It made no sense any way the young witch looked at it; how could there be a seal in place that kept the strongest necromancers locked away, but gave free reign to the lesser ones? If that was indeed the case, she had to imagine it working like a kind of sieve that kept the largest pieces out while being too coarse to catch finer grains. But then again, Gerald had said that Pelgaid’s guard consisted mostly of men-at-arms and walls. Was the tribunal just biding its time? Could they leave at any moment and they simply chose not to? Just how they chose to leave Gerald in possession of Omni? It was all very ominous and frightening. Feeling suddenly reminded of the impending marriage between Pelgaid and Zerul, she could hope that this union would at least bolster Pelgaid’s defenses with more knowledgeable mages, at least. If nothing else, they would reinforce the illusion of control and safety. It just dawned on Jillian just how many catastrophic dangers were looming over Rodoria, a fact that she had been quite ignorant to when she had still been a regular citizen. There was the Withering, of course, which had turned out to be the ploy of none other than Kreshtaat; there was Hazzergash who, even in a weakened state, could obliterate a majority of Anaxim, and only the Spirits knew where the other generals of the Grand Master hid; and now she was being told that the Black Tribunal was not nearly as convincingly quarantined as one might wish. Any one of these threats, and she was sure there were many others now that she was still unaware of, could be enough to plunge the entire human world into darkness and chaos. All the more reason to justify leaving behind her old life and becoming an active participant in shaping the fate of the world she knew.

And she wasn’t the only one doing the shaping; curious eyes fixated on her companion, she questioned how it came to be that the Black Tribunal had trusted Gerald so readily, even sought him out on their own volition. He revealed that, essentially, he did not know why they did what they did. At best, he had figured, it was to set him up as a competent necromancer for when he became the new dean at the academy. It began when he clumsily attempted to learn the art on his own, in secret, and they learned of this in spite of his precautions. Apparently they had simply offered him membership in the tribunal, and agreed to teach him. Jillian guessed that the necromancers must either have been very desperate for new blood or very naïve. Or perhaps Gerald was lying; she still found it hard to believe that he had just woken up to find Omni one day. He was either hiding part of the truth, or the tribunal was vastly less competent than she would have expected. Or, as she had guessed before, he was being played and did not know the truth himself. She wondered if the staff could be used to spy on him in some form and if that was what kept them docile for the time being, given that he was involved in a great many interesting affairs. In the end, though, Jillian decided to ask about something far more personal.

“Is your goal still the same, Gerald? About your late wife?” she asked softly, almost cautiously. Jillian knew that it was almost certainly a sensitive topic to ask about, especially when considering his taciturn nature when it came to personal things. She had suspected that this might have been his reason for seeking necromancy ever since the Grand Master had mentioned his beloved’s death and wondered if this fancy of his still held true. There was no way he could bring her back in a way that would not be a grotesque mockery of who she had been in life. Gerald had to know this, surely? Or was he privy to some elder lore that whispered promises of true resurrection?

Finally it came to light... Gerald knew he would have to discuss this particular topic at some point or another, and he had had a strong suspicion that not only mentioning his wife but also the intent to resurrect her would be too great a temptation for Jillian to resist. Curiosity was a powerful thing, particularly for mages, but it was also an almost universal trait that made virtually all beings in the planes fundamentally predictable if one could only find a thing that particular being was interested in. Jillian was interested in him, so naturally she would be interested in one of the core events in making him who he was.
Her question was wider than just wanting to know about his wife, however... it was about his goals. Technically he could answer her specific question very briefly without even justifying an accusation of lying or withholding details; her question was about something specific, so a specific answer would be natural. However...

“My wife is gone,” he told her, his voice a bit more bitter than he had meant it to be. He did not lapse into sorrow, however, but merely displayed great displeasure in the information he was sharing with her. “I’ve learned much since back then, and not just about necromancy. Bringing the dead back is not impossible, as has been proven by a number of resurrections throughout history, though I would certainly have been the first mortal to have accomplished such a thing... and speaking to the dead is one of the original purposes of necromancy, and completely doable. My wife is gone because the Withering killed her, and the Withering devours your very soul. Her very existence, even her dead spirit, has been erased from the planes by it.”
He took a deep breath, trying to keep calm despite the pain he felt building inside of him, and managed to maintain a fairly stoic facade. In fact the only thing that really betrayed the depth of how much the topic disturbed him was Omni, as the light in the emerald gradually increased in intensity and started fluctuating slightly, hinting at his internal struggle.
“I have many goals, Veldaine, though I recognize that not all of them may truly be possible. If there is any way at all that can possibly bring her back – even as just a dead spirit – I will find it and do so. In the absence of that...” He sighed. “I’ll settle for shaping the world into one that would please her. That means wiping the plague that killed her from existence, and it means the removal of any threat that could potentially bring her unhappiness...”
His gaze filled with grim determination and the glow in the emerald abruptly turned steady.
“If I cannot give her the world, I will take it for myself instead.”

“I guess adventurers never come with happy pasts.” The strange-looking man mumbled under his breath after Iridiel had finished her tale of how she had been exiled from her homeland. Inwardly, Angora grew irritated - all he had in response was a snarky comment about how trouble seemed to follow them, not a sympathetic 'well, at least you're here' or even just an arm around her shoulders, as Angora had done? Yes, Iridiel had saved her life and her sanity twice over, but even so, Iridiel was a healer, and it seemed a very powerful one at that - surely some acknowledgement of her presence was warranted beyond a simple comment like that? Or was she making a mountain out of a molehill? Perhaps he'd simply meant nothing by it, and it was more of an off-the-cuff line that he honestly said as a way of breaking the ice? Maybe. Angora wasn't sure what to think at the moment. Her head ached from the ordeal that Iridiel had subjected her to earlier, whilst the fire was still too small to have a meaningful effect on the cold winds biting at Angora's skin. At least one advantage of the spirit's possession was that she hadn't noticed the cold. Probably because it didn't understand it, or something.

Of course, then the man's attention turned to her. And what a question to start with, eh? “How did you end up possessed by the... thing? The one that controlled you?” It was a most prying question, and one that perhaps was not particularly conducive to endearing Angora to her new-found companions, given that she was undertaking highly-illegal and morally questionable activities when she was... well, possessed was probably the best way of stating it. Still, he had asked, and she might as well come out and say what she was doing - lying would likely bring down even more danger on her head than telling the truth. Besides... she owed it to them to at least come clean, this once. Not something she found easy to do, given her history.

"Well, we might as well start from the beginning, because to explain what I was doing out here, I have to explain what my profession was in Zerul City. I primarily worked in the criminal underground of the city - what underground there even is, needless to say - in a fair few different lines of work; I was an assassin, armed robber from time to time, occasional lady of the night and then murderer, occasionally I took part in organised drug smuggling, organised magical item smuggling, you name it, we dealt in it. And that leads me onto what was going on about... what would it be, six months ago? I think six months ago, I can't even remember the passage of time. All I do know is that it was about spring, and now it is-" Angora hesitated for a moment, looking around at her surroundings, "- I think autumn? Yes, autumn seems about correct, given the windchill." Angora chuckled a bit and drew the cloak around herself more tightly, trying to keep warm. Despite the cloak's best efforts, the wind was finding ways of sneaking inside and chilling her body. Not to mention the ground itself was as cold as ice, it seemed. "Well, anyway, it was early in this year when a penin expedition had reported they'd discovered some very powerful artefact, perhaps even deitic in manufacture. They'd called it simply the Black Sword, for... well, obvious reasons. And they were going to bring it back to Zerul City for investigation and research at the College of Magic. Unfortunately, there was something in the sword, some kind of spirit? Whatever it was - well, is, seeing how it's still in my body right now - it was not of this plane. The sword... well, its allure seemed to turn the penin against each other, which weakened the convoy and I believe led some of them to kill each other over accusations that they were planning to steal the sword and take it for themselves. Meanwhile, I had been contacted by someone rather... high up in the criminal networks - they wanted the sword and they were paying rather handsomely for it's theft from the convoy, preferably with none of the penin surviving to tell the tale. Now, you must understand, my family is not a poor one, we didn't really need the money, but our fortune is built on black gold. My mother stole the jewellery that my father used to learn the art of goldsmithing. My father, in turn, sold the re-purposed jewellery on for a healthy profit. And none were any the wiser... and so I thought that I could pull off a brilliant coup if I was successful, perhaps even raise us higher than we'd ever thought possible. Yes... an 18 year old girl thinking she could elevate her family into high-ranking circles driven out of pure greed, it's unthinkable, isn't it?" Angora smiled, trying to maintain as innocent a face as she could. "Who would have thought such a thing possible from one such as me? So, into the woods we go, in the direction of the penin convoy - which had caused quite the ruckus in the local area, so it was fairly simple to follow the rumours towards - and then, lo and behold, the convoy slowly makes it's brow-beaten, blood-soaked way towards Zerul City, ambushed by those ever-honourable 'gentlemen' Crusaders once or twice along the way. And so, they make camp when your dear Angora Kelenwyn finds them at night."

Angora sighed and shuffled one arm outside of the cloak and rubbed her eyes. "What I'm about to say, I'm not proud of. I regret doing it. I often don't sleep because of it." She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. "I killed them. All of them. All in cold blood." She shook her head as she continued, on the face of things scarcely able to believe that she'd done them... but she had. And she could remember the actions as clear as day. "The watchman was looking away from the undergrowth where I was hiding... so I sprang out, as quickly and quietly as I could. I knifed him in the back between his shoulder blades to make it quick and quiet, so as not to wake the others. Then, I walked around, stooping to slit their throats as they slept. They choked to death on their own blood, whilst yours truly thought nothing of it. It sounds horrible, I know, but... all I could think about was the sword, and the money when I returned. You're probably all sitting there thinking I'm a monster, and yes, I might well be. After all, only monsters murder people in their sleep, right? Only monsters sound like this, anyway..." Angora leaned forward underneath her cloak and closed her eyes, trying to forget the mental image that had been brought back by her recollection of her tale. She carried on, even though she was slightly muffled by her head in the thick wolfskin mane that Iridiel had loaned to her to keep her warm as her clothes dried. "I killed them all... and then I took the sword for myself. It was wrapped up in cloth, in one of their backpacks - probably the leader's. It was so beautiful... the leather scabbard - which is right here, by the way," Angora reached over under her cloak and patted the sword next to her, "was just... it was breathtaking at the time. It's all muddied and dirtied now, but back then... by the gods, it was beautiful. And the sword itself... I'd never seen anything like it. But the moment I unsheathed it, well... that was when it all started. The blast from the spirit's escape knocked me to the ground, and I felt a surge of energy wash over me. And then... then the voices started. I started hearing whisperings in my head when everything was quiet. They told me to do these horrible things, to kill and to slaughter. Almost if one were mentally ill, you know? Those things that people talk about when they're committed to the asylum? It was right there, in my head. And then, it slowly started to take over my actions. I fought back as best I could, but I realised that not only had I made a fairly terrible mistake - and this was very, VERY up there on lists of terrible mistakes, short of perhaps selling your soul to Hazzergash or jumping off a bridge in an attempt to grow wings and fly - but I'd never make it back to Zerul. Oh, this young lady was paying for her avarice, most certainly, I was getting my little comeuppance. And then, after about a week, I think the process was basically complete. I wasn't fully under the spirit's influence, but... it all but controlled me. I couldn't remember who I was, I couldn't remember anything, anything at all. I didn't even remember my name until I saw a poster with it on. I knew how to read, somehow, but I couldn't talk in Rodorian, only that awful bastardised mess you heard earlier. All I knew was that I had to survive, by any means necessary. So... then I guess I became that thing you encountered earlier. I think the villagers around here called me... the Untamed? Something like that? The wildling, the untamed, whatever it was. It was a fitting name, I'll give them that. So began my six months of possession. Until today, I suppose."

Angora reached out from under her cloak and took another slip of salted ham from the hunk Iridiel had been cutting. "Then I met you people. And the rest is history." She got to her feet and walked over to her clothes, patting at them to see if they were still wet. They were sodden. Turning away, Angora muttered under her breath. "Hurry up, damn you... I can't go about in naught but a smile..."

“My wife is gone,” Gerald lamented, attempting to hide his grief from the prying, ever-attentive eyes of the red witch. She felt the impulse rise within her to gently touch the necromancer, to lay a comforting hand on his own or his shoulder, but she knew that he would want nothing less and that it would afford him no consolation. She thus settled for a mellow gaze in the others’ eyes. This was one of the rare glimpses of emotion that Gerald would afford her, for he almost immediately – and abruptly – continued by recounting the things he’s learned about necromancy, how resurrection was possible, if not necessarily by humans, and how at the very least communicating with the dead was a very real option to the trained necromancer. But then he imparted one last detail that changed everything: it was the Withering that had taken his wife. It took a few instants to dawn upon her, but she had realized the implications that this death carried before Gerald explained them. It was her turn now to hold her composure and Gerald would find her eyes gently widening in horror as her breath remained trapped in her lungs for a few, eternal heartbeats. Her unflinching eyes were absorbed by his stony mien to the point where she did not notice Omni’s pulsating light.

He indulged her earlier request and spoke of his goals in life, admitting that not all of the things he wished to come true would be at all possible. Even so, his words reflected a stern determination that, while intended to do good, was borne out of anger and grief, to Jillian’s eyes. She wondered how long he would keep it up. Essentially, he wanted three things: make the world a better place. Return his wife, if such a thing were at all possible. And, lastly, to survive. His motivations were awfully altruistic for somebody who acted out of negative feelings, someone whose successes brought him no joy and only eased the suffering. How long could he keep doing this until even that would subside? This world they lived in was impossible to render perfect. Judging by its current state, it might even be impossible to make it “good”. He would never reach a point whereupon he could come to rest and behold a world of peace and prosperity. How long could a man chase the impossible until his will would falter? How long could the rage against injustice keep on burning inside that stone-encrusted heart of his?

Would he ever rediscover the taste of untarnished happiness?

I’m sorry burned on her lips. She took the breath to speak the words, but didn’t. Again, she knew he would only hate her for saying it, because her pity likely meant nothing to him and he would be loath to indulge in an emotional moment any more than he already had. She respected it.

“Thank you, Gerald,” she finally produced, no longer resisting the temptation to move her hand from Omni onto his own feeble hand. “You’ve been very honest to me when you didn’t have to be and I’m glad you were. I’d rather we were open about ourselves.”

She rather hastily removed her hand from his again, realizing that she had virtually subconsciously put it there. Her voice remained unperturbed, hoping to gloss over this misstep. “It’s easier to trust and depend on someone when you know who they are, isn’t it, Remdal?”

