“Someone… what?” Thomas asked with renewed uncertainty, clearly confused by Domhnall’s description of their soon to be arriving acquaintance, but Jaelnec spoke before the boy even had time to finish those two words.
“Claw is coming after all?” he asked, equally surprised and pleased with the news. “How do you- actually, never mind that. That’s great news.” He turned to Thomas. “Claw isn’t human, in case that wasn’t clear from Domhnall’s description. He’s, uh… best way I can describe him is as a cross between a tarke and a Melenian, only instead of being catlike he’s more wolflike.”
“Uh…” Thomas seemed completely lost, struggling to keep up with the unexpected developments he had to deal with during his supposedly simple task of receiving William’s allies. “Okay, I guess I’ll… pass that description on, and let them know that this creature isn’t dangerous.”
“But the Withering?” Jaelnec asked eagerly, his enthusiasm picking up further as his hope soared at the thought of successfully ending the plague. “You said he cured it? How?”
“You can ask him yourself, he’s in the city,” Thomas suggested, immediately more comfortable once the topic changed to what he had expected to talk about. “But the short version seems to be that he went to Mount Zerul after he started showing symptoms, and for some reason his health started improving until all trace of the Withering was gone. Apparently he’s convinced that he was saved by ‘Lord Djubei’, of all things.”
“The mountain? It could have been the Ice Clan, somehow…” Jaelnec mused, but the other quickly shook his head.
“He assured us that he didn’t have any contact with anyone there, and that he stayed at the foot of the mountain. He said… he said the fog cured him, and that the fog came from Djubei.”

It seemed he had confused their poor greeter-fellow. The younger black-eyes seemed quite pleasantly surprised, though, if equally perplexed by his sudden knowledge of said tidbit. Never mind, though; Claw was coming to the city and everyone appeared to have a different opinion on what exactly he looked like.
"I'd say both of these'd be much more human," Domhnall absently mused, trying to picture all of the beings the boy listed as comparison points with their large companion in turn. "Claw's more like a cross between a mighty large standin' maned bear and ol' Murchad 'ere, if ya ask me." he noted, referring to Iridiel's lupine companion. They'd seen a couple of those "Melenian" folks. Looked more like furry humans with cat ears and claws than anything. With ample bosoms, no less.
The robed lad looked even more confused.
"Won' be long till he's all here," asserted Domhnall yet again - would not want some of those folks try to put an arrow through their new friend for looking inhuman, after all - "Reckon we'll stay here for him."
The young black-eyes excitement for finding the answer to their quest remained strong as ever. Something about some noble or another supposedly curing a guy. A mage, perhaps, given the location and a "fog" which supposedly wasn't just a cloud stuck to the ground. The mountain ... well, he supposed there was really only one of those 'round these parts, and it wasn't too far.
"Who's this Djubei-fellow, an' can't we jus' go talk with him ins'ead?"

Though the suggetsion was essentially sensible, Jaelnec’s enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by Domhnall reaching the conclusion that it would be best to stay and wait for Claw to arrive, to avoid any possible misunderstandings that might arise from the Zerulics being approached by something that was undeniably difficult to tell from a large man-eating beast... which Claw might be, for all Jaelnec knew, though a relatively sapient and supposedly honorable specimen of such. It was not just that he wanted to forge ahead and progress in the completion of his quest, but also that he was eager to reunite with Aemoten and Thaler, especially with how poorly they had both been doing lately, Thaler in particular. With Angora’s description of the things that made their home in the underworld of Zerul City fresh in his mind, he was reluctant to leave his friends without his protection for long.
Domhnall’s inquiry about Djubei earned him another deeply confused look from Thomas, and even Jaelnec was somewhat taken aback until he realized that it was only natural for word about such a thing as Djubei not to spread that far, even if it was relatively common knowledge in Rodoria.
“Djubei isn’t really a... person,” the squire tried to explain, looking to Thomas for confirmation that he was not saying anything wrong. “It’s actually a matter of some debate what Djubei is, but supposedly it lives under the mountain and is the reason the area around it is always covered in mist.”
“Some people call it the ‘God of Misfits’, but we’re pretty sure it isn’t a god,” Thomas joined in, apparently catching on about what needed to be explained. “It’s hard to study it very well, though, since most of the entrances to its tunnels have collapsed over the ages. And even then people who try to find it tend to... disappear. We don’t actually know of any way down to it now, and even if you could get down there, we don’t know whether Djubei would be inclined to talk to you... or if it even can talk.”
“I read some of the deo’iel’s records about it, and though they don’t know much about it either, they think it’s most likely a very powerful monster of some kind.” Jaelnec threw his arms wide on the horse in a gesture meant to entail unspecified enormity. “Apparently it’s huge, and it has tentacles. And that’s about all they know.”

If anything, their greeter-fellow looked even more perplexed than before. Luckily, the young black-eyes seemed to catch on and offered his somewhat awkward explanation, at which point the robed lad realized what was going on, too. Well, he had given nicknames for a few of the carnivores sharing are with him during his active hunter days himself, but he did not really go around insisting they offered favours of any kind besides, perhaps, not trying to eat him. They were animals of the sentient, but not truly sapient kind, after all.
"Ye're all sayin' there a mons'er of some kin' under the moun'ain?" he affirmed, trying to sort through his knowledge of similar things. They said it was tentacled, and most tentacled things he knew lived in the sea. The sea was not far, granted, but nevertheless the alleged presence of a specimen of the implied dimensions in the specified location seemed odd, unless it was indeed part-deity and did not submit to laws such as those that governed mortal beings. Absently scratching a bearded cheek, he continued. "An' it never shows? Cannae think how there'd be enough food for a regular ol' beastie that size down there, 'less there's a tunnel to the sea or somethin'... It'd have all shriveled up long ago."
There was no confirming whether or not the legends were true. The people who disappeared might as well have gotten utterly lost in the derelict and probably highly unsafe passages, and the mists might have just as easily been the doing of the mountain itself. Mountains did weird things like that, sometimes, like always having their tips shrouded in clouds or making weather turn on a pebble.
"Eh, bu' wi' what ye said, it's nae likely we'll learn much from ol' Djubei, aye? Dinnae soun' like yer lad met 'em, ei'her. Anyone else wi'ered set camp 'ere yet? If no'in' else works, migh' as well try somethin' which shouldn't, aye?"
So, it shouldn't be all that hard to find volunteers. If several others got well, too, then that would at least be one answer ... though it would remain unclear whether it'd be the doing of the mountain, a giant cave octopus, a deity or something else entirely.

