civilisation?! Rage washed over her as she thought about how the spirit had effectively violated her, and she clenched her fists, her mouth curled in an irritated snarl at nothing in particular. Was that her just reward for stealing the sword in the first place, to be mentally broken, no, raped by some outsider that knew nothing of the world about it and used her as its vessel? Her joy from her liberation seemed like a distant memory, her mind consumed by anger at the spirit... And in a moment of clarity, she realised something. Perhaps it had had such an effect on her because of her temper, because she was given to extreme moods? Maybe it could have been a blessing in disguise. Angora smiled. An unusually cruel, and cold smile that brought a chuckle to her throat. Yes... that was it, a blessing in disguise indeed. She would use this spirit as a weapon. She already had proved to herself that she could use it as she pleased, now that its control over her had been broken. Now she resolved to take her revenge upon it. She would subordinate it completely to her will, and use its power to defeat those who stood against her. The beast that she had been was still an effective killer, and if she were able to temper its abilities, to harness the inner raw emotion... and then calm herself and allow her rational mind to take over outside of combat, she could be so much more than even her brothers were capable of. She had already been both the Untamed *and* Angora. But she had never been able to switch between the two, not until now.
All of that from some rings and bracelets. Angora decided to keep them with her, if only to remind herself of what she used to be, and what she could never allow herself to regress into. She set them aside on the bank of the stream, and then removed her boots, which were perhaps the only items of clothing that didn't require some... extensive maintenance. The leather cuirass that served as her primary 'armour' was next, Angora carefully unlacing it from the left side, before completely immersing it in the water, which prompted a sharp intake of breath as the chilly water bit at her hands. Nevertheless, she kneaded away at the dirt and grime on the leather, rubbing, and in some cases using her nails to scrape off the worst of it as best she could in an effort to at least look slightly presentable when she and her companions (with any luck) arrived at the gates of the city. Though the majority of the population did live outside the city itself, Angora's family was one of those that lived within the city walls, thanks in part to her father's income as a gold and silversmith, which had most certainly augmented their status. It was dirty money. Angora snickered to herself as she worked away at the leather, thinking about how her family's entire situation as it stood relied entirely on crime... her father had learned the art of goldsmithing by experimenting on items that her mother Iora had stolen from her wealthier clients, and it was Iora's own profession that had resulted in the birth of Angora's younger brother, as well as magician, Karl. Angora herself had been well-versed in the art of the seductive murder - the safest way past a man's security was in his bedchamber, after all. Reikard was the perfect soldier, honourable yet well-intentioned, and Yvann... Angora snorted as she remembered her brother. In Angora's own words, he was as dull as dishwater and as sharp as a pebble. Angora used to steal from him all the time when they were children, and he never learned of it until either her father Erik or Iora found the missing items in Angora's possession, which usually earned her a sharp clip around the ear. Yet her childhood, for all of its black money, and mother coming home after dark, and father almost setting fire to the house, was a happy time. She missed it. Finishing up the leather, Angora stood up and sighed heavily, only to hear a cough from behind her. Whirling around and drawing her sword ready to strike, Angora was only just about able to stop herself from leaping at the origin of the noise - Iridiel. The healer had followed her, and she held something in her hands. "Here. You might want this." Iridiel handed over a small leather package bound with silken string, and then undid her cloak and held it out. "This should keep the cold off." Angora smiled and took the package and cloak gratefully. "Thank you..." she breathed as she looked back at the river. Iridiel, for her part, turned away and sat down a short distance from the bank, before taking out a leg of salted and smoked ham from her pack and cutting off a small piece of it with her dagger to eat. Angora laid down the cloak on the bank of the stream and placed the jewellery on top, before unlacing the package - a small block of some hard substance that was slippery to the touch. It was some kind of soap, but not one that Angora was familiar with. Nevertheless, she set it too on the cloak within reach from the water, before she drew herself back up and stripped naked, discarding the cloth shirt and torn leather trousers onto the grass. The cold wind made its presence known ever more fiercely, causing Angora to swear repeatedly and she drew her arms across her breasts protectively, almost as if to try and hold on to some last bit of warmth as she stepped into the chilly water. It seemed as though the whole world was just full of cold! "What I wouldn't give for a Zerulic bathhouse right now!" she shouted over to Iridiel, who laughed in acknowledgement. Angora, after a moment of hesitation knelt in the stream, and began to scrub her hair and face thoroughly with the cold water, smearing the soap all through it in an effort to get the dregs and the dirt and the grease out of her long black locks. As she washed the soap out of her hair, she whistled a tune from her childhood. The words she could not remember, but the tune had stayed with her, and provided some small comfort to the frigid woman as she splashed her face with water. Next came her body... and she wasn't looking forward to it. She scrubbed herself vigorously down with the soap Iridiel had provided for her and then, after much hesitation, Angora immersed herself fully in the water by lying down on the stony riverbed, allowing the stream to wash away the dirt and grime loosened by the soap. Getting back to her feet unsteadily, Angora staggered over to the stream bank and took hold of her cloth shirt and leather trousers, before walking back into the middle of the stream and immersed her clothing into the water, rubbing them too with the soap, which had diminished quite substantially.
Finishing up after what seemed like an eternity, Angora finally sloped over to the side of the riverbank and laid out her clothes to dry, before drawing the cloak about herself and donning all of her jewellery. She then walked over and sat next to Iridiel, who offered her several slips of meat to eat as they waited for the others to arrive. "Thank you..." Angora bit into the meat and gasped as the taste all but overwhelmed her. The saltiness, the smoky flavour... She hadn't been able to truly taste anything when the spirit had taken her over - she'd eaten to sustain herself, not for any other purpose. She chewed on the meat hungrily, as Iridiel struck flint and iron against each other to start a small fire.