Whatever other flaws Angora might have, Jaelnec mused to himself, at least she seemed determined to be honest with them to an almost uncomfortable extent... much more than Jaelnec would have expected of her, at least, given the things she readily confessed to having done and – for most part – seemed completely unapologetic about. The murders she had committed in order to get the “Black Sword” seemed to be the only crime she displayed any kind of remorse for, despite them being the only crime she was less than entirely responsible for given that the entity that had lived in it was clearly able to manipulate those near it and that the people originally in possession of the sword had also been affected. Truthfully, Jaelnec was liable to forgive those murders on the same grounds that they had judged her as not being responsible the murders she had committed while possessed...
What made the squire clench his jaw and feel a growing sense of worry for this woman before him was not her deeds while under the influence of the entity of the sword, but her past before then. How was cutting people’s throats in their sleep any worse than what an assassin normally did, after all, unless she had specifically practiced the trade through painless poison? In fact the only thing she admitted to have done that was not both unethical and illegal was prostitution, which, while not a particularly admired profession, was both legal and an honest way to make a living... although with the other things she had done it would not surprise him if she had robbed her customers and blackmailed them if she could.
And after having demonstrated her apparent complete lack of conscience she turned around and tried to explicitly paint a picture of herself as just a naive girl trying to obtain greatness, although an entirely different kind of greatness than the one Jaelnec wanted for himself. Did she, after naming herself a killer-for-hire and common thug in the service of organized crime, expect them to believe that she had not known what she was doing? She had killed people for money, for Laon’s sake, and not even because she needed the money, but out of an eternal desire for more.

Now that the aura produced by the entity was no longer as devastating to his senses and thoughts as it had previously been the young Nightwalker was not gripped with bloodthirst anymore and felt no desire to kill Angora, but after her story he had certainly built up enough rage within himself that he wanted to punch some sense into her. There was no way around it; her actions in the past had been pure evil, and the fact that she did not seem to think anything of them besides the fact that it had been against the law spoke of a depth of corruption that was borderline unforgivable. Why would she even speak to him so easily about something like that? Did she presume that he and the others were also exiles, criminals, outcasts and murderers just because Iridiel had turned out to be one, and that they would be somehow sympathetic with her livelihood? He wondered what Aemoten would have done, had he been the one receiving this confession... probably demanded a complete and immediate abandonment of her past ways, he figured, or he would have taken her to the city only to turn her over to the Ducal Guard.
What stopped Jaelnec from yelling into Angora’s face and possibly introduce that very same face to his fist was primarily the girl’s interactions with Iridiel, namely the compassion she had shown for the foreign woman. The sight of Angora putting her arm around Iridiel to comfort her kept rising to the front of Jaelnec’s mind, and part of him – perhaps the part of him that was, despite everything he had been through these past several days, still naive – insisted that this woman could not possibly be an entirely lost cause, that there had to be some good and hope in her yet that was worth nurturing, rather than simply focusing on stomping out the evil that had taken root in her.
Besides, she was – as her occasional uncomfortable shifting and checking on her clothes reminded him – naked under her cloak, and he found it extremely hard to sustain any kind of righteous fury in the face of female nudity. And eighteen years old? By the Spirits, he was even younger than him!

“Autumn, yes,” he told her when she seemed unsure about what time of year it was. “Fourth month of autumn, so it must have been more than six months.” He had sounded somewhat gruff at that point, given that he had still been undecided on what to do or say to her but was already starting to get worked up about her willingness to partake in harmful crime.

Sighing and closing his eyes, Jaelnec took a moment to collect his thoughts before feeling even remotely prepared to face the current situation he found himself in. Oddly, by the time he reopened his eyes he found Olan staring at him, not saying anything but just watching him curiously.
Then he turned his attention to Angora, a grim expression upon his face. “I’m sorry, I only just realized that we haven’t really been officially introduced yet. I am Jaelnec, squire of the Knighthood of the Will. Our leader, Aemoten, calls himself a warrior, but if I’ve understood what he’s told me about his culture right then he’s pretty much what we’d call a knight. The daywalker with us is an apprentice to my order, too.” He neglected to mention that Thaler was also a former infamous thief and menace in Zerul City, but he did not see how it was relevant anymore; she had promised that that time was over for her, and he believed her.
He swallowed, trying to sound as firm as possible without seeming downright threatening to the other. “If you’re going to be traveling with us, you’re going to have to leave your life of crime behind. We don’t do stuff like that.”
He scratched his chin, his gaze moving to her sword. “That sword is obsidite, which means that it was almost certainly made by Klorr... which means it is beyond a masterpiece and must be very valuable.” He looked at Angora again. “Even ignoring that whoever sent you for the sword could send more, there must be others looking for it. It might be worth considering whether the sword is worth the danger it puts you in – us in – or whether it would be better to get rid of it.”



A dangerous intensity narrowed Gerald’s eyes when the witch dared to call him “Remdal” after everything he had told her this evening, and for a second his thoughts turned to murder and went to work fetching the words for a suitably violent spell... until he calmed himself, realizing that Jillian probably just meant it as a jest and did not realize just how infuriating it was for him to be called that. It was probably a play at his own insistence on addressing her by her surname, he figured, with a sprinkle of expressing newfound familiarity with his past.
She preferred that they were open about themselves? Very well, he would oblige, even if she contradicted herself with her reluctance to just come out and ask him to address her by her given name.
“Glass,” he told her with icy rage in his voice that seemed in stark contrast to the fire in his gaze. “Never Remdal. You mean it well and I’ll let it slip this time since we’re such good friends, but next time you do that you’d better be prepared to defend yourself, because I’m going to kill you.” There was no mirth in his tone, only deadly seriousness and intensity.

He sighed. This had been an exhausting evening for him... delving into his past was not something he enjoyed, and he actually looked even smaller and more feeble than usual from sheer fatigue. “But yes... I suppose it is. Hopefully that’ll be enough to get us through what awaits.”

Eyes wide with confusion narrowed into an angered glower in reaction to Gerald’s threat. Jillian could not fathom the hatred that the name Remdal brought up within her ally and was caught by surprise just how vivid his response was. Surprise that had quickly turned to irritation when he promised to kill her if she did it again; the mere threat was enough of an affront to her dignity and well-being to cause a veritable flood of uncontrolled fury wash over her inside like a heat wave. Yet she too kept a hold of herself, the two sorcerers awkwardly staring at one another with stony faces and stiff hands. The moment was short-lived, mercifully, and Gerald was the first to slump back into a mellower mood, suddenly appearing quite drained. It took a few heartbeats before Jillian, too, relaxed and calmed her nerves. Perhaps they were both still too stressed out after the day’s events, and in face of those to come. Talking about their troubled lives had perhaps not been the most prudent decision on her part.

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we?” she mused softly, averting her gaze and lazily looking into the fire pit. “We’ll make it.”

After a handful of quiet moments, she turned her attention to Gerald once more: “I’m sorry, Gerald. About calling you that name,” she apologized reluctantly, uncertain if she had anything to be truly sorry for. “And about bringing up all these things in general. We’re all quite on edge I think. Maybe I should’ve waited.” Even if she hadn’t, it was a good way to repair the infraction caused by her earlier blunder.

Part of Gerald wanted to tell Jillian “you had better be sorry,” wanted to keep spewing venom in her face, to sneer, scowl and generally do everything in his power to ensure that she pulled back and kept her distance from him. This woman... he had only known her for a day, and already he was telling her things like this? Feeling things? She was dangerous, an uncontrollable element that could all too easily interfere with his plans and get in the way of achieving his goals; he had to get rid of her.
Yet at the same time, part of him – the shriveled, starving part that still derived nourishment from social interactions and urged him to be empathetic – wanted to keep her around, draw her closer, get to know her better... and felt that he had been unfair to her. And yes, logically he had been; though he had told her a little about the abomination that was Dennis Remdal, he knew that he had not told her nearly enough for her to understand the depth of his hatred for the man, or his vicious objection to being called by that name. That part of him wanted to explain, but how could he ever do that? There were so many things, and many of them would probably not even convey the full impact they had had on him even if he described them.
But in the end, he still felt like he had to try.

He closed his eyes, and the glow in the emerald of Omni died out completely. “I was nine when my mother met Dennis Remdal. She was just a poor single mother and commoner, abandoned as she was by my birthfather, and struggled to make us a comfortable life. Then she was hired as the live-in maid of the Remdal estate, and some time after that she married the Baron Remdal himself, and suddenly I went from just ‘Gerald’ to ‘Gerald Remdal, stepson of His Lordship’. Out of nowhere I was living a life of luxury and I was permitted a proper education, as well as entry into the Academy. All because of the Remdal name.”
He sighed. “And everyone knew that. Have you ever seen Dennis Remdal? The toll of magic and an unhealthy lifestyle has made him obese, and even in his prime I doubt that he was any kind of handsome... but he is rich and one of the most powerful men in Zerul. The people considered my mother little better than a common whore for marrying him – perhaps they still do – and I was little better; the whoreson leeching off the baron.”
He opened his eyes and stared intensely into the campfire. “My mother was never a prostitute, but that’s beside the point. Back then I admired Dennis, though, and was in awe at the new life he gave us, but I very quickly learned to hate the Remdal name. Everything I did and achieved – my knowledge, my magic, my position as instructor at the Academy, even my wife – were all ultimately accredited to the Remdal name. It was never ‘Gerald’ that accomplished anything, it was ‘Remdal’ or ‘the baron’s stepson’. It was my work, my effort, but the Remdal name reaped the benefits of it all.
And as you know, the second I brought shame to the Remdal name, Dennis made sure to get rid of me. Had me exiled. And then I started truly learning just who Dennis Remdal is...” He shook his head woefully. “Remdal, the remarried widower whose first wife died under suspicious circumstances soon after they discovered that she was barren. Remdal, who was rumored to buy the support of other nobles not only with money but with the bodies of his slaves, and who made sure to destroy the business and reputation of any who stood against him. Remdal, whose enemies had a habit of mysteriously dying.”
Gerald’s hands clenched into fists so tightly that he started trembling. “Remdal, who said... treated... who...” By now he was speaking through clenched teeth, his face a grimace of utmost abhorrence and rage. “...told me to replace my wife, like she was just a thing. Said it was for the best that she died so I could find someone better! With a blasted title! A better name!”

He finally looked straight at Jillian, his mien softening uncharacteristically. “I’m sorry to have shocked you, but words alone cannot express how much I hate the Remdal name and being the son of that demonspawn. Please... Jillian... never call me that again. It... hurts me more than you know.”

At the end of it all, Jillian returned his gaze with moistly shimmering eyes and pale, parted lips somewhere between awe and dismay, partly hidden behind the outstretched fingers of her hand. What did one say to that? She thought he might have rebuked her apology, or accepted it and moved on. Never would she have thought that he would voluntarily force himself through all of this very vivid and visible emotion in order to explain to her just how and why he despised his step-father this much and which things had made him the monster he was. It must have been painful to have every accomplishment robbed from oneself by their mere name. Jillian had never thought about the disconnect between an individual and their title and could not truly blame those who would have accredited each of Gerald’s triumphs to his name. It was the natural order of the world to assume that those with meaningful names did impactful things and it was all too easy to forget about the person behind the name. Perhaps she could consider herself lucky to have been born into the situation that she was: prosperous enough to have wanted for nothing, but still part of an artisan’s family, wholly separate from the ranks of nobility and power. Nobody whispered her name in hushed tones or with wicked tongues, unless they were of a jealous kind of folks less well off. If it had only been about recognition, however, Gerald’s fate would not have seemed so terrible. What he told her about Remdal was… disturbing, to say the least. A cynical thought in Jillian’s mind wondered if destiny had played a cruel trick on Gerald by making the old man right; if his wife had been killed by mortal hands, then her soul would still exist today, unclaimed by the Withering as it were. She choked the thought in its infancy.

“No, don’t be,” she asserted vehemently and placed a slender, comforting hand on his bony shoulder and the other on her chest. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I had no idea, Gerald. I just opened my dumb mouth without thinking again.”

“I…” she stammered, unsure what to say. “I’m not sure how to make up for it. I won’t speak that name again, I promise. You know what?” Jillian moved the hand on his shoulder to the other, essentially wrapping her arm around him. “That’s enough opening old wounds for tonight. Let’s calm down and speak of nicer things, yes?”

She affectionately rubbed his shoulder before letting go and placing both of her hands in her lap. Looking into the fire, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames with the same obsessive wonder as when she had first seen something burn, she wondered what to shift the conversation to. Except, there it was, right before her.

“Fire is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It gives light and warmth, but get too close and try to touch it and you burn yourself. It’s like pricking yourself on a rose.” She snorted an awkward chuckle. “Reina, I sound like some good-for-nothing poet. But I just can’t stop being fascinated by it.”

She remembered being a young girl and instead of playing with her myriad dolls, standing by her father and staring into the heat of the forge and helping him light it when she was a little older. She remembered standing there mesmerized when the Gallard’s home burnt down. She remembered setting fire to Hanna’s bouquet of Daisies when Jonathan gave it to her instead of Jillian. It didn’t matter what you put on fire. Once aglow with the blaze, everything burned equally beautifully.

“Speak of nicer things,” she said, and immediately turned the subject to fire. Gerald was too drained at this point to even react to being touched, as she just had, but not enough to be beyond a cynical smirk at the irony of this turn of subject. What was he supposed to respond to that? That he personally had always preferred to stick to the shadows himself, unhealthy as he had realized attention could be? That he appreciated fire for its practical applications only, and counted numerous fire-based spells among his most frequently memorized repertoire mostly due to the destructive capacity of fire, both in terms of annihilating physical obstacles and demoralizing any who witnessed its invocation? It was the same cold rationalization that lead him to use lighting-based magic despite his negative predisposition towards the element simply because it had been the one Dennis had been naturally attuned to, and water- and ice-based spells even though they served as a painful reminder that his brother had affinity for the element of water. He was not fascinated with fire, and looking at it he saw nothing more than a tool.
Or was he supposed to point out the irony in Jillian expressing her fascination with the exact element the sovereign deity of which they were going to confront and fight in the morning, who was likely going to use that very same fire to reduce both of them to ash and cinders?
It was difficult for him to be anything but cynical and sarcastic, particularly on such a mundane and ill-chosen subject, but he could not bring himself to mock or dismiss her when she was clearly trying to make him feel better. Not that such efforts were necessary; he fed on his misery and let it fuel his resolve. He would walk the darkest shadows of the planes and endure and inflict any horror necessary, as long as it brought him closer to his destination.
Still... he supposed that he appreciated the sentiment, if nothing else.

“Fire...” he muttered, wracking his brain for something to say that did not sound too depressing. “Fire is the origin of the first law of magic. Did you know that? ‘Power demands sacrifice’; a flame cannot burn without fuel, and the flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long. So many mages throughout the ages have been inspired by it, and much of the magical theory we know today was learned through observing flame.”
He paused, thinking even more. “You have heard of the Fire Clan, right? Based in Jevog Denûm, in Inferno Mountain. They build their entire lives around fire to the point of living on an active volcano. Supposedly they meditate while staring into the molten magma at the mountain’s core; stone so hot that it catches fire and burns even hotter than any man-made flame. I would like to see that someday; burning stone.”