“No one knows what it eats,” Thomas admitted with a shrug, “since animals seem to avoid the fog around the mountain. There are loads of people who think its long dead – last time it was officially seen was over six hundred years ago – but others seem convinced that Djubei is still alive, and every now and then someone comes back from the mountain saying they saw Djubei, or heard it speak to them, or felt its presence or something.”
“It’s probably a coincidence,” Jaelnec mused. “I have a hard time believing that some monster just happens to fill the air with something that cures the Withering. But if this guy got better, there must be something there.” He looked at Thomas. “So, have you sent anyone?”
“Me?” the boy exclaimed, apparently shocked by the idea. “I’m just the son of a count, it’s not like I have any power around here; I’m basically a glorified messenger. That being said, I did send out word that we’re looking for volunteers for a trip to Mount Zerul, for an experiment that might cure the Withering.”
Jaelnec frowned. “But you haven’t sent them there yet?”
“Of course not! We have people with the Withering literally dying to stand in line to go there, but I can’t very well just send a bunch of deathly sick people to live in the wilderness on their own. Most of them can barely even walk, let alone take care of themselves; cure or no cure, they’d be more likely to end up dead than anything else. Normally it probably wouldn’t be a problem to just send a detachment of the Ducal Guard with them, but...” He made a vague gesture with both hands encompassing the area around them. “The guards have too much on their hands already, they can’t spare anyone else.”
Thomas sighed. “I’ve been looking for healthy volunteers to escort the afflicted, too, but that line is about as short as it gets. Leave their livelihoods behind for at least several days, going to an area where people supposedly disappear mysteriously, and expose themselves to the Withering?” He shook his head. “There might be a few, but not enough.”

People said this, people said that, hearsay was not overly reliable either way, or there would be three thirty-foot tall man-eating bears lurking in every second village (it was usually people getting drunk).
“It’s probably a coincidence. I have a hard time believing that some monster just happens to fill the air with something that cures the Withering. But if this guy got better, there must be something there.”
"Unless we're dealin' wi' a coincidence of a differen' kin'," remarked the hunter mumbled with deadpan pragmatism, mostly to the younger black-eyes. "Coul' be the feller af'er all. Or real chance. One in million million kind. Why'd ye think I aske' if there'd been o'ers?"
The rest was all the lad explaining why no one had really tried to replicate the "miracle", no matter how small the odds of it being true. Either the will to survive of those people here was much smaller than those back home or things did not quie add up.
"I's very recent, then?" he guessed, finally dropping his hand from his face, gripping the saddle and even leaning a bit forward (but not too much, given his rather precarious situation) as he stared at the lad, eyebrows raised. "Less than a week?* It starts as wee gray bruises, aye? These ones can walk, an' there shoul' be plen'y o' those wi' friends an' families. Those jus' afflic'ed, they won' care if they die, since they'll die anyway. An' mithers an' lovers, they'd be jus' as desperate even when unblemish'. They'd go, whe'er ye le' 'em or nae."
"An' this," he motioned his head vaguely towards the refugees, "it jus' started today, nae? Wha' happen'd tae these people, anyway?"

*Not applicable if we're dealing with Meila's father or anyone before that point, among others.

“Recent?” Thomas mused, scratching the back of his neck. “The person being cured, you mean? That was a while ago, it turns out, but we only learned about it just several days ago, and it took another day to actually track him down. We’ve only known about all of this for a few days, really...”
Jaelnec frowned, though, at the mention of people being able to walk even with the Withering. That part he knew was true; most people did not even notice that they had contracted the pain at first unless the marks it left happened to appear somewhere within easy sight, and only noticed themselves weakening after a day or so. And even then... though the Withering was undeniably horrible, painful and debilitating, the weakening of the afflicted only increased gradually, typically not leaving victims bedridden until four or five days in. And even then, Freagon had stayed on his feet and scowled, growled and fought as he had always done, until he was literal hours from death to the plage. While it was probably unfair to hold others to Freagon’s standards – concerning this or pretty much anything else – it did make it somewhat unlikely that the city did not have even a few people who caught their Withering in its early stages.
“And the other thing?” he asked Thomas, gesturing to Domhnall. “About people able to walk, and family and friends being willing to help them?”
Surprisingly Thomas sighed at this. “I don’t even know where to begin... Firstly, there aren’t as many friends or as much family available as would be ideal, really. Not only has the Withering taken its toll on Zerul City as much as anywhere, but with so many people off elsewhere in Rodoria...” He let the sentence trail off, leaving them to reach the conclusion that a lot of people were left alone for themselves.
“But even ignoring that, I didn’t want to send them off without not just someone to care for them, but bodyguards ready for combat. I sent out word about looking for volunteers along the most public channels I possibly could, and though I suspect most Zerulics wouldn’t admit it, there’s a pretty thriving crime syndicate based in our city. There’s a very real danger that they’ll be ready to either ambush the people going to Mount Zerul and take them hostage, or in a best case case scenario loot the homes and businesses of anyone going while they’re gone.”
Clenching his jaw, Jaelnec had to stop himself from angrily chastising the boy for being so indecisive. He had to remember that not everyone had gained the same gruesome insight about what happened to those that died from the Withering that he and his companions had. “And if you wait, those people die anyway.”
“I thought the same thing,” the other admitted regretfully, “and decided to go ahead with the expedition after waiting for volunteers for just one day... but...” He shrugged. “‘Whether I let them or not’ is right. It’s probably no surprise that those afflicted who could still walk, and who still had friends and family... they left on their own. I have no idea where by Mount Zerul they might be, or if they even made it there, and I’m left almost exclusively with afflicted who can barely move.”

“As for this,” Thomas said, making a vague gesture at the refugee camp forming along the wall of Zerul City. “Yes, this is new, but the guards were stretched thin even before this. These people are from Nemhim City, which has apparently been attacked and destroyed by some kind of monster.”
“A monster? Singular?” Jaelnec remarked, eyes widening at Thomas’ words as he quickly ran through the creatures he had read about in the records of the deo’iel that could possibly be powerful enough to effectively defeat an entire Rodorian city.
“Yeah, just the one. Shapeshifter, apparently, with reddish-brown skin.” He paused, grimacing. “And it eats people’s hearts.”
Jaelnec instantly turned pale as a ghost, chilled to the bone. “Immanuel.”
Now it was Thomas’ turn to widen his eyes in surprise. “What?”
“A harvester. The monster you just described... it’s a harvester.”