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The savage - though it was perhaps no longer entirely appropriate to designate her as such now that her demeanor had undergone a drastic change - looked at him and Jaelnec as she picked up on their approach (or rather, had them pointed out to her), apprehension and fear briefly showing on her countenance as she swallowed, taking in his and Jaelnec's appearance.
By the time he had halted by the small group, though, she had acquired a smile of some description - though more likely one of embarrassment and nervousness than any gladness or relief at the sight of them. Made sense, he figured - Jaelnec had but a dozen minutes ago questioned Olan's assurances over sparing her life (though the squire had to no small extent been influenced by a rather personal kind of pain), and he bore the grim mask of duty. What little signs of improved mood he had shown when he was conversing with Jaelnec in private had once more become overshadowed by weariness, pain, sense of urgency and the ever-present air of duty, of had to over wanted to.
Just may this be quick for once... An one-syllable word was all he gave to encourage them to reveal what they had been discussing - especially as it seemed it somehow involved him, judging from the patterned guy's notion of 'the one in a black coat' and the accompanying hand-gesture ... and Olan chiming in with "Yeah, the hatless one, you know?"
"H-Hi there..." their new acquaintance stammered over her words before his gaze. "I, uh... I'll be just cleaning myself up, actually... best not wait much longer, right?"
Clean herself up... One could not say she did not direly need it. Furthermore, he could relate - how many times during the last two weeks alone had he himself been the first to bid for warm water and a chance for clean cloth as soon as his and his companions' relative safety had been established and the worst wounds closed. And whatever settlement or location she had heired from - if it were not a solitary farmstead, her appearance was sure to gather quite some attention.
On another side ... delay upon a delay, obstacle upon obstacle. Did she expect them to wait? Or just let her off without making sure whether she was still a threat, to herself or others? Was it gone? He was not sure whether there was still a faint trace of it left, or it was just his own natural physical condition speaking. If he could just be sure she was safe for the time being, he supposed Jaelnec could even linger for an hour or two, have her find some water and make use of it and a washcloth. They would still make it to Zerul in the evening this way, after or with Thaler and him. If the thing was still within her, maybe someone there could figure out what it was... Much more reasonable now that she was not rampant.
Before he could formulate all those thoughts, and his plans for the group as a whole, though, the young woman let out a half-hearted laugh and proceeded to see herself off with nary a chance for him to get a word in. He tensed, his free hand automatically shooting out, as if to reach after the woman.
"Wait."
His voice was louder than before, if closer to his normal speaking volume than anything else. Before, the weariness and scraping in his throat had significantly diminished his usual mannerisms in speech. He was not angry, though, but forceful. Yet, it had no effect. Off she went. She would not get far if they so willed, but nevertheless.
A muscle by the corner of his jaw twitched as he slowly let his raised hand drop again, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly as a minuscule amount of emotion seeped away from his gaze.
No. He cannot let ire over small accumulative things take over again ... not so soon after he had made himself to let go. Was it unfair to expect that a person who had - though not truly through a fault of her own - added injury to all too many open wounds, yet had been spared, to be cooperative enough to at least speak with the person standing at the head of the people who had quite probably had saved her? Or at the very least let him finish a sentence...
He sighed, expression once more assuming more neutral lines. Yes. He did not look the most approachable. But he was also visibly unwell and all but using another person as a crutch. Some questions were important ... like where had she picked that thing up. Were there more? Did they have a nest somewhere? Were they infecting people, and could there a dozen more Angoras leaping shrieking at people from bushes? He did not know.
The prospect of a dozen or more other possessed ... it was more than scary. Especially considering that Thaler had just wandered off on her own, already injured. The foreign warrior could feel an odd coldness settling in his chest, and his limbs feeling strangely weak, more so than they had from common weariness. For a moment, his gaze became empty, his face blank rather than stern. Hurry, his feelings demanded.
He was not a match against one for the time being ... but Etakar could probably take upon several, if need be. Jaelnec better still stayed with Olan, the hunter and the healer ... the last of whom looked quite exhausted herself after her multiple feats.

"Is it gone?" he suddenly inquired, eyes moving from Olan to Iridiel, briefly flickering to Domhnall.
Iridiel watched as Aemoten tried to stop Angora from leaving the group, and shook her head ruefully as his hand fell back to his side. Mustering up what she knew of Rodorian, Iridiel tried to explain as best she could. "I think... she feels threatened? Aye, threatened. You both... frighten her. Both of you. She thinks you still want her dead, or at least hand her over for murder."
The Lower Sekalyn's eyes fixed on the female Éireannach, confused.
"She didn't attack us. It did. Before it? I wouldn't know if, why and how. I was wondering whether it was gone ... and if there are more like her." Somewhat unexpectedly, his tone had shifted to one that was just patient. He closed his eyes. "I'm not - I don't want anyone dead. Too many things have happened; I'm weary, worried, and have to devote more mental energy to just staying upright than a man should. It would be a welcome change if things were to progress smoothly for once."
Iridiel took out her dagger and twirled it around in her hand as Aemoten explained his own standpoint on the situation - she didn't understand everything, but she was slowly getting better at comprehending Rodorian... Iridiel shrugged and nodded at the question - if only because it was the easiest thing to do in response.
"Angora is... herself again. I think the thing inside is still there, but not in her head. It's inside her, but not in control." Iridiel stopped for a moment. "I think... she trusts me. I can talk to her if you want."
Still there. Not good. That would have been too easy, would it not? With yet another sigh, the foreign warror opened his eyes, observing Iridiel's face.
"Do you reckon you can keep it at bay, should it try to take over again?" At least until there is some decision on what to do next. He, like most Seklayns, had very unusually intense gaze; his people did not often look people directly in the eyes, lest it was to intimidate or make a very strong point. "You must realize, I'd rather no more needless harm came to my people - least of all today, which has proven more than painful enough. I shall take them on their word on what they can still endure. If you can talk to her ... it would be much appreciated. To find out how it all came to be, whether there could be more people that might be affected. Things like that."
Iridiel found Aemoten's eyes to be very... overpowering, and yet she couldn't bring herself to try and break away from his gaze, and she nodded in acknowledgement.
"I was not the one to break it. You must look to the Mother for that... and the Mother always provides for her children." Iridiel gave a small dreamy smile and turned away, looking over in the direction in which Angora had traipsed off, whilst the Celtic cross marked on her back began to tingle with a strange warm feeling, almost as if two large arms descended on her in a warm embrace. "I think Angora will be fine, but I should go and check on her."
"Do so," he affirmed with a nod of his own, finally shifting his eyes away from Iridiel as she went after the woman, and onto Olan and Domhnall.