“Yeah, I was told at the academy. I was kind of enthralled by fire since I was a little girl, you know. Maybe I intuited its import and likeness to magic long before learning my first arcane word. Wouldn’t that be something?” she wondered with a half-grin. The truth, however, was most likely the other way around: It was not fire’s likeness to magic that drew her in. For her, magic had always been a way to come closer to touching that radiant flame, ever so beautiful and defiant towards the human hand and will. Her Icarus flight promised that she would either become one with the sun someday, fully embraced by its searing arms, or become rejected and burn to nothingness. Or, if fate was cruel, a vile bird of prey would snatch her up mid-air to devour her very soul. This threat became more real by the day with the enemies she was making.

“They must be utterly insane,” Jillian concluded, “Not even I would choose to live on a volcano! But you know, Gerald, I wonder if I can show you some burnt stone. Orphid’s flame can melt iron and even steel quite efficiently. Maybe it’s just hot enough if I give it a minute or two. I bet you haven’t heard of this spell before either in all your forbidden studies.”

“Here, let me show you a little secret of mine,” she offered with an excited smirk. She outstretched her arm towards the campfire and began deftly flicking her hand and fingers in familiar patterns resembling arcane runes. If Gerald listened closely he might just hear her muttering the words under her breath, but the effort seemed half-hearted, almost unnecessary. The speed and certainty with which she casted the spell showed that the gesture had become more than mere memorization; they had become second nature to her, the very motions, bereft of meaning, ingraining themselves into her muscles. In mere moments within her hand, fingers curved as if cupping an imaginary orb, there appeared a slowly-churning sphere of bright green energy – fire – that seemed to dance like real flame as seen through slow motion. The orb’s heat was immense and even though Jillian kept her arm outstretched, the two of them could already feel sweat building up on their faces and bodies. Her face somehow appeared unnaturally lifeless and macabre in the chartreuse light.

“It’s a forbidden spell. The tomes containing it have mostly been destroyed. Don’t know why, nobody really knows anymore what this Orphid did. All we know is that he supposedly died a very painful death, and his studies were erased. Except, a few examples still remain, or parts of them. This one comes with an additional invocation to cast on top of the orb, turning it into a beam. You’ve seen it in Gariel Downs. Quite taxing if you do it overlong, but very effective and precise.”

Jillian spied around for a piece of stone and found a pebble not too far from the grassless clearing around the campfire. She got up and headed towards it, her hand leaving behind a trail of green, fiery fetters that seemed to disappear far too slowly in the air. She knelt beside the piece of stone and bathed it in the viridian sphere; the earth around it and the rock itself turned black within seconds.

“Also, don’t look directly at the orb for too long,” she warned, looking away herself. It was clear from her expression that the heat – as well as the too recent expenditure of magic – were not being kind to her. “It’s weird, but looking at it makes you sick. Maybe that’s a hint towards Orphid’s questionable character. Would love to know.”

A trail of white-grey smoke was accompanied by a gentle hiss as the rock took on a reddish glowing hue. The heat and light reminded Jillian of her youth again, being in her father’s forge. Back then, she had been really interested in his craft and it made her wonder if, had magic not existed in this world, she might have picked it up herself. Her sister and she could have continued the business on their own then, without the need for men even. Not that she, of course, was particularly averse to menfolk. Maybe in a different world and a different life…

After a little more than a solid minute, Jillian withdrew the orb and dismissed it with a whisper and a flick of the wrist. Even after being banished, little sprites of fluttering, acidic green danced on the evening wind with uncanny resilience for a handful of unnatural seconds. When the witch looked down at her work, she saw that the pebble’s glow was waning quickly, and although it had not entirely molten, the outer layer had definitely warped its shape to a more irregular texture, as well as becoming irrevocably black. Short flames struggled to survive around the rock where the earth had caught fire, like worshippers crowding a sacred altar and praying for salvation. A tinge of disappointment formed on her frowning face.

“Not quite molten I guess, although I think if I did it longer it would eventually melt. What a fascinating spell though, is it not? When I saw it, I could not help but fall in love with it.”

She returned to her place next to Gerald, wiping her forehead as she did. Washing herself earlier had turned out to have been a pointless endeavor after all. She beamed at him with what seemed like genuine happiness, hoping that he would approve of her. Gnawing fatigue visibly ate away at her smile like rust biting into metal.

Inferno Mountain might be active, but supposedly it had not erupted even once since the Fire Clan first settled there centuries ago, with the magi of the clan reputedly having achieved such mastery over the flame that they could even tame and control that behemoth of a volcano. Under the prerequisite that they really could reliably prevent it from destroying their little community, given what a defensible location it was and the advantages it would lend them if they were attacked – giving them a bountiful store of incredible heat to draw on and use for their magic – Gerald would have to disagree with Jillian on the insanity of the Fire Clan. He would concur that their fascination with fire was unhealthy and dangerous, just as any kind of fanaticism was, but their choice of using Inferno Mountain seemed sensible.
Before he could explain his view on the subject to Jillian she brought up another topic, however, that was interesting enough for him to put aside his thoughts on the sanity of the flame-crazed clansmen for the time being. Orphid’s flame? A magical construct so hot as to be able to melt iron? The prospect of being able to study a spell like that was even sufficiently alluring to him that he decided against pointing out that it would not be “even” steel, since it would actually melt before pure iron would. She was certainly correct that he had not heard of the spell before, nor had he found any other references to anything related to “Orphid”.
Nor would he have been able to record the spell she was casting even if he had tried, he realized once she started invoking it, instinctively bracing himself and preparing to leap to the nearest cover he could get to, preferably as close to the pond as possible. Reckless! If any of the instructors at the academy back in Zerul City had witnessed her casting a spell like that – himself included – they would doubtlessly have taken her aside and thoroughly scolded her for endangering herself like that, not to mention everyone else. It was not what he was casting that made the breath catch in his throat, though it did surprise him to realize that the patterns she was tracing were clearly arcane, but how little effort she seemed to put into it and how halfheartedly she supplied the spell with its verbal component. No one but an absolute master of arcane magic should ever be that confident in one’s ability to not fail the spell and potentially have it blow up in one’s face... Especially one that required as much magical energy as he sensed was flowing into it. That much unbound energy being unleashed by an unraveling spell could probably have killed someone.

Having summoned “Orphid’s flame”, Jillian then went on to tell him more about it, among other things that this was actually the first part of the composite spell he had witnessed back in the Anaxim Forest and that the name “Orphid” apparently referred to the discoverer of the spell. Most unusual of all and what made the warlock frown in confusion, however, was the fact that it was apparently forbidden. Gerald had never heard of an arcane spell being branded as forbidden unless it overlapped with necromancy or summoning magic, even though there were others even more destructive than Orphid’s flame and others capable of bending or controlling the minds of others. One would be responsible for what one did with the spells, yes, but the spells themselves were not forbidden; only magic marked for extermination was considered forbidden. He would love to know why...
She then proceeded to try to use Orphid’s flame to do something to a small piece of stone, and Gerald had to bite his tongue to stop himself from chastising her for her foolishness. Not only was the entire endeavor a massive waste of her strength – strength he had stolen from Anaxim to give her and which she would need tomorrow – but it was obvious from the start that there was no way she would be able to do much to the stone, no matter how long she continued doing it; the flame simply needed to be magnitudes hotter to compensate for the rapid dissipation of heat to their environment.

Unsurprisingly Jillian’s efforts did little besides blackening the stone and scorching the surrounding area, and returned to him happy, proud, exhausted and seemingly expecting his approval of this colossal waste of their most important resources of energy and health.
Don’t say what you’re thinking, he cautioned himself unnecessarily, amber eyes shifting from the still-smoking scorch on the ground to Jillian’s face. Don’t get angry, don’t belittle her, don’t tell her what an idiot she is... Say something positive. No? Come on, anything will do! You’ve been silent for too long, Gerald! It doesn’t have to be positive, it just has to sound positive! Say something!
A good ten seconds of silence passed before Gerald cleared his throat to speak. “I’d like to record that sometime,” he told her nervously. “For my spell book, that is. It seems potentially useful.”

It took a long time for the necromancer to finally produce an answer to the waste of time that Jillian had just presented to him. Not even the haze of excitement that burning magical energy brought to her could cloud her perception enough as to make her unable to see his hesitation. When he did speak, he didn’t compliment her exotic knowledge, or her mastery of the spell, or the power and intensity thereof. None of the things she had been hoping for, but that was not what bothered her so. It was that he needed this long – long enough for her tired smile to completely vanish in the interim – to state the simplest, most detached thing that must have come to his mind at the time. And not even that was what made her bitter. It was the realization that, after what must have been frantic thinking, this was the least offensive thing he could think of saying.

I didn’t really expect it to work! She wanted to yell. What’s wrong with using the power given to us? Can’t you have fun once in a while? Or do you just hate me so and don’t have guts to tell me to my face? Or is it because you are angry at yourself? Maybe you want me but because I’m not your stiff wife you feel guilty? It’s not my fault! I just wanted to have a bit of fun in between all the horrible things we went through, will go through, and had to tell each other about ourselves! Reina’s mercy, why do you have to be like this, you damn jerk?!

Jillian looked away from him, her gaze seeking refuge in the glow of the campfire. She too fought with herself to retain her composure, but her flushed cheeks, tightly pressed lips and controlled, deep breathing betrayed her. “Maybe some other time,” she hissed. “I’m not supposed to share it anyway.”

That part was not a lie, either. She had promised Reynold that she’d keep his father’s secret magic to herself. It would have been rather inconvenient for someone who taught at the academy in Zerul to have been exposed as harboring a hidden archive of less-than-legal treatises on magic. He still didn’t know that his son had betrayed his trust to a pair of pretty eyes. But then again, she had also promised Reynold that she’d stay with him for the rest of her life. That promise had lasted for a single month. It was the list time she made it, too. Never once had she nourished Vincent’s aspirations for a lifetime together. Even when she professed her love to him she had been saying it as a convenience first and an uncertain truth second. She had always been more interested in his knowledge, and his ability to comfort her when she was angry, than his persona in general. It felt like she had been using him all along, now. Simply a gateway to dark magic and the rest merely a price of admittance. And maybe Gerald was right for wanting to keep away from her. Maybe he sensed it and did not want to be the next to be used by her. Her thoughts were starting to make her feel sick.

“It’s getting late,” she brooded, eyes still focused on the dying flame. “We should probably get some sleep, right?”

Gerald closed his eyes, feeling vaguely aware of the old, familiar sense of numbness he felt overtaking him when he heard Jillian’s response, not due to what she said as much as how she said it. If she wanted to keep the spell from him then that was fine, he would not blame her in the least – magi safeguarding their most powerful spells jealously was far from a new concept, after all – though if she used it around him enough times he was bound to eventually recognize the incantation, but... She’s not satisfied. I hurt her, somehow. We’re back to where we began.
The numbness was a defense mechanism he had developed long ago, as even as a child he had been known to unwittingly insult others or just generally seem like a really boring guy. He had gotten better at understanding what not to say in time – and developed a sense of empathy, too, which was a helpful ability his child-self had not possessed – and had gotten to the point where he did not go around degrading others with his words, at least, though he had never been able to truly fit in as a “normal” person. Even back then, in a time when the Withering was still but a fantasy recorded in prophecy, he knew he had not been one to smile or laugh. Others would regale him with wild stories of impossible things and pure fiction, or demonstrate spells and artifacts that were flashy but served little purpose, and they had never found the appreciation they were looking for... so much so that they eventually just stopped trying. Disappointing people was unpleasant, though, unless he numbed himself to the feeling. “Friends” was never a thing Gerald had placed much value in, even in his most innocent years; though it was now by choice, it was far from a new thing for him to be alone.
His wife had been the only one that seemed to disregard his apparent lack of interest in anything that was not of practical use to him, to ignore his indifference and just keep trying. To this day he still had no idea why she had done so – though he had been much less ravaged back then than he was now he had still been far from an attractive man – but he was grateful nonetheless. In time he found that she could make him smile; that with her, he could laugh. She had been his window into a “normal” life, the one person he did not need to numb himself to, one that accepted him for who he was.
And then she had died, and taken the laugh she had gifted him with her to the grave.

Pulling up the hood of his robe to cast his face in shadow once again, becoming little more than a huddled black form in the firelight, the warlock quietly sighed to himself. What did Jillian want from him, anyway? He had already agreed to teach her necromancy, they were already bound to perform their quests together and he had humored her suggestion for them to get to know and trust one another. What more did she hope to gain? There was nothing left he could give her – not that she knew of, anyway – so why did she want to impress him? Why all the touching, rubbing, leaning and generally seductive behavior? What was her agenda?
She had to want something, and it bothered him that he could not figure out what it was.

“We probably should...” he tiredly agreed to her suggestion for them to get some sleep, having enough experience with sullen moods to not even consider trying to resume conversation and risk escalating their disagreement further, especially when there was really nothing he could do to better the situation.
It was better like this, anyway. It was easier to be alone. Less painful.

By the time the sky above had turned to a much lighter shade of gray than during the night, casting a cold light over their little little enclosed area, Gerald found himself feeling both stiff from lying on the cold ground as he slept, hungry, thirsty, inexplicably slightly nauseous and with a bad headache. He coughed dryly as he awoke, rolling from his side onto his back as he took a moment to brace himself against the soreness that permeated his body and would likely stick with him for most of the day. What a night... and what a day it was going to be. At least his energy – his own energy, not that which he had taken from Anaxim – felt about as replenished as the Withering would allow it to get. He was at full strength.
Taking a moment to feel the cool air on his face and the pale light on his eyelids before opening them, he just lay there for a while, breathing quietly and marveling at how quiet the morning was there. The most audible thing around was a slow, deep breathing that could logically only belong to Renold, who had presumably returned sometime during the night, which struck him as such a calm and peaceful sound that it seemed perhaps even more serene than silence might have.

Sighing to himself, feeling no desire to hasten his hurtle into danger in pursuit of survival, Gerald nevertheless only had to direct his senses to the truth hidden beneath the illusion wrapped around his arm to feel the void there reminding him that the hour of its victory, when it would swallow him up completely, was coming ever closer.
Julia, he thought, bringing a hand up to rub his face, I won’t let myself lose. I couldn’t save you, but at least I’ll beat the Withering. I’m so close now... on the brink of defeat and victory both. I will live. Definitely.
He opened his eyes, meeting the surprisingly blinding glare of the pale sky before turning his head to escape it... and was met by the sight of what appeared to be most of the carcass of some kind of cattle. Lying on the ground between himself and Renold, about a dozen feet away, lay a cow whose head appeared to have ripped off by someone with immense power and sharp claws or teeth. Its fur was lightly matted with blood even as there was very little on the ground, so he had to presume that Renold had killed the animal elsewhere and then brought it here.