“Recent?” the young fellow repeated. “The person being cured, you mean? That was a while ago, it turns out, but we only learned about it just several days ago, and it took another day to actually track him down. We’ve only known about all of this for a few days, really...”
Just a few days ago? The forestfolk's head notched upwards and his gaze drifted to somewhere above and his right. Just a few days... Jael...the younger black-eyes had said they'd been on the move for at least a week, and that they knew there was a person here who had been cured of the soul plague, though he had not been overly specific, and evidently had not know how he accomplished such a feat. And that there was some guy William waiting for them in the City. Huh. He glanced at Jaelnec, but opted not to comment for the time being, with the audience and the black-eyes already urging the greeter-fellow to continue.
“And the other thing? About people able to walk, and family and friends being willing to help them?”
So, for the time being he focused back on their appointed information dispenser. For the urgency in the boy's voice, the fellow at the gate sure took a long time to get to his point.
“...‘Whether I let them or not’ is right. It’s probably no surprise that those afflicted who could still walk, and who still had friends and family... they left on their own. I have no idea where by Mount Zerul they might be, or if they even made it there, and I’m left almost exclusively with afflicted who can barely move.”
"So, someone has gone forth on a mission. 'Ey folks jus' sent themselves," asserted the forestfolk in the way of summary. "Migh've wan'ed tae leed wi' that. Recon our work's all se' out fer us af'er we've done chattin' wi' the Djubei-praiser. Le's hope peeple ain't harder tae fin' than game. Oughtn't be. Prob'ly stomped all over the place."
He turned stern again as the lad continued on with answering his final question, however. As it turned out, an entire city had been razed by not an army, but a singular ... well, the word used was "monster". Seemed an awfully impotent way of putting it, somehow. Monsters ate stragglers in forests, and were usually bears or treacherous holes. This one was something else entirely.
The young black-eyes was visibly, and understandably perturbed. One thing gave the forestfolk a pause, though. A name. Just as the already pale boy turned an even more ghastly shade, he had uttered a name. One that Domhnall figured was a perfectly normal human name. He sucked at remembering all the thousands of foreign names he'd been exposed to since leaving his original home, but he was fairly certain he had heard this one before, and that fellow had shown no intention of eating him or his various internal organs thereof.
He also called him a harvester, which... No clue, aside of the feeling that it had nothing to do with agriculture in the strictest sense. Unless you equated humans to crops, anyway.
"Ya know this one? Met 'im?" he inquired perhaps a bit too urgently, this time eying the black-eyes with dumbfounded surprise. It certainly sounded as if in addition to being appropriately terrified of it, they knew what and who exactly their malevolent entity was. If so, how were those folks alive, and how in the Planes had they gotten him to introduce himself? "Wha' manner of being that is tae teer down a whole city?"

Reaching Domhnall’s immediate position hadn’t taken much time, Claw surmising that the gap between his starting point and his intended destination having taken no more than ten minutes to close.

Quite a few members of the assemblage that was slowly making its way towards Zerul City had noted his presence, however. While most kept to themselves and moved on (perhaps sneaking a glance or two at the passing del’korm at most), others had momentarily interrupted their unhurried journey towards the city to acknowledge his presence with audible astonishment or pointed fingers as he bounded towards the great metropolis with furious tempo. Some of their lot, mostly farmers but a few soldiers as well, freed an extensive assortment of melee weapons of all shapes and sizes from different places on their persons in preparation for an imminent attack, but were reluctantly returned to their holding places when Claw was far enough away from their families and assigned charges.

The severity of his exhaustion was readily made apparent to him when Claw returned to his usual two-legged posture mid-stride as he melded seamlessly into the crowd near the front of the city gates. His breathes came in labored pants and the padded undersides of his enormous claws rapidly developed a thick film of sweat.

Still, he trudged onward through the thick crowd, his overbearing presence and foreign appearance naturally prompting the vast majority of the refugees to break their ranks for his passage. A few more working men just ahead of him reflexively brandished crude weapons and lobbed threats at the oncoming del’korm, but Claw calmly yet threateningly reassured them, in a series of broken sentences and mispronounced words, that he was not interested at all in devouring them (yet), but instead had intentions of meeting a few companions of his.

When he finally saw Domhnall, an unconscious Iridiel, and her “wolf” sitting nearby, Claw started almost immediately towards them. But he abruptly paused mid-step when he registered the presence of a young man who was conversing with Jaelnec and Domhnall. His appearance was unassuming and uninteresting for the most part barring an over-sized two-handed "sword" that was fixed to his back.

Claw guessed that he must have been friendly enough. Otherwise the others wouldn’t have bothered exchanging words with him. Subduing his mild concern (of which was founded more on the strategic assessment of a potential enemy's capabilities and intentions rather than just on raw fear itself), Claw approached, still drawing the attention of the people around him as he calmly made his way forward.

“I… well, yes, I guess someone did go,” Thomas mumbled, lowering his gaze to the ground and seeming a bit more deflated than before. “I’m sorry, but as I said we don’t even know if they’re alive, and there’s no one with them to document what happens or research how it works…”
“We’ll look into it,” Jaelnec assured him, frowning at the idea of however many people having gone to Mount Zerul, facing an uncertain and dangerous future while the people in the city – aware of the likelihood of these people’s situation – opted to leave them to their own devices rather than try to help them. And yet, he also felt bad about heading out to protect the people who had been able to leave and leaving afflicted at death’s door in the city rather than bringing them to possible salvation… it was by no means an easy decision, and as such he was happy that he was no longer the one that had to make it. They could not reunite with Aemoten and Thaler soon enough.

When Domhnall inquired about the destroyer of Nemhim, Jaelnec had to pause for a moment when he considered how to explain the situation, not because he had to think very deeply, but because he was taken aback by just how little he knew about it all. Still, there was no reason not to tell the others everything he knew, however little that might be.
“His name was Immanuel, and he was with us on our quest for a time,” he explained, grimacing in discomfort at the memory. “He was a human, but then… something happened to him. Technically I only have his own word for it, which is odd since I doubt he knew anything about harvesters before, but something turned him into a harvester.”
He shrugged. “Harvesters… I’ve read very little about them, and what was written was very vague. All we really know is that Immanuel produced some kind of living ichor like what Thomas mentioned, was able to mend himself after being cut in half, and became soulless. Beyond that, I know that the only other harvester in recorded history to have actually, uh, done anything, was a creature known as Sineater… and that Sineater destroyed an entire nation down to the last person and animal before vanishing inexplicably. They’re supposed to be invincible…”

“Hey,” Olan called out suddenly, eagerly pointing away from the city gates, “there’s Claw, you know?”
“What in the Planes – ” Thomas started, reflexively reaching for his runesword, but Jaelnec stopped him with a gesture.
“He’s the one we talked about earlier,” he assured the young Zerulic, glancing back at the lumbering furry beast casually walking toward them while everyone else stared, pointed or ran away at the sight of him, certain that something with such a bestial appearance was dangerous. “He got here quicker than expected… but I suppose that’s a good thing.”