Olan rubbed the back of his neck as he shot a look in Angora's direction, concern and uncertainty discernible in his expression. That expression remained mostly unchanged when he turned back to Aemoten, licking his lips as he pondered what exactly to say about what had transpired here with their new acquaintance.
"I can tell that the being inside her is still there, you know," he said hesitantly, taking his hand off his neck to make a vague gesture at nothing in particular. "And it seems more... dormant, I think? Like it's more at peace, almost assimilating into Angora herself. I have no idea what happened, but I think it worked, you know?"
This confirmed what Iridiel had assumed, and made an attempt to convey him in her broken Rodorian. Unexplained as Olan's abilities were, they had proven true in the past, and his trust in them was quite unwavering. In addition, he did not think a person would be able to pull off an act as convincing as Angora's change evidently was. It was - or had been, an actual affliction.
"I do believe the change in Angora's demeanor was a genuine one; the question is, then, is it going to last, and if, then for how long?" He sighed. "This, however, will have to wait for now."
And with that, he let go of Jaelnec's shoulder and walked a couple of steps over to Etakar and leaned a hand on the nape of his neck instead. Yet again, he halted, pausing to gather his thoughts and figure out how much of the situation was up for sparing.
"I - as well as Etakar and Thaler - will be going ahead for now. We might yet meet on the way to Zerul City; if not, we'll meet in the city, tonight or tomorrow. Food and accommodation should be arranged for us there, by one William Devian - we expected to be there by the evening." Technically speaking, they had been in a slightly different composition back when the arrangements had been made, but the number was about right, so it would have to do. "Jaelnec will be taking over for me for while I'm gone. Any last questions?"
His eyes shifted between Olan and Domhnall, the latter of whom appeared hesitant, looking vaguely in the direction Angora and then Iridiel had gone to and absently scratching his neck.
"Think no'," the latter finally noted, looking back at him. Neither Olan nor Jaelnec spoke up.
"Very well, then," he concluded, "If we do not meet again before Zerul City, I wish you a safe trek."

And just like that, he brought his right leg over Etakar's back and wrapped one hand in his mane, patting the noble beast's shoulder blade with the other to signify that he was ready - which caused the mighty creature to stand. One final nod in Jaelnec's direction, and the dekkun turned away, picking up a pace as the foreign warrior asked him to follow Thaler's trails.

That momentary glance at her legs, followed by quick aversion, was not lost to the witch’s attentive eyes. A brief, amused smile crossed her lips as she cocked her head, wondering what drove the man’s actions. Maybe it was part of his strange doctrine of distance; by denying himself the sight, he would not make it needlessly difficult on himself to keep the divide between them “healthy”. He was disciplined, she had to admit, although she knew that already. Were she in his shoes, she thought, she would never have brought herself to look away. One day, she’d understand.

“Can you tell what your energy is doing?” Gerald asked, setting down his cup and bringing up his hands, palms facing one another at a short distance. The gesture was also the moment their shoulders separated and Jillian leaned away from him again to give him some space. At least she wasn’t as cold anymore, and she felt her hair slowly drying off.

“I suppose. I don’t really pay attention to it when I’m not casting a spell.”

Her companion was silent for a good ten seconds, staring intensely at his hands. Jillian assumed he must have been focusing his energy in between his hands and tried to get a feel for it, but the amounts used by him proved too subtle to her senses. Being a necromancer, thus, would allow her to notice even such slight presences of energy, she concluded. Possibly useful.

“Reanimation isn’t the skill you really want to learn as much as a means to an end,” he broke the silence, vaguely explaining how manipulating one’s own energy was different from manipulating outside energy, so being good at one would not necessarily imply skill in the other. Something about Jillian’s furrowed brow and leaning gaze must have tipped him off to her lack of understanding when he sighed and appeared to think of another way to explain himself.

“Let me try again,” the necromancer attempted once more, “When we sense magic, you and I probably sense the same thing, only I know how to interpret it better and analyze it in greater detail.” So far so good, she thought. This much she knew. He went on to stress how she had to understand her own magic first, begin to see patterns in it, before she could do the same for outside sources. She imagined that he could help her see those patterns. Next, he explained, first with his bare hands and then, using his staff, how having a physical, foreign object that you could manipulate would make the effects and flow of her energy that much more obvious and recognizable. The moment he caused his staff to twirl between his palms was the moment it clicked for her, eyes widening momentarily in a sort of Eureka moment.

“Oh, I get it now.” She beamed at him. “It’s uh… still macabre, but I can see your point.” She wondered if one could not manipulate a less grotesque object. Maybe a doll or liquids? Elementals even? As if reading her mind, Gerald was struck by an idea. He proposed using his staff, Omni, instead of dead bodies. It was, after all, an object whose shape was almost entirely up to the wielder. It was also, she knew, a staff that ought to have been in Delian Gilmah’s hands.

“I’d much prefer that, if at all possible. But now that you brought it up…” She grasped the staff with one hand to stop it from moving, then caressed the emerald at its tip with the index from her other hand. “How did you get away with swiping it from Gilmah and her tribunal? Studying necromancy under them and escaping is one thing, but the staff – I can’t imagine she would have just given it to you carelessly. They must be royally cross with you.”