The dragon was still sleeping, rolled up similarly to how a common domestic cat might, but even in his sleep the ancient creature was an awesome sight to behold. Further away, sitting on a rock by some shrubbery by the shore of the pond, Crone appeared to be up already and to be examining and sorting various nondescript items into pouches.
He sat up. The day of reckoning with the Swallower of Worlds had arrived... the day he would prove that not even deities were invincible.

Consciousness washed over her senses like a great avalanche; heavy, cold and unstoppable. After-images of the seventh nightmare still lingered in her mind, haunting her yet with visions of herself trying to scrape off all the blood from her arms and her face, but to no avail. It simply clung to her skin like tar and touching it seemed to only smear it farther. Just as she could not rid herself of the blood, she could not ignore its dreadful implications – or worse, its dreadful foreshadowing. Dark dreams had poisoned her sleep and made slumbering akin to a gentle suicide, a journey that she now knew would only lead to misery. And yet, her body yearned and ached and she wished for nothing more than a few more hours of night.

Perhaps a part of her craved the nightmares.

Jillian awoke softly, neither moving nor opening her eyes after realizing that she was in control of herself once more. For a dozen or more restful minutes, she lay as she had before, breathing shallowly and paying heed to the soft stroke of the morning air upon her colorless cheeks and temples. Her face was dreadfully pale and covered in a fine, even layer of damp sweat to which wild strains of red hair clung chaotically. The perceptive observer would have also noticed that her body shivered ever so slightly with every passing breath she took, almost as if she were in the throes of illness. Her skin, however, was appallingly cold and could not have been further from the onset of a fever.

She came to realize that her mouth felt incredibly dry, her tongue all sticky from a lack of moisture. When she parted her lips to inhale a deeper breath, attempting to invigorate herself through more energetic respiration, she seized up halfway through her exhalation and breaking into a brief fit of coughing. It was not a particularly violent cough, but enough to rock her frail form. Upon recovering, Jillian gave a low, annoyed grunt followed by a particular obscene invocation of some deity’s indecent body parts. If nothing else, the event aided in restoring a modicum of vim into her, enough to motivate her to open her sleepy eyes; they looked red and sore.

Although she might have looked and acted the part, Jillian knew that she was not truly sick. She had been in a constant state of mild sickliness for years now, the intensity of her malady fluctuating with the seasons and her moods. It was usually worse in times of stress and after particularly taxing days, which yesterday would certainly qualify for. Ever since she had pushed her body to its limits as a mage on a regular basis, she had developed a condition of wasting weakliness. It was the same reason she could barely stomach to eat more than a few bite sized portions of any meal, no matter how appealing it might be. It was a shame, and she sometimes wistfully recalled her younger years as a little girl. She had been a lot healthier then and perhaps happier also. Certainly no worries had plagued her then.

Finally, Jillian attempted to lift herself only to realize that, as soon as she raised her head, that a pounding migraine had its painful jaws locked around her head. Dispirited, she weakly collapsed back onto her not particularly soft bed; a simple woolen sheet laid out over the damp grass. It was at this point also that she became aware of how sore her joints and shoulders felt and that she had, until today, never slept under the open sky. There were those who adored nature in its primal and untouched beauty and who would relish a chance to sleep beneath the mystical stars and life-giving boughs of trees. Jillian was not one of them. The moment the thought entered her head, a great hatred of sleeping outdoors set in. She could only hope that it would not become a common occurrence in her new life.

She lazily rolled onto her back and moved a hand up to her forehead, wiping the moist film from her skin and then simply laying her palm where the pain was worst. If there was anything good about this morning so far, she noticed, it was that her energy at least was accounted for. Although she lacked Gerald’s acute senses to precisely distinguish between her own energy and that of the Anaxim forest, she felt satisfied with the power at her disposal and already began fantasizing about ways in which she could quite literally burn it up. If only the same could be said about her body.

Curious to see how everyone else was doing, Jillian looked first to her left, then to her right, still refusing to raise herself. From her low vantage point, she could see Gerald sitting up not far from her and, beyond him, there was the rather difficult-to-miss body of Renold, still asleep. Crone she could not see from where she was, but she imagined that the old woman had probably foregone sleep entirely. Something about her agelessness and mastery of magic made her think that she must have transcended basic human needs like sleep or food – or, indeed, dying. What an incredible luxury to own, she thought.

The witch looked at her wetted hand, withdrawn from her forehead, and wondered no more why she felt so dried out. Perhaps, she wondered, a cold drink would refresh her. She cast her gaze towards the pond and was simultaneously distraught by its apparent distance, as well the prospect of even thinking about drinking foul, stagnant lake water. Or water at all, really; a cup of apple cider would have exactly the kind of kick she craved then.

“Gerald?” she weakly called out, feeling bothered about having to speak with such a dry mouth. “Would you be a dear and fetch me some water? I’m not feeling so good.”

When Jillian spoke it was her manners that alerted Gerald to her less-than-optimal condition first, even before his mind had the time to fully comprehend the words that had been directed at him. “Gerald”? “Be a dear”? Hearing Jillian speak to him like that, particularly after the way last night had ended, felt so out of place that his instincts immediately registered that something was wrong. Even Crone seemed to notice her fellow witch’s distress as she looked up from what she was doing, her expression one of annoyance in contrast to the warlock’s own of concern.
Water, he thought, looking around only for a couple of seconds before he realized that the most suitable container at hand to hold liquid was his own tea-mug, which he swiftly produced from his robe as he turned to the pond, only to pause once more. The pond... not only had it just last night both served as their visual medium to channel a demon lord and as Jillian’s bath-water, but it was also host to a number of plants and animals and was given an unappetizing greenish tint by algae; he was pretty sure that it would be far from a perfect source of drinking water. As he stood there staring at the pond it felt as though every detail of it grew sharper and more vivid to his eyes, his focus shifting from a late swarm of mosquitoes dancing over the surface in preparation of laying the last eggs of the year – eggs that would soon add to the doubtlessly already present population of larvae – , to a toad hiding among a patch of reeds, to some nondescript piece of floating object resting virtually motionlessly in the water near the opposite shore. What was beneath the surface? Gerald’s stomach churned in protest to the very thought of drinking anything that came out of there.
Yet he had to draw water from there if he was to grant Jillian’s request; there was no longer time to sleep and recuperate, no more room to waste energy conjuring water through magic. So with a disgusted grimace and the taste of bile in his throat, Gerald went and quickly dipped his mug in the water, trying his very hardest not to imagine what else he was collecting along with it.

“Renold,” he called with a significantly greater amount of desperation in his voice than the situation realistically called for, “please start a fire, quickly, so I can boil this.”
It took a moment before the dragon stirred, yawned so deeply that it beached the floating object Gerald had noticed earlier, and then infuriatingly appeared to almost fall back asleep before the necromancer went up to the giant reptile and delivered a feeble but earnest kick to one of his haunches.
“Renold! Fire! Now!”
“Ugh,” the Elder Green groaned as his brilliant eyes opened with all the hardship of heavy gates that had remained shut and untouched for decades, to the point of Gerald almost imagined hearing an actual creaking sound with the action. “What?”
“Start a fire! I need to boil this water and I can’t spare the energy to do it with magic!”
“Huh... Little one, did you actually wake me up to serve the role as tinderbox? No respect for the elderly these days.” He produced a sound not unlike a cough, spewing a quick a gout of flame from his jaws that managed to reignite the remains of their campfire from the night. “You know, breathing fire is not something we can do indefinitely either... We get hungry faster the more we do it. I remember one time...”
“Whatever,” Gerald grumbled, having already moved to the fire and set the mug atop a stone amidst the flames.

While all of that happened, however, Crone had retrieved her inventory from the ground and gone to Jillian’s side, looking at her with her ancient gaze as she knelt beside her.
“Have you succumbed to illness?” she asked with a remarkable lack of concern in her voice. “Has fever taken you? You appear to perspire.”

Somewhat surprisingly to him, he had returned to Iridiel recounting the tale of her exile - something that she, to his knowledge, had not told to anyone since she had revealed it to him, all those years ago, and to him she had not revealed it until they had already been traveling together for a while ... though the latter could have largely due to him not asking sooner. Something about finally getting to know whom he had associated himself with.
Nevertheless, it was a rare thing for Iridiel to engage in longer talks with someone in these foreign lands, let alone on matters quite as personal. It had always been he who did most of the talking ... as probably evidenced by his notably greater grasp of the language. Not that he had been decent at it from the get go ... at most, he simply cared less about messing up, especially in advance. Quite often, he had been the kind of person to speak first, and worry about dodging whatever was thrown back at him in response later...
He had been trying to get better at, well, not saying just about anything that came to mind when strangers were involved. As long as he remembered to. Between Iridiel and himself ... after all that time, was there still a reason to hide anything? They were who they were, and they long knew one another. No shame (not that Eireannach were always bound quite to the same understanding of it as Rodorians here), no secrets ... unsaid things which did not quite feel important enough to share, perhaps. Did not mean Iridiel was not going to throw things at him if she was in the mood for it, and then flee up the nearest tree before he could appropriately react (as if it was going to be of much help ... he would be an embarrassment for his blood if he could not get to the highlander in his own domain).
In the end ... he guessed it was quite the atypical day in multiple ways ... starting from the gray brute and Claw. Add in huge foreign beasts who evidently had decided to seek them out for aid and understood humans, black-eyes, one of whom spoke all the languages, then Angora and what's-its... Quite unusual indeed.