The fellow at the gate looked like he wanted to shrink underground when he admitted that, indeed, it had gone down roughly as the forestfolk had suspected - but the fate of the self-appointed quest-goers was unknown, and they probably wouldn't be all too useful as researchers. The squire was frowning, and ambiguously suggested they would "look into it" - which sounded suspiciously like the kind of thing people promised when they had no actual intention of doing something. Perhaps he did not dare make any definite statements in the absence of his leader (as opposed to the forestfolk himself, who did not quite have the same boundaries).
The expression on Domhnall's own face had long lost the intensity it had displayed when he first inquired about anyone who was not willing to wait (or could not afford to wait) for an official expedition, and now that he was done trying to fit all the details of the timeline together, he was once more looking the lad in the face, absently scratching his neck with his free hand. The fellow looked almost as youthful as the young black-eyes, and was obviously not exactly fully in charge of the affairs here ... nor did he have the experience needed for dealing with these things. He tried, he thought up what he figured was the best way to deal with things, but ultimately the world had other plans. ...Not that Domhnall could claim having been in charge of missions of sorts as a part of his regular schedule, but he still had a couple of decades of dealing with people of all sorts over the lad.
"Ah, it coul' nae have been more than a day or twa, no?" Not enough time for the disease to kill those who were good to go, and he suspected a ... was that the Firm Angora had mentioned? ... company would aim for more high-profile targets. And even common thieves who did want food and clothes and the occasional small valuable were more likely to target the refugees or the common abandoned buildings. As the past few years had shown, tragedies such as these tended to do a number on economy, and even the sort of bartering he and Iridiel (well, mostly he) did.
"Aside, peeple be peeple. Ye cannae control wha' 'ey do." He shrugged. "Jus' learn tae expect wha' 'ey do." No all that different from beasts, after all.

He was really not certain how to react to the news of this ... harvester who was once a human named Immanuel. They really had not been kidding when they said they attracted all kinds of trouble. It sounded much more reasonable to take your odds with Djubei in person, and that didn't seem particularly reasonable, either. In his known world, beings died when you put a crossbow bolt through an eye of theirs ... unless they were deities, and deities were better left alone and un-pissed-off. Start with problems which at least seemed fixable; that way, odds were something got done, too.

Oh, Claw? Well, seeing Jaelnec was already explaining the lad and guards that the newcomer was with them, he might as well let the refugees know, too, and extend a greeting to the ... man? himself, too.
"He's wi' us," he declared loudly, holding up a hand. "Ey, an' welcome back!"

“Hello companion-Domhnall.”

Before he continued his greetings, Claw elected to steal a gander directly to his rear. Predictably, many beaten faces, most of them soiled with anxiety and trepidation, met his fierce and unflinching gaze with their own. A few lobbed mild obscenities his way. However “threatened” they may have felt, none of the refugees made any motions to harass or assault Claw, opting instead to give the del’korm a very generous berth as they trudged onward towards their intended destination. Claw found this ongoing spectacle quite amusing, sniggering softly to himself before turning his broad wolf-like head back to face the forestfolk who stood before him.

“These ones are...different,” Claw enjoyably remarked, casually jabbing a clawed pollex over a furry shoulder at the ever-shifting river of mortal life that flowed noisily around him and into Zerul. “Very different.”

Claw’s attention suddenly fell upon the other members who were accompanying Domhnall. His glare, intensely inquisitive and suddenly devoid of emotion, fell upon the young man with the big sword.

“Domhnall, who is this one?” Claw stoutly inquired, gesturing an index digit at the teenager.

“Hello companion-Domhnall,” the large bestial fellow responded to his greeting, before glancing behind himself, supposedly to gauge people's mood and overall inclination towards himself. Most of them were too tired, too injured, or both to show more than mild trepidation.
“These ones are...different,” Claw enjoyably remarked. “Very different.”
From them? Or the people of Rodoria as they usually were? Or humans as such? The plague and misery hang above everyone here, by the appearance of it. Nary a family which hadn't lost anyone, and the market was shot with a third of the people gone, or however-the-much it was. Was weariness what made the difference?
"How so?" the forestfolk opted to clarify in the end, eyebrow raised, even as the wolf-man seemed to count his new compaions, finally settling on the greeter-fellow.
“Domhnall, who is this one?” he gestured at the one.
"Eh..." he actually needed a pause to think. "The lad's a feller tha's here tae greet us and show us the way. Our folk's contact in the City made an arrangement of sorts. The boss-man and his lass wi' the beastie wen' aheed; we'll probably meet up wi' them once inside."

“Ah,” Claw responded. Satisfied with the explanation given to him, the del’korm quickly adopted what passed for a customary relaxed posture among his people: back straightened; tail kicking up light puffs of dirty dust as it lazily swished to and fro behind him; pointed ears set in a neutral position. He looked at the collection of beings assembled in front of him once more, and then fixed his predatory eyes, now no longer shimmering with mild enmity for the newcomer with the big sword, upon a sleeping Iridiel.

He was mildly concerned for her. She was still unconscious, and had been in such a lifeless state for quite some time now. Claw pondered if it were at all possible that she had been stricken with some sort of ailment during the trio’s violent encounter with what had apparently been a “lohk”. Maybe her soul was sick? Soul sickness did exist in Malkor’Kurz (and Iridiel was most definitely exhibiting a number of the symptoms that were associated with the disease). Was it possible that it existed here too? Maybe the lohk had cast a spell upon her in the final seconds of its life that afflicted her---a final act of petty retribution to punish the one who had dealt it a mortal blow.

Soul sickness, although entirely painless, was not only incurable, but almost always lethal as well. Claw hoped that she didn't have it.

And like with Domhnall, he had grown quite fond of Iridiel. The magical power that she had displayed during the violent circumstances of their initial meeting deeply intrigued the moderately experienced Echoer. He meant to ask her about it. Perhaps he could show her how to wield the Echo and, in return, she could teach him how to do what she had done?

The mere possibility of losing her this early in their companionship gnawed savagely at Claw's conscious.

He wasn't ready to lose Iridiel. Or Domhnall. Or any of them for that matter. Claw silently reached across the Gelid Union to touch La'Kan's semi-divine presence, asking the venerable hero-god to lend his non-del'korm friend a minute portion of his own inexhaustible fortitude for good measure.

“Yes, let us go.” Claw muttered modestly, his eyes still glued to Iridiel’s motionless form.