There was no denying the growing sense of anxiety Jaelnec felt from the moment Aemoten uttered the words that once again placed the squire as leader of a group, not with how catastrophic his first experience bearing the burden of leadership had proven for everyone involved. He tried his best to simply push it aside and ignore the feeling, making sure to keep his naughty left hand away from the hilt of Roct while expressing nothing with his mien or body-language but confidence. They were not going to be apart for long, after all; they would in all likelihood be reunited later that day, and then everything was going to be better. Aemoten was going to resume the position as leader, they would all have proper beds and safe places to sleep, they would get to learn how Meila’s father had managed to recover from the Withering, and they would all be able to rest and heal while in the safety of one of the major cities of Rodoria. Everything was going to be fine.
Still, it was with a heavy heart and deep worry that Jaelnec watched the Sekalyn ride off atop his strikingly loyal dekkun, and despite his opinion of the god and unwillingness to rely on him he offered a silent prayer to Laon to keep the three of them – Aemoten, Thaler and Etakar – safe until Jaelnec himself could be there to protect them. Who knew, maybe being alone with each other for a bit would be good for the daywalker and the man who loved her.

And then he was left alone with Domhnall and Olan. The young nightwalker suddenly felt incredibly awkward standing before them like this, alone and presumably under careful scrutiny by those who would eagerly await their chance to criticize and overthrow his leadership rather than simply being a pillar of strength to reinforce Aemoten’s position. What was he supposed to do or say just about now? How had he gotten this meek in the short time since stepping down as leader? How –
“We should probably gather a bit of firewood or something, you know?” Olan rescued his younger kinsman from his own crippling sense of insecurity by saying, looking around at nothing in particular. “Maybe get some food ready. All this talking about eating has gotten me a bit hungry, I think...”
“Yeah, good idea,” the squire agreed, flinching as he noticed that his left hand had strayed dangerously close to Roct again. “The faster we get everyone in a condition to travel, the sooner we can work on catching up to Aemoten and Thaler.”



A powerful twitch went through Gerald’s entire body when Jillian suddenly reached out and grabbed the tip of his staff, and he winced visibly with the sheer force of will it was necessary for him to muster in order to prevent himself from reflexively yanking Omni from her hands and probably knocking her on her head with it for good measure. Omni was his, part of his mind insisted; something precious that belonged only to him, and which only he was allowed to touch and manipulate. This was a sentiment he would have to get past if they were going to use the artifact to teach Jillian with, obviously, which was why he even made the effort to stop himself.
It felt like it had been so long since he had been close to another person like this... not in a romantic or sensual fashion, but in a position that to such an extent required him to suspend his own distrust toward the world and everyone in it. The last several years, he started to realize, had taken their toll on him in more ways than what had been inflicted by the Withering in that the loneliness of his near-complete solitude had rendered him so afraid of getting close to people. It was a necessity and a conscious decision that he had to remain alone, of course, but that was a choice; not being able to do so was a weakness, not a strength, and to achieve his goals he could not afford weakness of any kind.

“I didn’t,” he told her, ignoring his own reluctance to let her touch his staff and instead concentrating on answering her question. “I never went to the Black Tribunal – in fact this is the first time I’ve even visited Pelgaid – and I have never met or seen Delian Gilmah. They came to me.” He sighed. “I didn’t steal Omni, and to be honest I don’t even know for certain how I came to have it at all. It may be that Delian has managed to craft more than one and is giving them to all of her necromancers – though none of the ones that came to instruct me had one – but I don’t know. All I can really say for certain is that one day, months after I had been exiled from Zerul and I’d found my new home in Nemhim, it just... showed up.” He shrugged. “I just woke up one day and there it was, just randomly lying there below a closed window. I can’t explain it, but ever since then it’s been mine, and no one has come to claim it, which I guess means that they either want me to have it or they don’t know that I have it.”
He allowed a small tickle of magical energy to flow into the staff, causing the emerald at the tip of the staff to emit a soft, gentle light. “But yes, given that I cut all contact with them and give them nothing in return for the time and resources they invested in training me as a necromancer, I’d imagine that they aren’t entirely pleased with me.”