Iridiel offered him a smile and a welcome back as she wrapped up her tale and he settled down next to her - something she took as a cue to lean against him. Domhnall peered at her face from the corner of his eye; the female éireannach had closed her eyes and appeared to relax. Now that the main conflict was over, she probably felt the need to resume her recuperation, rudely interrupted as it had been but half an hour ago. Falling from trees was hardly anyone's favorite pastime...
The forestfolk sighed and carefully set his closest arm around the woman's shoulders, once again raising his head to look at the other people gathered around the small fire - Angora, still chewing on the ham, the black-eyed boy, making an off-hand comment on adventurers' pasts, and the latter's elder, who seemed content to just observe them much as he himself was doing now.
“How did you end up possessed by the... thing? The one that controlled you?” the younger black-eyes suddenly asked. The fellow's superior had certainly seemed quite interested in the same matter - though mostly from the perspective of there being a whole nest of "it"-s somewhere, and thus potentially a whole flock of unwitting, possessed people leaping shrieking out of bushes at unfortunate travelers. Perhaps a bit awkward question to ask (he was certainly an expert on these matters), but would there ever be a better occasion? There would probably be all too many ears around in the city (how many of his former little village-town could they fit in it, exactly?), and currently there was some time until their ... newest acquaintance's clothes dried and Iridiel had rested some.
And so he settled for listening to Angora's story, his face assuming a slightly at the loss expression as his free hand (the one that was not around Iridiel's shoulders) absentmindedly moved up to play with the hair of his beard. He was not even entirely sure what he had expected - from her limited leather armor, some kind of patrol, maybe? How much of her clothes were her original ones, how much she had scavenged from her victims while possessed (if the "it" even had a concept of clothes)? She also seemed to have acquired quite the collection of jewelry...
In any case, she had clearly been a criminal of several aspects even in her former life - smuggler, robber, even an assassin and murderer. She didn't try to kill anyone, it did, the foreign warrior had said (or something along those lines, anyway) when Iridiel guessed that Angora feared they would execute her for her perceived murder-attempt. That seemed like something that would complicate things, even though she had assured him she would have no one after her in the city, and seemed nice enough towards Iridiel, at least.
(Meanwhile, she had gone on to speculate over the duration of her possession, which she claimed had come about during spring, whereas now it looked to be autumn. “Autumn, yes,” the younger black-eyes gruffed in response. “Fourth month of autumn, so it must have been more than six months.”)
The forestfolk's eyes flicked to the sword and back to Angora's face as she elaborated over the last "end" leading to her possession, as it had been. Just another thieving job for her, just more prestigious and gone wrong. Or right, albeit with unforeseen consequences, depending on one's exact criteria for it, seeing that she still had the blade with her. Apparently the sword had had the "it" in it, and the "it" had been a source of discord even before it ended up in ... her.
You had killed before - voluntarily agreed to specifically kill people, and killed people who had agreed to other services -, had you not said so yourself but moments ago? Why was killing this one convoy different? You didn't say anything about those other people trying to kill you, or being murderers themselves or something... Monster? What made a person "monster"? Killing when it was not necessary? Taking more than one needed out of greed? Acting on violent impulses and not thinking?
Domhnall had never killed anyone - not a humanoid person, anyway. He - or rather one of his traps - had gotten somewhat close one time, but that was neither intentional nor really predictable, as much as it had been out of way of anywhere he could reasonably expect non-hunter people to be. (And other hunters knew which signs to look for in order to not step into traps.) The gray brute was perhaps the most humanoid being the killing of whom he had initiated - and even that one had been in the middle of trying to eat someone and was ultimately finished off by Iridiel. Gotten into a couple of fights back in the day ... yes, but he was not trying to kill anyone then.
He was no soldier, he was a hunter. He took what was needed to live a sustainable life or to protect other animals and crops, and tried to use everything he took. In turn, every year a few hunters fell to animals in turn (as could have very easily happened to him, thanks to that one blasted boar). There was a sense of fairness in that, he supposed. And yet on another turn, he had - back when he lived in one location - been just as much a caretaker as he had been a harbinger of death. How many young inexperienced stags would have been gored if he had not taken care of an old wily lancer here and there? And with large predators, there was a pact of sorts - they did not touch the herd and kept other predators off their territory, and he and other hunters did not touch them in turn. Similarly to how someone who owns chicken might opt to leave the resident crow couple alone for their tendency to give any hawk that shows up on their turf a good row of insults and a diving whack over the head, and thus protect the chickens, too. Domhnall had had names for the large predators on his grounds, mostly after some distinct characteristic of theirs... Good old Three-paws (this one lacked two toes on his right back foot) and the lot.
Did he regret leaving his old home? Sometimes... But then again, he had gotten himself into a bit of a mess back then, and had been rather disgruntled by his recent experiences, too. He had had an use for a longer break and a change of air, though it had ultimately turned up being a bit longer and more far-reaching than he had initially expected.
Could he kill a person? Maybe. Probably. If they threatened his or someone else's life and there was no easy way out. Especially if there was no time to think things through and consider other possibilities. You know, situations where thinking meant very quickly becoming dead; the ones where you just had to act and hope for the best.
Iridiel had killed, one time, that he had known for a long time. It had felt not right, but at least understandable. In a way, it, too, had been self-defense, protection of if not her literal life, then at least her life as it had been. Her old life had been to be lost that day, whether to nigh slavery or the consequences of her retaliation. Faced with what was essentially her capture, she had went for retaliation, and as a result killed two people... No time to think when being forced, only to fight, yes? Reflex over analysis. Fight or flight, and if flight was not an option? Give an animal a lot of space, and it flees. Drive an animal into a corner with no way out, and it will do its best to bite your face off.
Domhnall doubted that if Iridiel had known two days in advance that she would be come for, she would have killed anyone. Had she had time to think and prepare, what would she have done? Left? Resigned? Spoken to her goddess and accepted whatever path Sulis, rather than her people, wanted her to have? Surely, she would not have set up an ambush and waited the two days to commit pre-planned murder... No. She was not like that. Not the woman he knew. She fought if she felt she had to, and she could kill, but she was no murderer. Even with Angora, she had immediately switched to the role of a healer as soon as she had been pacified...
Furthermore, Iridiel had already received the verdict of her own people, and was carrying out her punishment even now. In the face of the crime that had been her immediate reaction, she had been sentenced to exile, and not death.
What would have been the sentence for a serial burglar, smuggler, and a murderer-of-greed, had she been judged as Iridiel had been? By his and Iridiel peoples, or Angora's own fellow Zerulics? No one had trialed Angora, no punishment had befallen her but the eventual possession from yet another of her jobs. Were she and the world even now, or were widowed women and fatherless children still crying themselves to sleep cursing a nameless killer?
He had been mostly just staring at Angora, still quite clueless, for a while now. Indeed, was this a monster, this barely-woman before him? Not some big and dangerous and fanged predator (though she still had her talons), but quite innocent-looking like some colorful poisonous fish were? Conniving people were perhaps more dangerous, they said - better an open foe than a false friend. The same one who had seemingly displayed compassion towards his companion, and informed them she was indebted to them, with her life, no less? In the end... He ... did not know. He just did not know what to think of it all, now that Angora had evidently decided to unload everything on them. It did not seem like the kind of store one might tell to evoke people's trust, so chances were she was honestly coming clean to them, were they not?
The tale was finished, and the forestfolk's eyes were once again moving from one person to another - from Olan (was it), who appeared to be curiously watching the younger black-eyes, who in turn was looking quite grim (evidently disturbed by the tale he had just heard), to Angora poking at her still-wet clothes.
“I’m sorry, I only just realized that we haven’t really been officially introduced yet," the younger black-eyes suddenly spoke up - surprisingly diplomatically, considering what lines his mien had assumed. "I am Jaelnec, squire of the Knighthood of the Will. Our leader, Aemoten, calls himself a warrior, but if I’ve understood what he’s told me about his culture right then he’s pretty much what we’d call a knight. The daywalker with us is an apprentice to my order, too.”
Who were they more precisely, what were their and the other half of their little party's pasts? Had the older black-eyes ever raised a weapon against someone, or had he always been as seemingly harmless as he had been now (though appearances could be deceiving)? For all he knew, he was merely there as the younger black-eyes' uncle and had just come along to keep an eye on his nephew. Had the "nephew" of his killed anyone? Maybe not. Maybe yes. He was young, but he had picked or been made to choose a path that prepared him to become a killer of whoever his order was opposed to, and his words earlier had revealed that they had had quite a few run-ins recently.
The white-eyes ... the daywalker, Thala or what was her name, she had been injured even before her spar with Angora, much as the warrior and the great beast. Jaelnec - the younger black-eyes - had said she was an apprentice of his order, too? Did apprentices not become before squires ... or were those pages? Or perhaps it was just males who could be pages, squires and knights in their order, and females could only be apprentices... It seemed a bit more common to not treat women equally as warriors over here. It seemed odd that the white-eyes would have a lower rank than the young black-eyes otherwise - she was more than old enough to be his mother, at least. The white-eyes was maybe Domhnall's own age, he suspected.
The warrior and the beast, he did not doubt had killed before. In fact, he had a quite vivid image of some headless corpse of ... beast? man? lying somewhere behind the group on the road. Possibly half-eaten, too. Y'know, whatever a beast like the one Iridiel had healed would consider an appropriate treatment for someone who had managed to wound his forelimb. Was he not part of whatever order the young black-eyes belonged, though? If so, he probably was not his master, though he was still the evident leader of his bunch. Possibly, the master had assigned the two of them onto this quest, then... Or maybe not. On top of everything, it appeared that the white-eyes and the warrior made a couple - from the white-eyes sitting by his side and stroking his hair when he was out, and him and only him speaking to her after the fight with Angora, and eventually going after her. (Though he and Iridiel probably looked like a couple to these more frigid easterners, too. Yep, skipped the fun parts and went straight to being an old bickering couple...) All in all, a rather complicated picture.
“If you’re going to be traveling with us, you’re going to have to leave your life of crime behind," the younger black-eyes asserted, then, probably remembering his temporary role. "We don’t do stuff like that.” Which he most likely had not had too much experience with. (We don’t do stuff like that? Not that you would not have been able to run me through with ease if we ever decided to engage in a sword-fight, but you almost sound like a defiant child, pal.) He uncharacteristically wisely refrained from commenting on it.
“That sword is obsidite, which means that it was almost certainly made by Klorr... which means it is beyond a masterpiece and must be very valuable. Even ignoring that whoever sent you for the sword could send more, there must be others looking for it. It might be worth considering whether the sword is worth the danger it puts you in – us in – or whether it would be better to get rid of it.”
Yeah. The sword (who was Klorr? a renowned local swordsmith?), and Angora's past. That. That was still a problem.

"Are 'ere any more of 'em things? Withou' the thing, tha' there is jus' me'al, nay? Ne'er reveel it tae the folks in the ci'y an' ye're fine as long as the buyer's not af'er ye, no? If ye say 'ey won't jus' go af'er yer pretty face by i'self..." Domhnall offered. The sword-part seemed simple enough. The other parts ... not so much.
He hesitated for a bit.
"Tell ye... Ye say ye robbed an' murder'd before the thing an' convoy, nay? Wha' kind of lot were 'ey folks?"
If they were all bastards and corrupt assholes to begin with, it would make things simpler again. Probably. Otherwise it did not look too good no matter how he looked at it.

[[Collab, as it was left; last post by me 7 months ago.]]

Thaler wasn't built to take the cold, she neither had bulging muscles or adequate clothing to keep the cold out. Had the outfit been in one piece it likely would have served better than in its current condition. What didn't help that the ground was so cold it was leeching what little heat her body managed to get through her shivering and sucking it away. As if Gaia herself had decided to take the heat from the girl to warm herself. It won't have surprised her if it were true of course, after Rilon there wasn't going to be much that did surprise her. She stretched and flexed her fingers a few times, trying to get the pale almost blue appendages to get a modicum of blood and heat in them but found there wasn't much feeling left in her hands. Perhaps the blood loss, but just as likely the fatigue and hunger, caused her to feel both restless but utterly rooted to the spot. Perhaps their short while became a long one again, it usually does. She mused to herself, perhaps the demon girl had attacked them again, or they were all sat deciding what to do next, they did a lot of that it seemed.
She wanted to get up, to move and get going but she was too tired, even the gentle pecking of Beatrice did little to chivvy her along. Leaning her head back against the bark and closing her eyes she relaxed into the tree, five more minutes then she'd get up and go. Even if she didn't find Zerul she would bump into someone who would either take her there or to the nearest village to be fixed up. After rest, food and a change of clothes -as well as some medical attention- she'd be able to find her own way to Zerul or wherever else she needed to go.

Dekkun bore little visual semblance to cats, and their mode of locomotion was better suited for endurance than bursts of speed, yet there was something oddly catlike in the manner they moved. Perhaps it was the rise and fall of their shoulders and the roll of their joints, coupled with the nigh silent fashion in which their hardened fingers and toes sought out the ground. They had been described as almost perpetually stalking.
Etakar's gait was, granted, not quite perfect; a very perceptive individual might have noticed slight gingerness in the fall of his left forelimb, of the slight compensation of the other three ... but it was a far cry from the labored three-footed hobbling he had been doing before, which had been broken up by awkward sprints on two whenever the noble beast had gotten fed up with the pain of it all, and times spent lying down and waiting for the humanoids to catch up. He could do with the minor twinges of pain... A few good nights of rest would probably rid him of it, and should his elbow swell up again, he can probably convey that matter to the healer well enough.
For now, onward on the invisible trail the half-human had left behind. It was towards the city Aemoten had insisted they were headed to, so all the closer to their target anyway... The fact that the man himself was sitting on his back made little difference; if you were four times the mass of an average horse to begin with, the added weight of the average human - or even two or three - hardly amounted to significant change...
He did not need to go far, though. Ever so soon, need to use his nostrils was dropped in favor of his sight as he slowed his step with a low affirmative rumble, eyes honing on the lithe figure leaning against a tree.

Aemoten did not need the beast's notification; he had spotted the familiar white hair almost as soon as long-time companion had. It worried him she was down rather than still on the way, though a more rational part of him immediately reasoned that if she had been attacked or outright dropped from her feet, she would not have been propped up thusly. Nevertheless, if her injuries had been more grave than he had earlier estimated...
A quick pat on his shoulder, and Etakar bowed down for him to slide off - an activity which momentarily caused hims to pause to gather himself; standing on his own to feet yet again felt dangerously unsteady. It was with no small amount of trepidation - of several origins - that he turned to properly face her.
"Thaler?" Questioning ... concerned.
Better at least to identify himself, if she had not already noticed and correctly recognized Etakar's near-silent approach for what it was ... or his own, slightly less silent act of dismounting.

Thaler was still trying to figure out if moving was a good idea, the raven had hopped over to settle against her and she ran her fingers lightly over it's feathers. The raven pecked at her fingers but she ignored the bossy bird for the most part. Hopefully someone would happen by and she could get herself on her way back to Zerul, once there she'd work out what to do about all this... mess. When someone called her name it took a moment to figure out who it was. Her head lifted to show she was listening but she didn't verbalise anything, she wanted to see what he wanted first.

Thaler did not answer him, though she did raise her head to face him. Awake, then ... a relief.
As he slowly approached, the raven - there she was, too; the daywalker had indeed taken her with her - turned her head to glance at him with her single remaining good eye the same, beak slightly ajar. Whatever she'd been at before, she'd most likely been disturbed from it. In many ways, corvids were like oddly wise small children - at once curious, mischievous and stubborn, yet harboring caution and reason beyond mere few years. No respite for wild animals... Which reminded him, they would probably need to show the raven to a proper healer, too. It could not be pleasant walking about singed all over, the damage to her freshly sightless eye notwithstanding.
Once by her side, he lowered himself to one knee and, Thaler permitting and mindful of the scratches covering them, gathered her hands into his own, gently running his thumb over the back of her hand. Small, slender, pale, and cold. So very cold, especially compared to his own... It had long been made clear how important feeling and sound were when there was no sight. Many things one would otherwise know at a glance were only available by touch... For several seconds, the quiet prevailed, only perturbed by the sound of breathing as he continued to lightly stroke the back of her hand.
What would he even say? There were hardly any secrets left. He felt many things, but yet, was utterly clueless. Logic dictated they should first turn to a healer, then find a place to rest. She was hurt, and the both of them were exhausted, mentally and physically. Go there, do that, fall into the purely functional course of action. Cold, effective. Impersonal. Unfulfilling. Anything but dry business; there was enough ordering people around and organizing as was.
Time... There never was time, unless he took it. Yet, some things were more important than others. Much more so. Sometimes you had to take time, everything else be damned. In spite of all his weariness, he felt oddly alert.
"Thaler, I..." he began, and halted, breath caught in his throat. He sighed, a shadow of a sad smile passing over his face. "I appear to be out of words; can you you believe that?"

Thaler had responded but Aemoten remained quiet, it was odd for him and for a moment her brows furrowed slightly, confused and perhaps a little worried. She listened carefully, any sound that the soldier was still there and still upright. She heard the pitch of weight on the ground and for a moment worried that he had again passed out. His hands took hers though, so warm they felt almost blistering to the touch and she all but pulled her hands away from the sudden heat. The tingle of heat reviving the ends of her nerves and reminding her just how cold she was. She said nothing though, waiting on Aemoten and one of his speeches, the longer the silence dragged the more she braced herself for bad news.
Aemoten seemed to stammer around bad news, quick detours and brief stops and not far off the road at all's, he'd become very wary of using those terms and instead seemed to wait until the correct phrasing was at hand. So the silence prevailed and Thaler began to steel what was left of her mind against whatever she was about to be told. Were the other two okay? Of course, Aemoten would never have left if Olan and Jalenec were in danger. So they were staying and making camp with the strangers they'd met and the murderous...thing. Perhaps she ought to have stayed to figure out what the hell it was? Of course she couldn't, it felt like someone was clawing at the inside of her skull whenever she was near that feral beast. Rilon was nothing compared to the pain that thing had inflicted. However she knew what her people were like, they took her after all. So of course this one would also be forgiven for trying to impale Jaelnec. The two outlanders had done little wrong, not that she trusted them but it seemed trust was a commodity that was not in excess for anyone. Anyone save Olan.
She was almost amused but she was too tired and too cold to laugh, had she not said they would be held up again? It was always their fate to be forced into these absurd situations, as if the Withering was a living thing that was countering them at every turn. Throwing obstacles in their path to slow them down and driving rifts between friends in hopes of destabilising their goals. If she didn't know better she'd have called the Withering a demon and not a disease.
When finally the silence broke she tilted her head to listen but the foreigner managed no more than two words before falling silent again. Her brows furrowed once more, in confusion and silent thought. How was this one going to be spun? The feral was a victim, much like the fire witch was, thus couldn't be held accountable for the lives she took, thus was innocent which meant they had to take her and the other two on their journey because this wasn't a hero's quest anymore but a quest for redemption against all odds. It was funny how the idea of what a heroic party would be made out of... and what theirs was, was so vastly different. They had their kooky bard, Olan. They had their fresh faced knight in Jalenec, they had their battle hardened veteran in Aemoten but that was where it ended. Demons, thieves, murderers, liars and cheats were not part of the stories her mother used to tell... yet here they were.
'I appear to be out of words; can you believe that?' He said, Thaler's thoughts disrupted by his sudden input and she managed a weary smile, "No, not really." She stated honestly but with as much playfulness as she had the mind to muster. So it was her turn to be the efficient one, right? She took her hand from Aemoten and cupped the Raven with it, carefully she used her other hand to begin to stand. "You wouldn't have come out here with Etakar if you thought I would return to the glade with you. You didn't bring Olan, probably because he's the only one who can translate those three's words and you wouldn't leave Olan without someone to protect him. The only reason you'd leave them is if you intended to split the group, which means you came not with the intention of dragging me back but getting us to Zerul. Which is a sensible plan because I can't actually feel my toes anymore and Beatrice could do with a healer too. You need rest and I don't doubt a break from being in command and Etakar needs somewhere he can take the weight off his paw and give it some proper rest. Am I close to correct?" She asked, wincing as she attempted to take a first step and nearly lost her balance. Her numb foot had blossomed with a fresh bout of pins and needles. "By going ahead you can make sure that everything is readied for the others on their return, possibly smooth over the feral murderers crimes with the guards before we enter as well. Because, I know you three too well, you won't leave her behind even if that is the sensible thing to do. Which means like it or not I either tolerate her or leave myself." She settled Beatrice as much as she could and looked to the vague area Aemoten had been, "But we don't need to worry about that now, only the excuse we give anyone who asks what happened to me. We can't very well say the girl that's joining us is basically insane and a violent feral who tried to kill some of us and tried her best to with me... do we?"
Thaler listened out for Etakar and when she could be sure of her legs she stepped away from the tree and towards the path, "We could blame the yth I suppose. The marks would tally up if people didn't look too closely." Reaching out to try and find Etakar she continued to contemplate quietly. Of course she'd rather warn her home city there was an unstable feral murderer headed their way whose very presence drove people to rash and aggressive behaviour but she knew Aemoten, Olan and Jaelnec would disapprove. "Maybe some kind of wild animal attack would be more convincing though and not send people out on a hunt we know will end without satisfaction."