Even though Thomas tried eagerly to convince Jaelnec and his companions to meet the survivor of the Withering in person, the young nightwalker maintained that they needed to find Aemoten and Thaler before doing so. Jaelnec wanted not only to ensure that Aemoten had all the information he needed to lead the group wisely, but also could not be rid of the burden of leadership too soon. The survivor could wait until later in the evening or next day, if need be. Olan supported the decision to prioritize finding their friends wholeheartedly, it turned out, wanting nothing more than to find Thaler and honor his promise to her, to always return to her side as soon as he could.
Luckily it did not take too much time or effort to convince Thomas to delay taking them to the survivor, after which the boy remarked that he had arranged for the companions’ stay per William’s request, and that they were all free to come with him and stay at the Remdal estate, where they would be hosted, fed and – he remarked with a glance at Angora – dressed, should they wish to be so. Once again Jaelnec and Olan declined, citing once again their wish to find their friends as soon as possible. Thomas described the location of the Remdal estate and how to find it nevertheless, noting that they might not be able to find their friends and, even if they did, were free to bring them, too. If any of the group wanted to, going with Thomas was most likely the safest and most comfortable way to spend the night in Zerul City.

Jaelnec and Olan entered the city, though, and started their search. It proved a simple task to track the others at first by simply asking various street-vendors and the like whether they had seen a creature matching Etakar’s description, and for most of the search they were optimistic that finding their friends would prove relatively quick and easy. There were still dead ends in their search, of course, and sometimes they had to ask around quite a bit before they found someone who had either seen Etakar or heard about him from others, but eventually they managed to locate the dekkun... only to discover that the foreign beast had parted ways with his human, likely having found no suitable accommodations for himself wherever Aemoten and Thaler had settled.
They asked around a little more after that, hoping that someone might have either noticed Aemoten’s somewhat foreign appearance, Thaler being a white-haired daywalker, or where about Etakar had parted with his riders. By then it was getting late, though, and the streets gradually drained of the people who had been out and about during the day who either retired to their homes or migrated to different parts of the city. Sullen and defeated the nightwalkers finally followed the instructions given by their greeter and, in what to them was blessed darkness, arrived at the Remdal estate.

The estate was nothing less than a mansion, it turned out, located in the wealthiest part of the city and being significantly larger than most other residences near it, and one of the rare Zerulic cases with a building actually having two floors. The inside was richly decorated, the floors either tiled stone polished to mirror-like sheen or luxuriously soft carpets, depending on the room or hallway they found themselves in. The food and drink on offer was less extravagant than the estate itself, it turned out – according to Thomas there were limits to how much he could procure at the moment, especially with his father gone on business – but it was still quite plentiful, varied and well-made enough that both of the nightwalkers got to eat their fill before being shown their separate chambers.
The estate turned out to have quite a few bedrooms, and though not all of them were equally exuberantly furnished, they were all a huge step up from sleeping on the ground. Every room had a large bed big enough for two people to lie side by side, with mattresses filled with wool, more pillows than one could possibly need and warm quilts, and all had curtains run around them; clearly Count Remdal was used to hosting people of high standing. The bedrooms also all had the necessary equipment for grooming and bathing, a pitcher of water and a chamber pot.

After a night of better rest than Jaelnec could remember ever having, morning – and an offer of delicious breakfast – came, and the nightwalkers reunited and made to rejoin with their companions once again; both those they had left at the city gates and Aemoten and Thaler.

It was never what one would refer to as “quiet” in Hell, with the constant infighting of demons and widespread torture, murder and rape going on everywhere at all times, but even by the standards of the Lower Plane the cacophonous pandemonium around Wagor was bad. On the ground, in the air, even under the ground and merged into ethereal shadows demons were clashing in the tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands; it had reached a scale where numbers stopped making sense, nor did they really matter. Two huge swarms of demons were simply throwing themselves at each other in droves, killing and maiming each other with wild abandon, only to dissipate and reconstitute themselves upon death so they could come back and fight on.
Pointless, he thought, faintly registering that a hostile thalk was apparently attacking him with bolts of purple lightning, though such lowly creatures were no threat to a demon lord like himself. He waved a hand at the thalk, releasing a small burst of energy that made the vaguely human-shaped demon explode in a mess of black gore and white bones. Lowly demons should just fight among themselves instead of trying to mingle with their betters.
A fourteen feet tall orlgarh came at him next, roaring thunderously and flexing its absurd muscles as it swung its giant flaming axe, apparently intending to use it to cleave Wagor down the middle. Wagor simply held up the back of his left hand and called his relic, though, manifesting his heater shield, Black Mirror. The axe struck, resulting in the orlgarh’s entire right arm vanishing into a cloud of black mist, before the Lord of Vengeance made a cleaving motion with his right hand and tore the brute in half.

He looked up into the sky, watching how the churning green, red and black soup of nightmares up there spat out multicolored lightning, rained fire and got pulled toward the ground by chaotically forming tornadoes everywhere but here. Immediately above him, unlike in most of the Underworld, the uniform black sky was uniquely docile, tamed by Wagor’s liege to protect the Oratory of Fate. This place was the most precious, most holy place in all of the Lower Plane, and for these heretics to try to seize it was unforgivable... so why was he the only demon lord here, defending it?
Of course he knew that Valderoth was on the other side of the oratory – even if Kreshtaat had not assigned them each their own side, it was impossible not to notice the dense aura of power over there – but he was the only one. It was both a good and a bad thing; on one hand it meant that the invaders would focus all of their attention here, with Wagor, since none of them dared to risk annoying Valderoth. On the other, the lazy bastard would never drag himself to this side, even if someone broke through. In fact, Wagor suspected Valderoth would not lift a finger even if the oratory was lost and was being torn to shreds right in front of him.
The truth of the other lords’ absence was simple, though, and he knew it: most demon lords wanted nothing to do with the battle, and while some might feel that such a battle was beneath them, Wagor knew most simply wanted to avoid punishment while at the same time hoping for the oratory to fall.
The Oratory of Fate was where Kreshtaat kept the Oracle, of course; everyone knew that. Everyone also knew that the Oracle was due to wake in just a year’s time, and that for one day only her limitless knowledge would be offered. They also knew, however, that the Lord of Darkness only allowed a few to approach the Oracle, and even then he permitted them only to ask the questions he provided them with. The Oracle was for Kreshtaat only, and no one else, not even his greatest demon lords, were allowed to even see her. These insurgents wanted to “liberate” the Oracle from Kreshtaat’s control, which probably meant that the winners would be the ones with exclusive right to ask her questions... though no matter who took her, taking her from them would be far simpler than taking her from Kreshtaat. If there was one universal rule in the Lower Plane, it was to never cross Kreshtaat.