He listened in silence when Iridiel haltingly explained about their home ... diverse as it was in terrain and climate, it was indeed perhaps not the most densely populated. One could only begin to picture the contrast between a small mountain town or a jungle village and what those folks here considered a city. Even though Domhnall was the one more comfortable with strangers out of the two, he would probably feel quite out of place indeed. But at least the trade was wont to be good ... Zerul City would not be as derelict as many of the lesser settlements, one could at least presume. Only once they see the life or lack of it in a truly big place would they be able to gauge how many had truly been lost to the terrible plague these people evidently hunted.
The scene changed quickly, though, when Aemoten and Jaelnec approached - against his suggestions and assurances, Angora's nerves got the best of her and rather than stay and explain herself in her own words, she effectively fled the scene. Not too surprisingly, the warrior's voice cut through the air, commanding the woman to halt as he held out a hand, as if to reach after her. The human man's expression hardly changed, though there was this slight ... clenching of his jaw, maybe? Yep, probably not too pleased with this course of events. Whatever negative reaction he had, though, the warrior appeared to repress those immediately, opting to inquire about the success or lack of it instead.
Back to business, ey? The leader of those people really did not come across as the sort to dally about and make small talk when there were things to get done... Wasn't the one to always use the simplest of terms, either, although he, too, was supposedly a foreigner - by his general features, and slight accent, which made the Rodorian words seem less fluent, somehow harder and more distinct. The male forestfolk figured the man must have been living in those lands for far longer than he and Iridiel had traversed them.
He did not interject as Iridiel - who appeared to have taken the newcomer to heart - tried to explain what she could in her broken Rodorian, only occasionally quietly clarifying what Aemoten was saying when he chose less than obvious manner to express his thoughts. (He is just tired and worried, I think, not angry, and doesn't want anyone dead. He wants to know whether there are others who have been possessed, like Angora was, and whether you could subdue the ... thing again, if need be. He also says he wants to ensure the safety of his people first, especially after ... whatever happened earlier today. He'll be thankful if you talked to Angora.)
Once Iridiel had gone her way and the man announced he and Thaler would be going ahead, he was left in a bit of a predicament. Absently scratching his neck, he stared off in the direction his companion and their new acquaintance had gone off to.
Should he inform him of Angora's intentions in her stead? If he was going away for a while and leaving his squire in charge, it would only complicate things further, no? How did she even expect to serve out the dept she had proclaimed if she was going to flee at the sight of - evidently the higher-ranked - half of the group? In the end, he decided it was not a matter he wanted to discuss when the individual it pertained most was not even present.
"Think no'," the latter finally noted, looking back at the stern warrior. And so off he and his hellbeast went, leaving the younger black-eyes standing there. He half-expected for the guy to speak up, but the silence that followed was effectively long enough to yield some ground to awkwardness. Eventually, it was the older black-eyes who spoke up.
“We should probably gather a bit of firewood or something, you know? Maybe get some food ready. All this talking about eating has gotten me a bit hungry, I think...” It appeared the squire agreed with te notion, if only because it would help them get ready sooner.
Domhnall shrugged. "Coul' do with firewoo', I s'pose. Guess we're movin' camp again, ra'her than goin' back tae the ol' one?"

The next couple of minutes were spent assembling his supplies and picking up his spear again, followed by gathering up an armful of twigs and a large handful of dry lichen and what appeared to be an old long-abandoned nest of some small bird, suitable for starting fire. All of those were deposited quite close to the stream Angora had referred to, near to where Iridiel had seated herself, the spear and his bag leaned against a tree, the rest just dropped by an mostly-bare patch of land. He avoided looking in the direction of the stream itself, though - it had been made clear that the local people were quite shy, and there was little reason to assume that Angora would be any different now that she was back to her human manners.
Some more time was taken up by him going back to gather up even more food for fire - this time mostly larger fallen branches that would take a bit more time to burn up. Twigs had been quite easy to find, what with all the shrubbery concealing their path to the spot when they had first encountered the gray brute, proper firewood, with large trees being sparse over here, had been a bit more difficult to get together a meaningful amount of. By the time he returned to where Iridiel had been left, Angora had already returned (one could only imagine she had hurried up cleaning herself up as much as possible, lest she became too numb to feel a thing all over), now much cleaner and wearing Iridiel's cloak and seated seated next to the highlander herself, who had begun trying to get a fire going.
Without further ado, Domhnall dropped his pile of bigger branches next to the pile of twigs, and took seat on his companion's other hand.

"You caused a... scene? When you, er... when you left, Angora." Iridiel's voice rose above the quiet crackling of the nascent fire in their new campsite - despite her inadequate grasp of Rodorian, she was quietly pleased with her ability to hold a conversation with the natives of this land. At least, Angora didn't seem to mind her halting speech - perhaps unsurprising, really, given how Angora hadn't really been able to communicate since her possession, and was likely relieved to have someone to talk to. Angora, for her part, gave a small chuckle and shrugged, the thick cloak around her body masking all but the most obvious movements - though it sure was warm. Angora sat with her knees set firmly against her chest with only her arms, shoulders and head exposed to the elements, the cloak wrapped about her almost as a cocoon, a shield against the winds, and she chewed hungrily on the salted ham that Iridiel had cut for her. Give the woman some credit, she does know how to cook... and make a fire. Angora thought to herself as she watched the fire begin to catch.
"I don't know if it was just fear or simply me not wanting to stand there in such a state, to be honest." Angora began, not moving her gaze away from the fire, which had by now started to radiate some small amount of heat. "The younger one with black eyes just unnerved me... almost like looking into the eyes of a demon, you know? I know he's probably not a demon, but still, it's not right to look at someone and they look back at you with no colour in their eyes."
"Unnerved?" Iridiel inquired, unsure what the word meant.
"Oh, erm... it makes you feel a bit strange to be around them. Didn't really fill me with confidence. I think they're called... what is it, a nightwalker? The older one, though, he seemed like a nice chap. He made me feel more at ease." Iridiel nodded in agreement, chuckling to herself as she continued cutting meat. "And the little woman with the white hair and white eyes-"
"The one on your back trying to strangle you?" Iridiel gave a wry smile.
"Yes, her!" Angora giggled and shook her head. "She was a tenacious one, let me tell you... She was like a little dog with a slipper, she was that difficult to shift. She was a daywalker, I think." There was a pause, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and Angora trying to remember if she was right. "Or they're the other way around, I don't really remember. It's been a long time since I've even heard of either of them, let alone seen one."
"I thought she was a changeling when I first saw her." Iridiel finished cutting off another piece of ham and handed it to Angora, who took it gratefully and chowed down, still famished from her probably-accidental 4-day starve. "Changelings are small things that have multiple, uh... bodies? You know, change from one to the other? Uh... what do you call them in your language... uh, shapeshifters?" Angora nodded emphatically as she ate, smiling broadly. "Yes, I must say, both the black-eyes and the white-eyes made me feel... I don't know how to describe it, you know?" Iridiel yawned, blinking several times to try and refocus on her surroundings. "Mmmh... I've done too much today. First the group, then you... A healer's work is never done."
"Rather you than me. I just know how to make work for you."
"Yes. That you do. Amadán." Iridiel smiled slyly and sideswiped a glance at the human, whilst Angora giggled and shifted slightly, returning her gaze to the fire. There was another long pause, which was only broken by the dim murmur of conversation (in Rodorian, naturally, so Iridiel had no clue what was being said - it was hard enough for her to understand Angora half the time) over in the group, and the fire. Finally, Angora spoke up, which brought Iridiel out of her daydream that she had slipped into.
"Where do you come from, Iridiel? You're not like anyone else here."