His admission was responded to with a weary smile, "No, not really." One could tell she was worn, yet there was a twinge of playfulness to her voice. To have hope even at times like these, one had to take in what little they could, and keep what they held dear close. For as long as there was a reason to keep trying, he would.
Carefully (and perhaps painfully, Aemoten figured, wincing, as he recalled her injured shoulder), the daywalker freed her hands to pick up the raven and stand, prompting him to set his hand down on his own knee for support and follow suit.
"You wouldn't have come out here with Etakar if you thought I would return to the glade with you. You didn't bring Olan, probably because he's the only one who can translate those three's words and you wouldn't leave Olan without someone to protect him. The only reason you'd leave them is if you intended to split the group, which means you came not with the intention of dragging me back, but getting us to Zerul. Which is a sensible plan because I can't actually feel my toes anymore and Beatrice could do with a healer too. You need rest and I don't doubt a break from being in command and Etakar needs somewhere he can take the weight off his paw and give it some proper rest. Am I close to correct?" Thaler asked; in spite of the condition of them both, the foreign warrior was almost inclined to chuckle at her at her attempt at figuring out his pattern of thought. Granted, she hit quite close to the mark.
"We're only going back there if that's what you'd prefer - assuming we can convince Etakar to agree to the plan beforehand. We'd probably have to promise to cook the lohk for him if we were to achieve that..." The dekkun had most likely hunted the last night, chances were, and was just fine eating meat and roots raw - he simply had taken an odd liking to cooked meat at some point, and gladly used most agreeable chances to obtain it he got. Though pointing it out would have netted him a stern reminder of how small and insignificant compared to the noble beast he was, Etakar's somewhat cumbersome ways of tending the fire and trying to cook himself were always somewhat comical...
That aside ... the only reason to go back they had was the fact they had an actual healer among them now ... however, Thaler had already declined letting her help her.
"You're quite correct indeed - it would appear a certain someone was intent on cleaning up first, or at the very least it was the excuse she gave before she all but fled from me ... and a dekkun will move faster over long distances than any combination of two horses, a donkey, and four or five people I can think of." Especially since two or three of the four or five people he did not know whether had ever ridden an animal, one of the horses was a coward, and the donkey was stubborn as a, well, donkey. Etakar, though he was now better off, probably would not enjoy waiting even longer for others to catch up...
"Rest, a healer... Yeah. We do need those things, don't we?" he reaffirmed, once more sounding weary, if not slightly mournful. Could he ever not be a leader at all, however? Even now, he was inevitably made to think of what, where, how and in which order to do... "Could do with a break from being in command, too ... it hardly leaves time to be a person, to be yourself. It's only fair to take a tiny bit of time every now and then, no?" It was a lonely place at the top, one of his old thoughts echoed back. In the end, other people could easily forget you were a person, first, too, and whenever you were forced to make a compromise, or rule a decision against someone's wishes... Few were satisfied with compromises, and even fewer liked to be overruled.
He started when Thaler almost stumbled, taking a a step forward and reaching out to catch her. It was a reflex that paid no heed to his own condition. He halted himself with his arms in mid-air when it became evident she could regain her balance, somewhat awkwardly straightening himself and letting his limbs fall back into a neutral position. A part of him wondered whether he should drape his coat over her shoulders even if it meant leaving him with even less clothes than she was wearing now ... though with his coat being heavy and practically ground-length on him, it would probably make a particularly exaggerated stumbling hazard (as opposed to his gambeson, which was lighter and only thigh-length to him). He could probably try and wrap his coat around the both of them once they were up dekkunback...
"By going ahead you can make sure that everything is readied for the others on their return, possibly smooth over the feral murderer's crimes with the guards before we enter as well. Because, I know you three too well, you won't leave her behind even if that is the sensible thing to do. Which means like it or not I either tolerate her or leave myself. But we don't need to worry about that now, only the excuse we give anyone who asks what happened to me. We can't very well say the girl that's joining us is basically insane and a violent feral who tried to kill some of us and tried her best to with me... do we?" This gave Aemoten a pause, even as the daywalker began carefully searching for her way forward once more. ...Join them? "We could blame the yth I suppose. The marks would tally up if people didn't look too closely. Maybe some kind of wild animal attack would be more convincing though and not send people out on a hunt we know will end without satisfaction." Don't need to...?
"Thaler..." he insisted, slowly shaking his head. "There is hardly any convincing Olan to go back on his promise to you. I desire to be where you are. And Jaelnec would follow us. He was barely content with being parted from us for half a day. Besides, do you really I could bear that girl's presence knowing she hurt you enough to make you leave?"
Save for the brief flash of white anger when he first saw her, attacking Thaler, let alone after everything he had already been through, he did not harbour any persisting dislike towards her - no more than towards any other unwitting hindrance, anyway - but be the cause for the departure of one of the less than handful of people in the world he deeply cared about, and he would surely come to resent her. Maybe not quite on the same level as he resented the blood devilgod, but not be willing to have her around regardless.
Of the people who had started out from the small village when their group first formed, only he and Jaelnec were left. Olan and Thaler they had met but two days later, and they, too, had stuck around up to this point. One of them he loved, another he considered a friend, and even Olan he had come to be fond of over time, though the personal interactions with him had been few. Many others had come and gone. Some of them were confirmed dead; the fate of others was largely unknown. With the world being the way it was, their chances were not looking too good. Of those he had held dear before, only his brother remained out and about (called away by some duty by his god), all the rest were either dead, over decade removed, or had never been more than circumstantial acquaintances to begin with. He had no one else. Nor did Jaelnec ... the young squire did not even have the luxury of one single remaining relative somewhere out there.
"Not sure why she'd ever want to join us - it'd appear she's terrified of both myself and Jaelnec, at least, and probably has family, relatives and friends somewhere out there she might want to go back to, provided that whatever possessed her didn't opt to rip their faces off. - As it seems, her state was due to a possession by something not even Olan knows what is, however the healer could pacify it. Not remove it - because nothing could ever be quite as easy. She herself's mere human, at least. Iridiel offered to try and talk to her. With any luck, we'd at least know whether or not there is a whole nest of whatever's in her out there, or if it's contagious - all the world needs is a hundred Angoras, leaping out of bushes and attacking people. In any case, even if she wanted to come with us, I've already informed the other two that my people take priority. And should she try something ... either she is not a good human, either, or Iridiel and Olan were wrong and the thing's not in control. I'm not going to give any second chances with either."
Aemoten sighed.
"I guess we could say it's the yth if someone asked ... healers usually don't go nosing around, and if the borderhouse people did any talking, then none of them got to actually inspect you, though they did see you were hurt. Suppose you could say it was one of the lesser siblings or nieces or nephews of the big yth for the scratches... Keep it simple." Another regrettable affair ... creatures whose only fault was their incompatibility with human life - due to them being as literal omnivores as it got - and then someone had went and made sure at least one of them could never even hope to be a proper yth anymore. Piaan was nasty stuff ... made one incapable of thought. Deprived one of one's nature. Drove one insane. And then one died.
The Sekalyn winced to himself, finally moving and catching up with Thaler, carefully setting an arm around her, hand on her good shoulder.
"I apologize for the long explanation - though perhaps I owed you an overview. No need to ponder over it too long until we've reached Zerul City, and hopefully the next morning. Shall we?" He inquired, peering down at her face as he (perhaps pointlessly) gestured at the dekkun a short way off. (How did one ride a creature in a long skirt? Seated sideways? Seemed precarious.)
"Which reminds me - weary or not, we should no neglect dinner once we've visited a healer." In the end, they had eaten more or less nothing since waking. "Tell me, what would you fancy?"

Thaler listened to his explanation with quiet intent, though she appeared neither surprised, impressed nor moved by this 'Angora's' plight. She had little intent to upset Aemoten or make things worse than they already were between the pair but as his lengthy explanation came to an end she sighed, "So she is like the paladin? She can't... won't be held accountable for the actions of the thing lurking beneath her skin. Pacified or not I fear for the common populace when she decides...or it decides, to lose their temper again." She stated tiredly, she was done with the duplicitous nature of people they met. Masquerading behind a human face to garner trust before trying to annihilate those she held dear. Still, Aemoten attempted to reassure her, "I hope you are right." If she stayed, well Thaler could not, would not. She was already struggling with her own anger and fear, she didn't need the presence of a supernatural murderer hanging over her to make her feel worse, have less control. She'd relinquished so much of herself already, her morals, her ethos. She couldn't risk losing any more of herself.
When food was mentioned she turned her nose up, "I will be honest, I am not hungry. I only want a healer, a bath and a chance to get some clothes. After that I plan to sleep." In fact the idea of food after the smell of all that blood and gore - which still burned the edge of her nose- made her stomach turn. Finding the dekkun's fine hide she gave it a soft caress. Sure the animal likely could not feel it through the scaly plates but it made Thaler feel better.

"So she is like the paladin? She can't... won't be held accountable for the actions of the thing lurking beneath her skin. Pacified or not I fear for the common populace when she decides...or it decides, to lose their temper again," the daywalker stated tiredly.
"Not quite," the foreign warrior murmured, momentarily staring off into the distance. "Annabelle never existed - she was an act knowingly made up for the express purpose of deceiving people. Angora is an actual human ... and I doubt the thing in her has enough presence of mind to be facetious. Her reverting back, though ... that is a concern I share." The foreigner sighed. "Hold the human accountable for its deeds ... no. But you can only judge general danger by wholes."
"I hope you are right," Thaler admitted, causing Aemoten to raise an eyebrow; he was not entirely sure what part of what he said the daywalker was referring to.
"Human, albeit possessed? That I know for a fact. Her plans, I can presently only guess at. My intentions ... well, I'd reckon my identity would make me the sole authority on those, would you not agree?" His tone was lighter with the last sentence, even as he studied her expression with care. "I meant it when I said you - and Jaelnec and Olan - take priority. I'll do what I can. And if her presence is too much to bear, she won't be coming anywhere, simple as that. Why would it be any other way? I hold you dear, and she's but a complete stranger."
There was no question, no choice to be made. He had made that one what felt like an impossibly long time ago, as he was holding her, and she carefully tracing her fingers over his cheek.
"I will be honest, I am not hungry. I only want a healer, a bath and a chance to get some clothes. After that I plan to sleep."
"It will be five hours until we've reached Zerul City ... probably two more until we've taken care of all but the sleep," Aemoten estimated.
It was a long time to go... He had to admit, though - he was not truly hungry in the sense of wanting to eat, either (though his stomach was quite tangibly empty) ... being overstressed, injured, fighting, and nigh constantly alert seemed to work in that way on him. Those times, he typically ended up forcing himself eat knowing he had to, or he would otherwise soon begin to lose strength ... he briefly wondered whether or not Thaler was much the same way. Not eating would probably take a heavier toll on her than him, as much as she was slighter than him in body... But it probably would not make too much difference whether it was this evening or next morning.
The human man lifted his shoulders a bit in a slight shrug - Thaler might have been able to feel it through his arm placed gently around her shoulders.
"Just tea, perhaps?"
Might help with falling asleep... And definitely get rid of any last lingering smell or taste of blood.
Thaler reached out to caress Etakar once they were standing next to him. They were strange creatures indeed ... their faces and lower limbs were covered by bare plates, but the rest of their bodies were covered by both scales and fur ... or furry scales? Something that looked like scales at the base, but then split into many strands of flexible hairs at the edge. One could feel the hardness of the scales beneath if one pressed one's fingers deep into the dekkun's fur, but just running a hand over, the fur felt incredibly smooth.
There was no denying the raw power of the creature before them - too intelligent to be tamed, even less domesticated, he was a willing partner, there for no reason other than that he chose to be. And at the same time, he could be incredibly careful, meticulously handling objects and beings that were so very much smaller than him, and causing no harm.
"His ears are hidden in his mane, just a little bit behind and below his horns," the Sekalyn leaned his head a bit closer to entrust the daywalker, in an almost conspiratory manner.

"Tea." She said in agreement, the delicate scent would not be overbearing but would wash out the scent of blood that seemed to permeate every where they went and the soft taste would clean the heavy feeling from her mouth but not leave her tongue laden with flavours she couldn't cope with. She returned Aemoten's secretive whisper with a gentle nod of understanding, gently allowing her fingertips to run up as far and as high as she could reach. She of course trusted Aemoten with the knowledge he'd imparted her but it would have been good to find the creatures ears herself. Sadly she was a tad short, "Etakar, do you mind giving us a ride?" She asked the beast gently, of course, she did not expect a reply but somehow it felt wrong of her to just assume the beast would be happy to ferry them around. Aemoten maybe, since they were friends, the rest of them were relatively unknown though. For a reason unknown to her it felt similar to walking up to Aemoten, hopping on his back and expecting him to carry her without giving him an option and treating him like a dumb beast. Maybe I'm over thinking it though.