The very air – thick, heavy and foul-smelling as it was down here – trembled for a second as Wagor sensed a sizable discharge of energy, and a quick look around confirmed that hundreds of demons on the defending side abruptly collapsed, crippled and incapacitated by the volatile debilitating magic affecting them. Truth be told even he felt somewhat weakened by the destructive energy burrowing into his flesh, though a minor effort on his part was all it took to dispel it from himself. The others affected could just go ahead and die. They were inconsequential anyway.
A shadow suddenly leaped out of the crowd in front of him, moving much too quickly for him to properly react, and abruptly Wagor found himself raised into the air and moving backwards at breakneck speeds, a hand around his throat and a vile, crumbling, rotting grin in front of his face. The hand holding his armor-clad throat was skeletal, flaky and crawling with maggots... as was the hand that now seized his right wrist, and the third hand grabbing the left one.
Wagor swung a leg in a powerful kick, easily shattering the ghoulish creature laying hands on him in time to catch himself with a burst of energy, stopping himself in mid-air before he was carried too close to the oratory. He let himself down onto the dry, frozen and barren ground gently, all while preparing himself for what was to come.
A second later the skeletal figure came at him again; it was a shapeless mass of bones, carrion insects, mold and dripping slime held within a cloak of rat-skins, shrieking wildly as its eyes burned a venomous green and hands emerged from the tangle, stretching their wicked fingers toward him greedily.
Wagor held up both hands as he pulsed dark energy, just in time to counter the blast of power emerging from his enemy. The force of the two shock waves colliding sent demons sprawling through the air in all directions and cracked the the earth beneath, but barely bothered Wagor’s regal humanoid form or the other’s – Myrtoloin’s – hideous skeletal one. Lesser demons were retreating all around them, most of them smart enough to realize that they did not want to be caught anywhere near where two demon lords clashed.
Myrtoloin screeched and filled the air with green lightning, arcing into Wagor’s body and trying to sap his strength. Wagor groaned, scowling under his hood as he channeled destructive energy into his right hand before shooting it at the other as a shapeless blob of darkness that exploded on impact, shattering Myrtoloin into dust... only for a new vessel to form immediately and Myrtoloin rushing him again, all the while crying out in rage.
The fight went on for a little while, but Wagor found that it was a very discernible difference between how he and the Lord of Decay fought, specifically in terms of how each of them had decided to make their vessels. Wagor had opted to spend a significant amount of energy to create a sturdy and powerful form, making it so dense and durable that it took minimal damage from attacks, requiring less repairs, and had high offensive power. Myrtoloin, on the other hand, seemed to spend as little energy on his vessel as possible, making it so fragile that it was literally falling apart on its own, but in turn making it disposable. Wagor could destroy Myrtoloin as many times as he wanted, but Myrtoloin just kept making new vessels; sometimes Wagor even found himself fighting multiple Myrtoloin vessels at the same time, being abruptly seized by one Myrtoloin from behind while fending off another in front of him, but the other demon lord was too cunning to overuse the trick. In the end it came down to who would tire first; Wagor from maintaining his vessel, or Myrtoloin from regenerating his.

Suddenly Myrtoloin vanished into smoke, and though Wagor could tell that that the Lord of Decay had teleported behind him just from his aura, skeletal hands wrapped themselves around his limbs before he could react. A toxic yellow miasma filled the air that Wagor instinctively started counteracting, preventing it from corroding his vessel, at the same time as he pulsed destructive energy from his back. Myrtoloin survived the blast, surprisingly, and only clung to him more tightly as more and more hands emerged to wrap the Lord of Vengeance in a tighter stranglehold still, bony fingers clawing viciously at his face and body...
Why did he change tactics? Wagor thought, jumping high into the air before propelling himself back-first into the ground with rock-shattering force; a maneuver that Myrtoloin shockingly still withstood without being destroyed. His strategy was viable. He has the power to match me blow by blow... but like this, I have the advantage. What is he thinking?
He elbowed the creature on his back, hearing bones crack and unmentionable things squish, and with some effort he ripped his right arm from the other’s grasp with enough force to tear off the skeletal hands holding it, sending them crumbling into the distance. He started funneling a large amount of energy into that right hand, preparing an attack powerful enough to disintegrate Myrtoloin... when he noticed the ground trembling under his feet.
No! he thought, too late to act, as the ground quaked, bulged and cracked, pushing upward in a surge of rock, dust and molten lava, all while a deafening rumble echoed throughout the domain. The ground finally crumbled away entirely as Wagor, Myrtoloin and any other demon unfortunate enough to have been too close to them were carried into the air on gray lips clad in scales of stone, attached to a creature so gigantic that size as a concept stopped making sense. A serpent of stone ascended out of a hole in the ground so huge that an entire mortal city could have fit in the pit, its body so long that an end was nowhere to be seen, even as it lifted the two demon lords miles into the air, far into the inky blackness above, where the harmful skies of Hell tore at their bodies and threatened to tear them apart.
Wagor unleashed as much raw power into the serpent’s head as he could muster, but unsurprisingly it neither slowed nor seemed to be any more than superficially singed by the blast; this was Akronos, another demon lord and one with a vessel even more durable than Wagor’s own, not to mention thousands of times as heavy and powerful. Akronos was a being of nothing but brute strength, an unstoppable force once in motion...
This was not something Wagor, the Lord of Vengeance, could stop.
With a sound of grinding stones, though less like rocks rubbing together and more like the motion of the tectonic plates of the world, Akronos’ jaws opened, and Wagor helplessly fell into the darkness of its gullet.

A moment later Wagor was reformed, somewhat annoyed at having to create a new vessel after spending so much energy making the first one, but by then it was too late; even hovering in the air at a distance, held aloft by his magic, Wagor could plainly see Myrtoloin’s abominable form crawling up the now-cracked ashen steps to the Oratory of Fate. It was impossible to teleport that close to the oratory – the same magic that calmed the sky prevented supernatural travel there – so the most Wagor could realistically manage would be to hit Myrtoloin with a blast of power from afar, but even then... Akronos was still there, beside him, a seemingly endless pillar of rock stretching from within the deepest bowels of Hell to far into its hazardous sky, the very movement of his body causing more of the landscape to quake and crumble. The Beast of Time could dive back out of the sky at a moment’s notice, and if it did it would tear a huge chunk of Kreshtaat’s domain asunder.
Wagor prepared his energy, unsure how to attack but knowing that it had to be huge, but it was too late. Myrtoloin reached the white structure at the top of the stairs, his grotesque form reaching for the handles on the colossal double doors into the place...