The question to end all questions. How would Iridiel even begin to explain her past? She didn't know how to articulate half of it in Eireann, let alone Rodorian. Well, Angora did ask, so Iridiel figured she would try her best to tell her. At least, it would tide them both over until the others got back from whatever it was they were talking about. Iridiel cleared her throat and took a sip of water. "Long story."
"We've got time, I'm sure."
"Well... As I said before, Domhnall and I are from the Contaetha, a land probably further away than even your maps describe, way far to the west of here. As for Domhnall, I don't actually know where he's from - I picked him up on my way here - but I myself am from the town of Loch Garman. Loch means lake in our language - the town was named after the water, right?" Iridiel took another sip of water and handed the waterslip to Angora, who drank from it deeply as Iridiel continued. "It was a normal life... though you Rodorians might say it's... primitive? We don't have high stone walls, or lots of big stone buildings like you do - my home was a simple wood and straw, er... we call it a teach, a... longhouse, you might call it? We Eireannach have large families - at least we from the Garbhchríocha do. There was me, my parents... I had seven sisters and brothers, and my parents' parents." Angora widened her eyes in surprise. "Yes, all in one teach. And that was small for us, you know? Some friends had even larger families. But anyway, we have a tradition in the Counties... all magicians must work in special jobs that the King tells them to do, aye? You know what my talent is already, but nobody else in my family knew when I was a child." Angora shook her head and scowled, muttering "Sounds like slavery..." darkly. Iridiel nodded, an equally-irritated look on her face. "That was what I thought too. It's not fair, you know? You can't tell me that I have to do this one thing and this thing only for the rest of my life! What if I don't want to do it? And... so, when I was 18, I finally told my parents that I could heal people. And they went straight to the town leader and the clergy when I was out in the fields."
"They betrayed you to the authorities. Like some kind of criminal." Angora breathed, scarcely able to believe it. This woman had been betrayed by her own parents for her abilities, and was basically going to be indentured as a slave for everyone else's benefit? Angora shook her head and kept quiet as Iridiel continued, whilst the others began to make their way over towards them, sitting at the fire.
"The priests came when I came back the same day. They wanted me to come with them to the capital... I said no. I didn't want to go... they said I had no choice, the Kings decreed it. They tried to force me. And then..." Iridiel faltered and stared down at the ground. Even now, 14 long, hard years later, it still stung to talk about it, or even to remember it. "I killed them. With two big blasts. I killed them both, where they stood. They fell to the grass... it burned. They burned." Iridiel fell silent. Angora shuffled over slightly and put her arm around the Eireannach's shoulder. "They burned... and the guards came. I couldn't - didn't - resist. I was sure they'd burn me. I'd attacked the priests, the whole town wanted me dead. Bhí mé den sórt sin a leibide... Such a fool..."
Maybe this is why she was so quick to come to my aid... Angora thought as she listened to Iridiel tell her story. She couldn't help but feel both pity and admiration for the woman, who, by refusing to submit to the will of the state, had even gone so far as to kill. She wanted her freedom to do as she wanted, not what some crusty old fogie sitting on a throne told her what to do. Angora wasn't sure if she'd kill for it, but she sympathised with Iridiel. Who were the aristocracy to tell people what to do, purely by their birthright? What right did this barbarian king have to dictate the lives of his subjects? Magic was something to be treasured, not limited, controlled and snuffed out in this way... and then to be threatened with burning.
"They exiled me. "Agus caoga bliain!" he said... For fifty years. I was thrown out of the town. Eiriceach, they called me! They chanted it as they beat me, threw me into the mud outside the gates. All I had were the clothes I had... and my faith. My faith in the Mother to help me. So I walked... and walked east." Iridiel looked Angora squarely in the eye, almost challenging her with a steely gaze. "Ná bíodh luí síos agus ghlacann bás. It's a phrase in my language. You would say... Don't lie down and die. I wasn't about to, Angora. And Sulis kept me strong." Iridiel's lids grew heavy, as she sighed and looked back at the fire. "I walked. They exiled me at 18. Now I'm 32."
Domhnall came over to them and sat down next to Iridiel, who smiled at the Forestfolk. "Fáilte romhat." Iridiel murmured as she leaned her head on his shoulder... Iridiel drifted off to sleep, as Angora sat there and munched on what was left of the ham that Iridiel had cut for her. Her clothes were not yet dry... which meant she still needed the cloak. However, she felt much cleaner than before - almost completely refreshed, as though the metaphoric filth of the possession had been washed away. She just wished she had a new change of clothes to match... That would have to be later. For now, the cloak would do to protect her body from the bite of the wind.

Jillian’s eyebrows perked up almost in the same instant that Gerald’s body twitched seemingly involuntarily the moment her hands made contact with Omni. He said nothing, no protest against this uninvited touching of his belongings – in fact, the most valuable of all of his possessions, barring perhaps the demon prison – but the witch could tell that he hadn’t expected nor wanted it. He must have harbored strong feelings of possessiveness over the object which she so gently caressed now, unperturbed by his reaction. After all, he had chosen not to bring it up and she wanted to play along, pretending she hadn’t noticed. Only, a part of her grinned with devious glee inside, reveling in the knowledge that she could extract such a visible and strong reaction from him with but the gentle stroke of a finger.