"Tea," Thaler agreed, settling the matter, even as she continued running her fingers through Etakar's fur, reaching up at his suggestion, an act which Etakar ponderously observed from the corner of his eye, and then lowered and tilted his head to permit the daywalker access.
Noble beast though he might have been named for his general mannerisms, Etakar did not necessarily share the common human understandings of regality and etiquette - or perhaps he did, and just chose to interpret the situation on his own terms. At the end of the day, a man might look down on a horse because it carried him and his things, but still gladly serve as a perch for his pet parrot... Whichever the case, Etakar had no shame, and was quite evidently content - if not pleased - with being scratched behind the ear like a very, very big cat.
The little half-human asked him something in a soft voice, though what precisely, he could not decipher. He knew a few human languages, and could even write in them if he so desired (owing to one Ardjan Elantair-Amalegäs, who had also oddly enough insisted he could control rock if he so desired), but what the locals here spoke in was too new for him to have brought much sound and meaning together. He knew his name, though, as he did the little one's...
His own vocalizations were mostly limited to deep rumbling growls from deep within his chest, and odd, almost metallic sounds which ranged from similar to someone drawing blades against one another or sharpening a scythe to powerful, somehow pre-historic calls which could carry well over a dozen miles and had occasionally been mis-attributed to bird rather than beast. Add to that whatever sighs and dismissive snorts he could muster... Coupled with his full range of gestures and some writing ability, it was hard to claim that he could not express himself if he only so desired.
As for the exact content of the question, though - the noble beast's eyes shifted to Aemoten. The man still looked worn, standing by willpower more than anything, though for the time being it appeared he had finally relaxed some, and was showing his state plainly. Quite uncommon these days; he had been not unlike a prey animal, hardly ever showing pain, hardly ever indicating weakness - for if a prey animal showed weakness, it made them a target, and thus it was not permitted. In the nature, one only showed weakness if already on the verge of death ... or if fully confident one could afford it, that it was safe enough.
Other than that? The human man was vaguely concerned, perhaps. But not only. At times, a slight soft smile touched his features, which, once again, appeared to be a rare occurrence these days. He had mostly been looking down at Thaler beside him, up until moments after the little half-human had posed her question, and he finally raised his head to look at the dekkun instead.
"Se, Etakar, areiteam len aretael nekanal am phyrekejan neketarel," he explained.
Etakar shifted his eyes back to the daywalker. Was it so? The little one really had asked him, and as one would ask from a creature that was expected to abide, and not respond? Sekalyns had respected him, Egemites mostly feared - nay, were terrified of - him, the Drylanders not been entirely sure what to make of him (Ardjan left aside), but appeared to regard him more as a curiosity than a monster, and from what he had seen, the people here once more feared him. Aside of Aemoten, only the one called Olan had spoken to him directly.
It was a nice change of pace. Perhaps he would come to quite like the little one.
Narrowing his eyes, the dekkun nodded deeply, once, a bit unusually for him sending the motion with a deep affirmative rumble (otherwise reserved for occasions when he was not in a position to indicate his agreement with the movement of his head, either because Aemoten had asked the question from up his back or he was fully flat on the ground and could not be bothered). He had come to suspect the little one oriented by touch and hearing rather than sight.
And so, the great beast gracefully gracefully lowered himself to the ground. If Aemoten was better off, he had occasionally just extended a hand for him to step on for leverage, but for now, this was the safer option.

Thaler felt the beast move and when it did she concentrated fully on the range of motion. The large but gentle creature seemed to bow it's head. This was followed by a rumble not unlike that of a cat in sensation; but much different in noise and projection, which she was hoping meant affirmation. She had remembered hearing him in battle, such a noise had made no appearance and so she could only hope it was good. She made no move though, not until she felt Etakar lowering himself down, waiting a moment in case Aemoten wanted to warn her of some other reason the dekkun was moving but upon hearing none she uttered quietly, "Thank you Etakar."
She didn't hop on the creature right away though, waiting for Aemoten to help direct her and guide her on how beast to get on to the great creature. She'd never ridden anything before, let alone a dekkun so it would be an interesting experience.

It seemed that Thaler tensed slightly as Etakar seemed to consider his translation of the daywalker's words for a moment, and then offered a nod and - to Aemoten's surprise - a low affirmative rumble. Sometimes, he forgot that Thaler effectively lived in a different world than he did, yet it appeared that Etakar had taken note. The human man had long had the feeling that Etakar understood humanoids better than humanoids - himself included, even after all this time - understood Etakar. Where the dekkun knew, he had to trust - and trust, with his life and everything he held dear, he did.
He also doubted Etakar saw the lack of sight (or apparent preference in communication?) as a fault any more than the Sekalyic warrior's shortcomings in the nasal department or reduced aptitude in complete darkness, or his own inability to handle equipment meant for humans, speak, or as of yet comprehend Rodorian. There was an air of practicality to the beast. You were the most suitable for a task, you did it.
Thaler quell, quietly thanked the beast, "Alonam lal," he just as quietly translated before returning to Rodorian.
"Have you ridden any being before?" he inquired. "Etakar is ... he is not like a horse, you can't control a dekkun like that - you can only request and recommend, and ultimately he decides what is the most appropriate himself. You cannot tame a dekkun, and they're not domisticated ... you can only consider one a companion, a friend, an equal who is unlike you, and inevitably also far more powerful than you or I. Yet, in spite of the rift in power, I trust him fully, and he has risked his life for me. I trust him not to harm, and I believe he rather approves of you..." He had had a simple rope harness earlier, to help with holding onto (which Etakar had proven he could slip out of any time, though in his relative hurry, there had been no mind to fetch such aides. "He knows the way to Zerul City. You can hold onto his mane and lean against me..."

Thaler shook her head, "It seemed pointless for me to learn to ride, since I would not be able to guide whatever mount it would be that bore me." Her tone was gentle, not full of pity but more practicality. She gently felt around dekkun and leaned gently against his body. "I trust him too, he's helped save us all at least once, despite his own well being." She said honestly, when he mentioned that Etakar seemed to like her she smiled tiredly, "I like him too." Aemoten's final suggestion seemed sensible and with a nod she entrusted herself into the hands of the two friends.
Once she'd been aided up onto the beast and she'd checked she was neither a discomfort to it or to Aemoten she settled in for the ride. She leaned in against Aemoten's chest, holding Etakar's mane in a gentle grip and cradling Beatrice against her chest to keep her safe from falling off the beast. "I'm so sorry... if I fall asleep, please don't let me drop her." She uttered to Aemoten as his warmth began to soak into her frozen skin.

"It seemed pointless for me to learn to ride, since I would not be able to guide whatever mount it would be that bore me," Thaler gently explained in a very down-to-earth manner. Not even sat on the back of a market merchant's old peaceful mare as a child, for no particular reason other than being a child and feeling like it? Aemoten wondered to himself. Thaler had not been overly open about her childhood - only little bits and pieces, and from those it would seem her childhood had not necessarily been much kinder than that of a child born amid war. There was some sense in what she was saying, though, even when it was not absolute. But if all carrier beings you knew were expected to obey, and no one, yourself included, you believed you could lead one of them? Sometimes, belief and determination made all the difference...
"I guess this makes me the only one who has carried you recently, huh?" he lightly inquired instead. Better not to dwell on either of their childhoods. "There are people who have it figured out - riding blind. ...It'd be an entirely new experience to you, then? I figure it'd be easiest for you to try to imagine us all as one being... Relax and let yourself move along with him." He offered a little additional tidbit, even as he watched her lean against the noble beast and run her hands over his side and back.
"That's good ... I'm glad," he noted with a weary, but genuine smile when Thaler affirmed that her trust and like of the dekkun was mutual. "We'd make a good team, don't you think?"
Without much further ado, he straddled the dekkun, holding out an arm to help Thaler take a seat and settle comfortably in front of him , finally pulling the hem over both of them, as much as he could, carefully wrapping one arm around her waist and setting the other close to hers in Etakar's mane, all under the suspicious gaze of the raven's one good eye. It never ceased to amase him how small and lithe Thaler seemed next to him, made even more evident now that she was resting against his chest.
"I'm so sorry... if I fall asleep, please don't let me drop her," she quietly uttered.
"Don't worry; I'll take care," he assured her, sending another glance in their feathered companion's direction. The expression on the bird's face appeared endlessly confused; it was so humanlike it was almost comical. She was a large bird, too ... her wingspan was probably almost as wide as Thaler was tall. "Might want to ask Olan how most birds manage to sleep standing on one leg on a moving branch, later... Ready now?"

[[End here - as planned, there would have been 2-3 more posts, then the timeskip.]]

It was not long after the tree Thaler had been leaning against disappeared from sight that the quad of them fell quiet, and Aemoten was left to his own thoughts.
Etakar was hardly much of a conversationalist during travel - not only was his throat not compatible with human speech, but his hands were very much preoccupied, detracting from the distance left to Zerul City one long measured stride at a time. Though, to be fair, Etakar hardly struck as the type of personality who would be much of a gabber even if he were to have the kind of voice suitable for speaking. He was at once much more wont to observe and analyze others than to partake in gossip, and too laid-back to bother with non-crucial affairs (if not, indeed, seeing himself as above petty squabbling). That was not to say he could not be resourceful, or lacked the ability to express himself. Quite oppositely, if he wanted you to know his opinion on something, you knew. It was thus not usually due to lack of ability that Etakar used his literacy sparingly, but due to a lack of necessity - the noble beast did few things that were superfluous. Right now, he was fully intent on getting them all where they were supposed to be.
And then there was the one of them who had up to a few hours ago been their newest companion. The raven, who was still seemingly distrustful of them, watching them with her remaining good eye, beak (that she was not shy of putting to use) slightly ajar in a manner that gave her an expression of nigh human bafflement and uncertainty over the situation. All in all, she did not seem overly pleased. It was hard - if not impossible - to tell how much of her current attitude was due to losing her companion, eye and (though hopefully temporarily) power of flight, physical pain, the whole mess of today and being carried along by nigh strangers where she had formerly had free reign, and how much of it was, perhaps, her simply being a grump by nature. Don't worry - it would appear that we are all broken here, the human man mentally noted at the bird, you'll fit right in.
Ravens were somewhat uncommon as companions; they were not nearly as inherently social as crows, and thus mainly tended to regard the humans they stuck with as either their parents or - as was more common with adult ravens, who tended to drift away from blood relations as they aged - their mates. A raven was thus more likely to be an one-person-bird, whereas a crow could get along with whoever they trusted and had taken a liking to, and introduce their spouse to you while they were at it. Either could learn some speech, if so inclined, but as their voices were more a tool for conveying messages than an instrument of art, and they tended to be not particularly motivated by routine treats, they usually did not bother to invest much in the language you wanted them to learn. Curiously, though, crows were among the few animals who used currencies with no obvious function aside of peculiarity and prettiness, both among themselves and even with humans. If their new acquaintance could speak, though, she was yet to demonstrate it. In his presence, anyway - Thaler had called her Beatrice, though Aemoten was unsure whether it was something she had named the bird on her own accord, or whether she had managed to get it from the bird herself when he wasn't there to see it. (Nor, for the matter, did he know how she had figured the bird was a she ... male and female ravens looked exactly the same to him.)
Whatever the case, it nevertheless seemed likely that whatever fate had brought her and her late companion together would forever remain an unknown. For some reason, given his choice of companion creature and his physical disfigurement, Aemoten felt that he had been quite the lonely individual with a difficult past...
Had his demise really been just yesterday? It felt as though it existed in another time than the evening in the inn, when everything, for once, was going well for them. Koraakan knew that even the early hours before after that, when he had felt rested and in high spirits, preparing to reach Zerul City by noon, that even those belonged to another era. He had probably lost his calm a couple of times, afterwards. Said a few things he would not have if the entire thrice-cursed world had not suddenly turned against them. How many men would have fared better, if suddenly finding themselves trying to, at once, save the world, their beloved, and one's place in life, against one of the most powerful beings in existence, and having less than a day to do so? Did it even matter, anymore? They were alive, somehow, even if at least one of them had, if briefly, wished she were not.
He had been dead, long ago - before he was resurrected as immortal, and what killed others began to only result in a form of stasis followed by slow and exceedingly unpleasant recovery. Nevertheless, he knew what being dead - dying the good death - was like. It was a nightmare. Quite literally so. It was a lot like a dream, one in which you were acutely aware that you were in a dream, aware of just how wrong everything around you, and even you yourself, were. He could conjure whatever objects he desired out of thin air ... food, furniture, tools, it did not matter. But they tasted wrong. Felt wrong. Not real. Incomplete. Off. And if he stopped paying attention, they would likely just vanish. Nothing was permanent. Nothing mattered. He was but a ghost in a fake body shaped after what he though he had been like, interacting with a false simulacrum of reality. Some of the other ghosts even made up fake routines for themselves, did fake work for fake results instead of just conjuring the fake fruits of their labor outright, just to pretend that they were still ... consequential, that their actions had a point. It was, one could deduct, not a plane ever meant for mortals, and over prolonged stay probably induced a form of insanity, a desperate self-deception as a coping mechanism in one's yearning for reality.
He had not feared death as a mortal; he had looked his killer in the eye, knowing that it was the end, knowing there was nothing left in him to do anything against it, and merely resigned himself to the inevitable. Being dead, though, the sense of futility and wrongness it entailed, he had hated. Was hell really that much worse, he wondered? It was so stated that there would have been demons hunting him for sport, but it was not like he could truly die again, and getting back at the damn bastards would at the very least have given one some kind of actual purpose.
Maybe he would have eventually gotten used to that odd, false world of inconsequentialness - in a few thousand ... thousand years, when he had entirely forgotten what being alive was like, perhaps -, but as it were, he did not know how much a person would have to suffer to prefer to die. Or, at least, think one preferred to die. People occasionally recalled meeting the Wanderer, but to come back, as he had? Very few, he presumed. Not one in ten million. And even he did not think he could actually convey how wrong being dead had felt to his mortal mind. Somewhat morbidly - if it indeed so was that the Withering destroyed souls - it occurred to him that perhaps the nonexistence provided by it would have been better for the dead, were it not untimely.
The Sekalyins usually buried their dead - and even many a fallen foe, if they believed them generally honorable - under the trees. As such, Aemoten was well familiar with living forests, and would not hurt an old tree if he could. Oppositely, burning someone was the worst "burial" you could give one - something reserved strictly for people and beings so atrocious and abhorrent they and their memories needed to be erased from existence entirely, just in case their lingering energy might otherwise further taint the lands. Being a tree seemed a reasonably nice fate, all things considered.
Did it not not matter anymore? Not for today, anyway. They had lived. They will see another day. The world would not implode upon itself. Not yet, anyway. As long as they were alive, they could still do things. Fix things. Make a difference.
But rest ... rest they could not. Not truly. Not yet. The withering was still there, the civil war was still there, the Crusaders' Guild was still there, the devilgod was probably still there, grinding his teeth over losing today's battle... They could not hide from the world, and they could not flee. They had to hold their ground and fight, one way or another.
Remember what I told you, back by the borderhouse? We cannot keep fleeing. Even if we do not get tired, even if the thing chasing us does not catch up, we will eventually reach the end of the world, be it a sea we cannot cross or the prophetic end-time... And then we will have to fight anyway. Alone. He did not actually voice anything, however; it would appear Thaler had dozed off, and he did not want to perturb her with his thoughts. Rest. You deserve it. I'm well enough to watch over you. Like you did for me. He can, at the very least, give her the rest of today.
He really had been away from actually acting on being a warrior for too long, had he not? He had kept physically fit, but it had been eight years since he was last adventuring (fleeing!), and decades since he was in an actual war. While he still consciously knew things, the exact sense of how harrowing things were in war had lost its edge, up until he was amid everything again.
Sekalyns considered both killing and war inherently dishonorable. Something that you did because you had to. Deliph, to them, was a devil, and the common thing to wish before battles, aletaria res, was no less than the wish to what was to ensue to be brought into the past. To fight not to win, but to end the horror.
You think too much, Ardjan had insisted, on more than one occasion. Perhaps. But lamenting to himself seemed to be what he did. Not much else to do while they were on the way; it was not as if he could afford to fall asleep himself, even if the road was - thankfully - quite monotonous. Break. Yes.
The human warrior sighed, lowering his head and closing his eyes. Though his soul was no longer trying to collapse his body into itself in order to not be stretched too thin, he probably still lacked quite a bit, and his body and mind insisted he returned to slumber. That whole irritable, weighed down feeling. Were there no plans and no injuries, he would perhaps have considered just settling down against Etakar's side and sleeping it off in whatever secluded spot they could find by the road.
Etakar continued undeterred, not quite like a cat, not quite like a wolf, quite unlike a horse. A good horse would outrun a dekkun on plains - and Etakar was a plains' dekkun -, but not outlast one ... dekkuns could be truly relentless trackers if they set their mind to hunting someone down. Also made them brilliant at covering long distances in general, if you managed to convince them there was a point to doing so.
It was ... cool. The air was heavy, damp, even if it was not raining. It smelled like northern autumn, of moisture and decaying leaves. Odd thing that, seasons. His homeland had only had one, hot and raining. Not too many people originating outside of his home regions fared too well there. Either they caught some exotic disease (which was further exaggerated by the fact that compared to most northern peoples, the Sekalyns were neat-freaks; you had to be if you lived in a climate where your shirt would grow mold on it while you were wearing it if you did not change it daily, and everything that was unclean you could almost literally see rot), or the heat fatigued them. Oddly, even the desert peoples were brought down by the latter - it had been implied it was the moisture. Easier to keep cool and alert in dry heat, as long as you had water.
It was also lot quieter here and now than it would have been in a rainforest. No rain beating against broad leaves, no birds, no distant, ageless call of a beast. Just wind, and even that had barely enough strength to rustle leaves. Peaceful, perhaps. Was it but a calm before a storm?
Thaler seemed so small against him. She weighed almost nothing, too; just yesterday he had been able to pick her up with barely any effort. She was warm now. It seemed almost ... back to normal, he guessed. Yet, it also felt as if things would be all too easily broken again. There was something very tentative about the whole thing, but yet ... in all that, there was still some proof that he could hope, was there not? If he had told her what he felt, and the devilgod himself had intervened, and somehow they were still together here...? Here. Now. Real. Thaler was real. She was still alive, he was still breathing. Comes what comes... He will wait for as long as he has to. For now, just hold her close and try not to think about the future too much.
After a while, a slight twitch went through the human man, and he lifted his head to stare at the road ahead once more. Contrary to Thaler's concerns, ravens were quite capable of holding onto things while they were sleeping ... humans, not so much, especially if said things included a whole other person. He should try not to fall asleep. Easier thought than done.
After some pondering, he settled on trying to recollect what was known as Nerekthe's Epic - or song-tale, if to go by the verbatim translation. Compared to northern epics, it was an odd one; in this, the war was already over, and who was presumed to be the nominal character was but an observer, someone who walked over the destroyed land and witnessed its rebirth. If this is what they were about to see - the razing of the land - then how many of them would see its rebirth?
Unlike the militaristic rhythm and counted syllables of Ienaphyoraem and other directive collections of verses, Retaleakata Atenerekthe seemed to have little pattern, and instead seemed to take after whatever tune seemed to fit the words; with song-tales such as these, the singer had the freedom to add their own flair and interpretation as they saw fit. It was the tale and feeling that mattered there, not so much the exact precision in the meaning of each word.
At this time, Aemoten did opt to voice the words, in what was more a melodic whisper than anything else. Much more would have been taxing on his voice as it now, and and if Thaler was fully asleep, he should probably not wake her. If she was not ... she had implied she liked how his native language sounded, even when he was just habitually speaking it. It had been a surprising, if generally pleasant notion - he had gotten the impression most people considered Sekalynic rather harsh-sounding, the way the usually pronounced things.