But then there was a form next to Myrtoloin, materializing out of the shadows. A pale, feeble-looking human man, his body marred by black veins and marks of disease, whose hair was like that of a corpse and whose only clothing was a tattered black skirt. A finger jabbed at Myrtoloin, and the demon lord was summarily obliterated. He did not reform, nor would he for a while, Wagor knew; there was no point. Myrtoloin knew better than to fight the Lord of Darkness himself.
Akronos apparently did not, though; the titanic serpent abruptly shot out of the sky with meteoric force, letting out a roar that shook the entire plane to its core. Wagor considered whether he was supposed to do something, but ultimately decided against it; he would only be in the way or, more likely, get caught in the destruction.
Kreshtaat looked up with annoyance, raised one hand and wagged an admonishing finger at Akronos... before the serpent’s head exploded, sending chunks of rocky flesh and showers of black blood raining down over the entire domain. The rest of Akronos’ body went limp with the destruction of the head and started slowly retracting back underground, though it would never make it that far; Wagor could already see it starting to dissipate into black mist now that the infernal consciousness within was gone.

“I thought I made myself clear,” Kreshtaat’s voice boomed across Hell, the sheer power and authority of him, even with his puny form, was enough to make Wagor fall to his knees in submission.
“No one enters the oratory.” He waved a hand with disinterest, and every demon assembled before the oratory, defenders and attackers alike, were instantly vaporized. Even the crumbling form of Akronos’ body instantaneously dispersed, leaving only a gaping, seemingly bottomless pit where it had emerged.
“No one but me.”

What a week... and what a day. It felt surreal to be in an actual proper bedroom again after so long sleeping in the wilderness or in whatever was available. It had been a nice change to be able to sleep at the guard outpost at the border, to have a bunk to lie on and a roof over their head, but this was something else entirely. He could see the first rays of sunlight hitting the top of neighboring buildings through the window and reflexively reached for the brim of his hat, grasping air since his hat was sitting across the room along with the rest of his equipment and clothes. The bed felt warm soft under his body, and the room inexplicably smelled nice. The luxuries of the wealthy... such stark contrast to conditions living on the road.
So much had happened, but now it felt like they were closer to the answers he had set out for than ever. He would have to see what Aemoten and the others wanted to do about the bearers of the Withering – whether they were to make haste to Mount Zerul to protect the ones who went on their own or help the weak inflicted in the city get there, too – but it was probably a safe bet that they would be heading to Mount Zerul soon. Mount Zerul, where the Withering released its grip on its victims. Where they might finally find a cure, or perhaps a way to end the plague for good.
But as much as Jaelnec wanted to feel optimistic about the way things were turning out – it was seeming as though they could possibly manage to do something that people had failed to do for a decade, after all – he could not help but feel somewhat grim about things. About the misfortune they had had, and how it had affected especially Thaler... but also about Roct. He did not know whether he could trust her, or if talking to her was even remotely safe, but he wanted to trust her.
And, more than anything else, he wanted to hear her story. About why she claimed that Freagon had been downright evil, at least at times, and how the claim that Freagon was the grandson of Felgon Dragonslayer, who lived a thousand years ago, made any sense.

With a reluctant grunt the nightwalker pushed himself to the edge of the spacious bed, moved the curtain and threw his legs off it, shivering momentarily as his naked feet made contact with the cool stone floor. He hesitated once again, reminding himself of Aemoten's admonitions against having anything to do with the entity inhabiting his sword. The argument against inviting foreign entities into ones mind had been made that much more convincing by Angora's predicament, but even so... he had to know.
Standing with determination, Jaelnec went to his pile of equipment and, before he could change his mind, seized the hilt of his sword. Immediately he felt the gentle warmth from within the weapon seeping into him, trying to calm his worries, and knew that he had already invited Roct into his mind without even trying.
“You feel healthier today,” the female voice remarked inside his head, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Properly fed and rested for once, if a little colder than would be ideal. Are... are you naked?”
“I wouldn't have thought that would faze you,” he said with genuine surprise. “It's not like dragons normally wear clothes.”
“I may have been hatched as a dragon, but I never lived as one and don't really identify as one. The only experience I have with physical creatures is what I've felt through others, which has been almost exclusively Felgon, Telagon, Freagon and you, all of whom have preferred to be clothed.”
“Sorry. Should I get dressed?”
“Eventually, but it's not like your nudity bothers me; I can't see you anyway. You seem to think that you have ample privacy at the moment, though, so it can wait. You want to talk about something in particular, don't you?”
Jaelnec looked at the heavy wooden door to the bedroom, closed shut and bolted. “I thought you couldn't see anything in there. How do you know that we're in private?”
“You're speaking out loud when last we spoke you only thought at me. You wouldn't do that if there was a chance of anyone else hearing it.”
Satisfied with that answer, Jaelnec nevertheless found himself hesitating to speak of the things he wanted to talk about. “You're... sure that it's safe? Talking with you like this, I mean. Having you in my head.”
“I'd certainly hope so. Let me remind you again: Felgon, Telagon and Freagon all wielded me as well, and though Freagon made a point to shut me out, I spoke with Felgon regularly and many times a day with Telagon... not to mention the other things I did for Telagon. If Telagon was fine after spending decades with me, using me to fight and being my friend, interacting with me should be quite safe.”
“See, let's start with that,” he said eagerly, standing with the sword in hand, still in its scabbard and with the belt dangling from it, and started pacing back and forth. “What you're saying doesn't make sense. Felgon Dragonslayer died a thousand years ago; there is no way his son could be Freagon's father.”
He felt Roct hesitate uncomfortably. “You picked up on that, did you? But it shouldn't surprise you too much. You're not stupid.”
Jaelnec frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You were his apprentice for ten years, since you were but a child. I'm sure you noticed that something was off about your master.”
He lowered his gaze and swallowed, feeling an icy finger running down his spine. “I... think I noticed. He didn't age.”
“Good, so you did notice. I have no idea how or why since he never told me, but after a certain point about a thousand years ago, Freagon Nightmaregaze stopped aging, though there is a huge span of time there that I don't know anything about. There was a battle at that time, the most intense one Freagon has ever been in, and I got the sense that he had been severely wounded. After that he left me somewhere, alone and in the dark, until about fifty years ago, when he returned to reclaim me. I was surprised, obviously; at that point I had been convinced that he was dead and that I was going to spend the rest of eternity alone for a long time, but he was alive.”
Jaelnec sat down on his bed, suddenly dizzy at the thought of his master being even more extraordinary than he had thought. “Freagon was a thousand years old... that doesn't make sense.”
“Doesn't it? Didn't it strike you as odd that a Knight of the Will was roaming about centuries after the knighthood had gone extinct? Surely he dropped other hints as well; being unnaturally old isn't something easy to keep from someone you spend night and day with for a decade.”
He shook his head. He would need to think about that one, though he did feel part of himself agree with Roct even now: he had always known that there was something off about his master, though he had never truly understood what it was. “Okay, but... what was wrong with him? What did he do? You said that he was evil...”
“He was,” she said, her voice more aggressive and resolute than he had ever heard it before. “Freagon Nightmaregaze was a hero at times, don't get me wrong, but at other times he was unquestionably a villain. He kept himself isolated most of the time, so for most part I don't actually know what he did... but there were several times when his control either slipped, or he intentionally let me experience what he was doing. And it was horrible.”
The squire's mouth went dry. “What -”
“Your nightmares are wrong.”
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Jaelnec skeptically let her continue. “I know this not only because I witnessed what happened through Freagon's eyes, but because you've allowed me access to both your dreams and your memories, and they don't match. May I show you?”
“Show me?”
“You already experienced one of my memories, it seems, though unintentionally so; you relived my hatching and, consequently, my death. Dragons have perfect memory, so I can recall anything I've ever experienced in detail and show it to you. I can do the same with your memories, though those won't be as accurate or detailed.”
He licked his lips. “Okay... so show me, then.”
Though she did not have a body, Jaelnec still got the impression that Roct nodded at him. “Okay. First, your nightmares, colored by what Freagon told you...”