Gerald explained that he had never been to Pelgaid, let alone the dark, beating heart of it, before. Apparently, the tribunal had come to him instead, which itself was surprising to her, not only due to the fact that they had chosen him of their own volition, but that they could leave their cursed realm at all. She thought the very reason Pelgaid’s capital was located such as it was, was to form an impenetrable barrier to the necromancers and their ilk. If they could leave and train apprentices in the outside world, then what purpose did the city even serve now? Perhaps it still kept the worst of horrors at bay, but even that seemed more speculation than fact now. The witch was no proponent of the ban on necromancy (or other outlawed schools of magic), but she was very willing to believe that the things locked up in the realm of eternal night were better of remaining that way. Magic was only ever a tool that could be used to accomplish both good and evil, but Delian and her followers almost certainly had less than the good of Rodoria on their minds. Especially now, after their lengthy imprisonment, if indeed they still were prisoners at all.

“I wasn’t aware that the tribunal could leave Pelgaid,” she looked and gestured towards the city’s silhouette, “I thought the very purpose of the capital was to keep Delian and her tribunal safely locked away.”

“But if you didn’t go to them,” her gaze swept back to him, her voice now suspicious, “then why did they seek you out specifically? I imagine you had to make some kind of promise to them? I very much doubt they would go through all that trouble just to do you a favor. Aren’t you a little wary of them? You say you gave them nothing in return, whilst receiving your training and a powerful artifact. Surely they’re either planning their revenge, or you are playing into their hands unknowingly. Either way I’d find that concerning.”

Or, she thought of a third option, he was lying to her. Perhaps he didn’t want to tell her the extent of his involvement with the tribunal, or simply didn’t think her ready. She didn’t want to assume this, but it was a possibility she had to be aware of. Gerald had proven to be very deliberate in how he treated her and what he told her. There was no telling just how much he was still hiding from her, and why.

The situation still felt unreal to Jaelnec somehow, perhaps even more so now that he was not only the leader again, but they were also just calmly and safely gathering firewood for some warmth and a meal before heading off to their destination. These last couple of days in particular had been some of the toughest to deal with in his life, even when compared to the trials he had been put through by his relentless master. It was still not worse than losing his parents and hometown to the crusaders, of course – an occurrence that had left him broken and empty – , but accumulatively the events of these past few days probably came in second to that. Yet oddly, he found, he did not feel hopeless or sad; frightened, yes, but not to the point of surrender. He could tell that he still had strength in reserve and that he remained capable of facing whatever he needed to face to protect his friends, and in spite of the adversity they had met on their road thus far, he still felt naively hopeful about their chances to end the Withering.
Not only that, but reaching Zerul City would not only potentially clue them in on where to continue their quest, but also allow Jaelnec to find and meet Thaler’s grandfather, who could very well be the last living Knight of the Will now that Freagon was gone. It was possible that the squire could become a full-fledged knight, which though practically was just a formal title would still be a formidable source of motivation for him. Together with Thaler he would revive the knighthood, using the obliteration of the Withering as the catalyst to regain its legendary status.
And then, on top of it all, Roct...