Ejit liatrakh em raneat akantrek...
Etri si aleraem anylotejietam,
eri aokeja tamatret anelija,
eri remnataonaet itnakatialem,
atparemjaet antelontentjaet...
Nari si akantrek ameratam,
ireimaet akhaet leim amerakajanaet,
irenaet ietonakaet tem atonjiltaet,
iresetinaet larak setnepeth,
irenaet testapeth lem teykjil...
Ralajigatjaet nateleikei lejinamnet,
etri teseitraket aleatera tamatretak
ireakhet leiematarajaet etenla teja,
ireamerjakhet latakara iokenaet...

The first verse, mostly an introduction, the two next, the description of the land as it was then, people's - the titular character's included - realization that the war was over, and them rising again, fourth, the description of the narrative character as she walked over the land, fifth, the fall of rain, fires put out and blood washed away, sixth, the raising of wind, the clearing of air, seventh, the waking of the plants... On and on it went, describing how, bit by bit, the land repaired itself. Of how, in the end, nature set things right again, given time.
The first times he had heard it he had been so young that he - habituated to the war he had born into as he was, and unaware of the dark age and, for the matter, symbolics - had predominantly just wondered why was it posed as a good, noteworthy thing that it was raining. It was undoubtedly so that rain did serve to make plants grow, and would help with everything burning and smoking, too, but it was always raining where they lived, regardless of whether you could make use of it or not. Always wet, and always suffocatingly hot.
The various Sekalynic nations - the Northeasterners notwithtanding - spanned considerable area into the Malith Jungle, from lowlands to up in the mountains, and as the case was, especially the lower areas blocked the clouds' path and brought upon them heavy rainfall that was as certain as the sun rising. A scribe from past the Old Tenihurian regions (which had long since been assimilated into the Sekalynic nations, with the descendants of the Tehihurian tribes gradually losing most of their culture and becoming who were now known as Highland Sekalyns) had asserted that the only reason the Lower Sekalyn was not quite as dark-skinned as he was was precisely due to the perpetual clouds adorning the sky ... and the cover of the forest.
If he recalled correctly, the pitch-skinned scribe had been called Gao, though his full name was a long, complex one shared with some river of his homeland. He had forgotten so much, over time... Only a few individuals continued to stand out. Gao. Karakon Menepth. Elise. Öjenne Dabalimon. What was her bodyguard's real name? The man was alway there, watching with his distrustful, yellow eyes, towering over Lady Dabalimon (who was by far taller than most northern men and barely an inch short from matching Aemoten's height herself) and everyone else... He did not have any fondness for the Sekalyn, but he was the most trusted companion of the woman who had, after their loss against the Sekalyns, singlehandedly prevented the complete abolishment of the Egemic Empire. Yet, tried as he might, the Sekalynic warrior could not recall his name, just his rather insulting nickname. Who else? Ardjan Elantair-Amalegäs, the unusually talented Drylandic human mage ... not shying away from black magic or necromancy, either, as those were not shunned where he was from.
He had been fourteen when he first opted to travel with Aemoten, sixteen when they parted ways. It was not long before he entered Rodoria, but after that unfortunate incident that had killed him for the fourth - and thus far final - time... Ardjan, if he was alive, would be thirty-six now. Perhaps they should pay his people a visit, should their visit of Zerul City prove unfruitful. If not he, then Ramiyletara Temetara, the leader of those folks, should know something. There was only one person in the entirety of Rodoria whose magical knowledge (Aemoten figured) rivaled hers ... and Delian Gilmah was not exactly liked around these parts, nor, chances were, a welcoming host willing to admit guests. She would not be offering them their typical flatbread (they baked it under the sun, on flat pieces of darkened metal) and cactus fruit, for certain.
And if he managed to meet up with karakon Menepth ... well, he had more than too many unanswered questions, after barely more than a week. Some answers were overdue, and if they could travel in the same general direction while they were at it, the better. While intrinsically passive in conflict, karakon could be quite formidable if someone picked them as a target.
But one thing at a time. Zerul City. Healer. Housing. Bath. Tea. Sleep. The things he will do tomorrow can wait till tomorrow. It would not be too long now until the gates to Zerul City would come into sight, and he would have to deal with today's matters. Etakar would probably catch quite some attention by the gates, a predator (omnivore, but fully capable of taking down beings bigger than anything naturally found in these lands) standing seven and a half feet tall at withers, ridden by a foreign man in a black coat, a strange woman and a raven...
Judging by some of those they were now passing on the main road, some further disaster had struck. It's not us, it's everyone. Finding an unoccupied healer and spare housing could prove more difficult than anticipated, unless William had even more influence than he had figured. No matter. He would at the very least do this much.

The forestfolk watched idly as the strange woman wandered over to her old garments, muttering to herself and poking at them, eventually picking them up and coming over to spread them out by the fireside, over the pile of backup firewood. Good thinking. In this weather, anything left to dry on the ground would probably only get wetter, even if it recently came from water.
His eyes followed her as she took seat again, but for the time being let the black-eyes do the talking. Currently, most it entailed was an introduction of himelf.
Angora listened closely to the... human-ish person. She'd heard tales of those not-quite-human, but never actually met one in the flesh... Her curiosity and excitement at this strange new encounter was nevertheless tempered by her trepidation at these new people's reaction to her. She was lucky, really - she'd admitted to a lot of criminal activity, and she was especially lucky they were willing to overlook that at the least. Would it stop her? No. Would it grease a few things in Zerul itself to go more smoothly? They wouldn't know ... and what they don't know wouldn't hurt them-
No. Angora stopped herself. That line of thinking had already gotten her into trouble with these people. Best not to try her luck.
When the young black-eyes went to insist Angora left her "life of crime" behind, though (naive as it sounded to Domhnall's ears, befitting the boy's youthful face which betrayed he probably did not even need to shave to stay as clear-faces as he was)...
"That's like telling a blacksmith that he can no longer work with metal goods because the noise hurts your ears." Angora shook her head. "Look, I get it. You don't like the idea of travelling with, working with, whatever you want to call it, a criminal. Someone like me. But I can't just drop all of that in a single move - it'd be like... er, I don't know, telling you that you can't use a sword anymore."
She sighed and rubbed her eyes, the strain of her previous activities having finally caught up with her - adrenaline really is a hell of a drug, as they say.
"I can't promise that. But I can promise to try and abstain from that kind of thing whilst I am in your company. Outside of that ... well, let's just say your private life is yours, and mine is mine. Besides, sometimes a bit of blutgild in the right hands can go a long way in keeping ... other people out of trouble."
She sighed and poked at her clothes again. Not exactly dry, but they weren't sodden as before. "Oh, hurry up already. I'm bloody freezing here... Almost wish the spirit was back - I didn't feel the cold then."
She didn't feel cold then? But it was this close to the ground being frosted over... Domhnall's free hand (the one which was not placed on Iridiel's shoulder) went to absently scratch his bearded cheek again. On one hand, crime was wont to get one in trouble sooner or later ... on the other, there probably were old acquaintances who already were trouble...
"..." Angora looked at the green-and-brown man. His speech was very... shall we say, interesting. "What kind of people were in the convoy? Well... err..." Angora sighed. "They were penin... small, stocky folk, almost like angry dwarfs. But a lot of my work had already been done by the time I got there... I think. I don't remember much to be honest, leastways not immediately before I took hold of the sword. Though a lot of them were fighting each other before I arrived, that much I do remember. Almost like the sword was turning them against each other. Probably our old friend the spirit's doing." Angora giggled and looked at the Black Sword. "Yes, I'm talking to you."
Almost in response - or perhaps very much in response - the sword began to glow, intricately inscribed runes previously unseen on the surface now visible to the naked eye. Angora gaped - she had no idea what any of them meant of course, but... it was so pretty!
Snapping herself back to attention briefly, she glanced back over to the... not-quite-entirely-human-thing. "No. The sword is mine. And anyone who wants it will have to prise it from my cold, dead hands."
Domhnall dropped his hand from his cheek, awkwardly hung it in the air for a bit, as if unsure what to do with it, then clasped his knee, for a good measure. The former savage's attitude towards the spirit had ... certainly changed quickly, it appeared. From pleading them to help to, well, this. Her voice further held the remnants of the strange, hair-raising echo that likened her to the inhuman. She might also have misunderstood a bit of what he was meaning to ask, owing to his accent coming through unusually strong. He had been too deep in thought to pay much attention.
"An' ... before that? In the Zerul Ci'y?"
"Oh. Oh!" Angora nodded. "Well, some people would probably call me just a common killer. You know the ones you always hear about, the rapists and murderers who quite frankly are the kind of people that, well, I deal with. Y'see, my line of work, because it is work, despite it working on the wrong side of the law, is to deal with people like that." Angora reached over and took hold of the sword, placing it on her lap over the cloak that the other foreign person had kindly lent or given or whatever to her.
"It's true. I kill people for a living. But I'm no common thug. I'm what they call a contract killer. People who displease the people on high need to be dealt with before they bring the law down on our business, y'see? Usually I'll have to deal with drug dealers, rapists, child murderers, you know the types, the real scum of the streets and the sewers. But occasionally, we have to deal with rats. That's our word for informers, people who rat us out to the law. Who try to play both sides, you know? That isn't tolerated. When you work for the Firm... you swear an oath. You conduct yourself with dignitas, with honour, no matter what. You don't steal. You don't fuck with the higher-ups. And don't ever, and I mean ever work with the government to take us down. Because then you'll have a visit from someone like me. And make no mistake, you die that night. Might die satisfied but you'll die. The best way to deal with a man - and it's always men, I swear - is to appeal to what they really want. And you know what men really want most of the time. Which then makes them vulnerable. Can't defend yourself with nothing, you know?"
For once (again), Domhnall did not react immediately, and glanced towards the two black-eyes's to see their reaction. This was not truly the kind of affairs he was too familiar with, being originally from near a rather small town - one which did not facilitate having its own secret underground and organizations and whatsit's -, and then mostly only visiting larger places to barter and visit a bar or an inn... People did not usually send an assasin seductress after you because they thought five animal pelts should cost a rodlin less than you asked for. (Not that he actually overcharged; people were just always trying to haggle things down to the cheapest they could get.) And, by the sound of it, the people she had been dealing with had not exactly been merchants at the marketplace who you thought asked prices for their hard-earned wares that were just sightly too high, either...