His left hand found the hilt of the sword, grasping it lightly while he gathered suitable-looking pieces of wood with his left and sticking them in his left armpit for transportation. Roct, are you here?
“I am always here, Jaelnec. I thought we had established by now that I literally cannot exist outside the sword, and have no choice but to respond when you reach out to me?” came her prompt reply, her tone sounding more genuinely curious than biting. She was silent for a moment – a sensation made different from her simply not communicating by him still feeling vaguely aware of her presence, making her hesitation almost palpable to him – before speaking again. “You intentionally avoided touching the sword for a while there. You were talking about me, were you not?” She sounded nervous.
Some of the time, he told her truthfully. Aemoten says that you absolutely can’t possess me again and that doing so is dangerous. He recounted what the Sekalyn had told him to her as best as he could.
“Oh.” She gave off a sense of quiet wonder. “I had no idea. I... I just felt as though I needed to do something. You were reaching for me so desperately back then... I didn’t know. I guess even now I still don’t understand your kind...”
Jaelnec arched an eyebrow. My kind? Nightwalkers?
“Well, yes, but humanoids in general as well, and animals for that matter. I wasn’t like your kind to begin with, and being stuck like this hasn’t exactly allowed me to develop much past what I’ve learned from my wielders. I guess that since all of my wielders have been nightwalkers, your kind is the one I understand the best.”
What do you mean, you weren’t like my kind to begin with?
Roct gave off a sense of dull regret. “I told you that I don’t know what I technically am, but I suppose what I originally was is relevant, isn’t it? I wasn’t always a sword, after all. Before Telagon forged this sword I was kept in a crystal prison, and before then... though I guess I wasn’t fully conscious or alive back then, since my body died before it was fully ready to be hatched, I was a dragon.”
“A dragon?!” Jaelnec exclaimed out loud, so startled that he forgot that he did not need to speak out loud for Roct to hear him.
“An infant White, yes. I died, as I said, but my father captured my soul before it could move on to the next plane, because he wanted me to have a chance to experience this world before moving on to the next. Sometimes... sometimes I think I would have preferred not to know this world. My time with Telagon was nice – he was a kind person and a good friend – but my time in Freagon’s hands...”
Freagon?
“I could tell you much about your master, Jaelnec, though perhaps not as much as you think. Freagon did not see me as an ally the way his father did and learned to shut me out completely very quickly after obtaining the sword. I will say that Freagon was nothing like his father; his heart was so cold that I would say he came dangerously close to fully embracing evil. Did, actually, a few times...”
Well, that was several of the questions he had for the entity answered all in one go. It did raise another one, though: How were you an ally to Telagon? Did you possess him like you did with me?
“No, I’d never forcefully possessed anyone until... you know. Usha. But being a dragon I have perfect memory, and even without taking over my wielder’s body I can still migrate part of my soul into them if they permit it. I found that I could lend Telagon certain abilities that came with my current state of existence, such as my sight. You’ve experienced it sporadically, too, when your anxiety was the greatest. Let me show you...”
Before Jaelnec could accept or deny Roct’s offer he suddenly found himself gazing upon a world that was different than the one he had seen but an instant prior, through black eyes that abruptly sported white slitted pupils. As he remembered having seen in flashes a number of times before the world became one of strange alien colors as the physical realm vanished to give way to a world of magical energy, the coursing soul and beating heart of Reniam laid bare before Roct’s ethereal vision.
Looking down at himself, even Jaelnec’s own body had turned into a contour of gray mist, whereas Roct – the sword and the creature – stood out as a bright, almost solid-looking outline of the sword in an almost blindingly pure white color.
He blinked, and the world returned to normal. He was speechless.
“I’ve also learned something similar to what some refer to as the Art of the Warden and can enhance physical attributes of my wielder if need be. I did this much in Telagon’s hands, to the point where I was often exhausted to the point of forced dormancy, but it has been a very long time since I’ve needed to use my energy for anything. I’m quite powerful right now, but I won’t be so for long if you decide to rely on me too much. Ask for it, and I can lend you whatever measure of strength you need.”
That sounds –
“No, it doesn’t. I gather energy very slowly, Jaelnec, and if you deplete the energy I have now... well, my power will not be too impressive in your lifetime. If you got your hands on that sword you used me to block earlier, however, that’s another story. I’ve never sensed such a bountiful source of magical energy before, it felt like I could keep drinking from it forever without ever exhausting it.”
That’s Angora’s sword, he told her with a frown. She’s an ally now; I can’t ask her to give me her weapon for something like that. Besides, I’m not sure I want you to be any stronger than you are now. You already possessed me and rendered me unconscious; what guarantee do I have you won’t do that again?
“Oh, I can’t do that. Well, I suppose I could if your consciousness was already trying to withdraw, but I won’t since you told me not to.”
You could me lying.
“I could,” she admitted freely, “but even then I could only ever inhabit you temporarily, and betraying your trust would most likely mean that I was discarded somewhere that I’d be unlikely to ever be found again. Since that is a fate I would do anything to avoid, it would be irrational for me to do so. Even if you don’t trust my morals, surely you can trust my common sense.”
Jaelnec sighed, still feeling uncertain about this uninvited passenger that had apparently come along on his quest but not having anything left to test her trustworthiness either.
It’s time to go back, he told her, hefting the firewood he had gathered during the conversation. We’ll talk more later. In the meantime I think you had better keep a very low profile, or I might decide that you’re too dangerous to keep around.
“I know. Eventually there is a lot that I feel you should know, but for now simply know this: the one who wielded the crystal prison I inhabited before this sword was Felgon Dragonslayer, who was Telagon’s father and Freagon’s grandfather. There is a lot that Freagon never told you. Also –”
Jaelnec let go of the sword and headed back to the camp then, intent not to let the entity tempt him into an even longer conversation than they had already had... though by the time he had found his way back to the others, it had occurred to him what Roct had said could not possibly be true. Felgon Dragonslayer, after all, died almost a thousand years ago.
It had to be a lie... did it not? Otherwise either Telagon or Freagon had to have lived for centuries longer than they should naturally have been able to.

When Jaelnec came back – soon followed by Olan, each of them carrying their own stack of dry branches – it was to Iridiel apparently recounting the tale of how she had come to leave her homeland. They listened in silence, neither of them wanting to interrupt her and both interested in her story, and remained silent right until Iridiel appeared to fall asleep.
“I guess adventurers never come with happy pasts,” Jaelnec sighed, wondering to himself whether that was really true. He looked at Angora, still wanting to be angry with her for the pain she had inflicted upon himself and Thaler but finding himself incapable of harboring any ill will against her after having seen her comfort Iridiel like that.
Inelegant though the transition might seem, he figured, he had to ask her: “How did you end up possessed by the... thing? The one that controlled you?”



“Pelgaid City is there to act as a prison for the Black Tribunal, yes,” Gerald confirmed Jillian’s suspicion, “but the Land of Eternal Night is mainly sealed with walls and guardsmen, and once magi become powerful enough, physical obstacles like that aren’t enough to stop them.” He nodded vaguely in Crone’s direction, silently reminding the witch of how that ancient sorceress had materialized here just a bit earlier this evening.
“Liches don’t have a maximum capacity like we do, but continue to accumulate more and more magical energy the longer they live, and the original Black Tribunal has been in there for eight hundred years or so... I imagine that they must be incredibly powerful by now. Though I don’t know what countermeasure is in place to prevent Delian and the other truly ancient liches from leaving – and there must be one or we’d have had a repeat of the War of Bones – I don’t think it’s able to stop everyone from leaving. The low-level necromancers, at least, seem to be able to leave just fine. That was who taught me, by the way; low-level necromancers.”
He chuckled. “If the Tribunal could leave... I’d imagine Rodoria would be a very different place. I don’t think any of the duchies would be able to stop them.”

When Jillian questioned the circumstances under which he had learned necromancy further, though, Gerald could only shrug. “Some time after my wife died I decided for myself to research necromancy in an effort to talk to her again, at least, and potentially do even more. I can only presume that they learned of my efforts somehow despite how hard I worked to keep them secret, because they showed up shortly after I had started fumbling in the dark. Just a couple of regular-looking people in black robes, offering me to join the Black Tribunal and learn necromancy from them.” He smirked. “This was before I was exiled, mind you; my stepfather was the dean of the academy, and I, a former instructor there, was in a prime position to succeed him. Surely a former revolutionary can see the allure in potentially putting a practitioner of the forbidden arts in place as the head of the primary institution teaching new generations of mages?”
He sighed. “Truth be told, though, I don’t know with certainty why they came to me, nor what their plans for me are now. It may be that they simply do not have the presence outside of the Land of Eternal Night to spend their resources on petty revenge against me. But whatever the case may be, all I can do at this point is wait and see what they do.”