Jaelnec gasped, unprepared for just how vivid the experience of being shown something by Roct would be. Suddenly he was back in his ten-year-old body, tiny, weak and terrified, kneeling over the corpses of his family in a huge pool of blood as the fire roared outside. He was staring at the man who had haunted him so many times, a large man in chainmail armor, a blood-drenched sword in hand and a twisted, sadistic grin on his ugly face. Over his armor he wore a tabard with the crest of the Crusader's Guild, marking him as one of the monsters who had slain his entire village.
“Now,” he heard Roct's voice, sending ripples through the scene before him, “what you actually remember.”
Before his eyes most of the details of the scene seemed to fade into featureless gray mush, a blank canvas onto which something else could be projected. Some completely irrelevant details stood out much clearer because of this; a piece of furniture here, puzzlingly undisturbed even when it felt as though the world should be ending, a small wooden toy there, a floorboard with a particularly interesting pattern on it... The sense of being small and weak also seemed much fainter, obliterated by the crushing sense of sorrow and fear that gripped him as he cried over his slain parents and sister, lying in a puddle of blood that was magnitudes smaller than it had been in his nightmares.
And then the man... The adult Jaelnec shook his head with a sinking feeling in his chest, though the child Jaelnec felt only fear and confusion. As with everything else in the memory most details were blurred and forgotten, but some things stood out as very noticeably different from what he had seen just before. The man's sword dripped with blood, yes, but his right sleeve was also soaked in it, up to the point where it had been torn, likely by an unusually sharp instrument. His face was not ugly, but rather plain, if somewhat contorted in pain. He was smiling widely, indeed, but there was no sadism or evil in that smile on his tear-streaked face; it was a smile of horror-tinged relief. The grimace of a man who had just found a survivor at the scene of a massacre.
And on his chest was not the crest of the Crusader's Guild, but the crown of a Wenalic soldier.

As abruptly as it had begun the experience ended, and Jaelnec found himself sitting on his bed, crying silently with fear and sorrow both old and new. He clutched his chest with his left hand, the implications of what he had just seen physically painful to him.
“Yes, you already suspect what I'm going to tell you. You deserve to know...”
“Shut up,” he whimpered, gritting his teeth at the sheer intensity of the emotions surging through him. “Shut up... please... shut up...”
“Your family and hometown weren't killed by the Crusader's Guild; in fact they were never there. The man you saw back then had seen the smoke and rushed in to search for survivors.”
“Please... don't...”
“Freagon was the one who killed them.”
“No he didn't!” he growled, clutching the sword so hard that it hurt and showing his teeth in a furious scowl, desperate to vent the rage building inside of him. “Of course he didn't! He saved me! He saved me!”
“Freagon had hung around your village for a couple of weeks at that point and had spoken a lot with your father. He wanted to make you his apprentice, but your father refused; said he wanted a different, nicer life for you, and that he didn't trust Freagon. But Freagon was determined. So that day, when you left the village -”
He threw the sword across the room, cutting off Roct mid-sentence and sending the belt and everything attached to it crashing into the wall before clattering to the floor. It was fortunate that Zerulic houses were mostly stone rather than wood, or everyone would have certainly heard.

He threw himself back on the bed, burying his face in his hands as he tried to make sense of what he was feeling. He wanted nothing more than to reject what Roct had told him – Freagon had been his master and caretaker for half his life, after all, and he had regarded him almost like a second father – but he felt deeply aware that nothing Roct had shown him had been a lie. That man had undeniably been either a soldier or a guardsman of Wenal, maybe even a knight, and Freagon had definitely killed him. The crusaders had never been there.
Freagon had lied to him.
And now he was dead, beyond answering for his questions.
“Damn you,” he murmured, unsure if he was addressing Roct, Freagon or himself. “Damn you...”
He found that suddenly, he regretted that he would never have the chance to kill Freagon himself.

Claw navigated Zerul City's more sparsely populated zones and locales with surprising speed and grace for something of his mass, the del’korm cutting swiftly between buildings, surging over a plethora of walls, and launching himself from the occasional low-hanging rooftop or two without so much as a single sound being emitted from his person. He alternated between a two and four-legged stance as needed as he charged onward towards Remdal estate with due haste, all while sustaining an invisible pulsating sphere of magical power that muted all acoustic energies within a fifty-foot radius of his body.

Claw had deliberately waited until nightfall to begin this journey. Traveling with his newly acquired companions would have been the safer option logically, the lot of them effectively functioning as his “escort” to maneuver through the city unmolested by yet more fearful Rodorians armed with makeshift clubs and crude axes---but it would have been the much slower one, too.

And unless he was on the prowl for prey, Claw absolutely dreaded moving at the speed of men with extreme intensity. Oh, by La’Kan were they slow! It was not their fault of course: their stride was far shorter than his was, and their shapes, Claw found, were much more suited towards engaging in a superior number of dexterous movements than his---a skill that enabled them to erect constructs and forge weapons with a level of meticulousness that even the most august of Malkor’Kurz’s southernmost metal-shapers and builders could not match.

And so Claw had told Domhnall and the others that he would meet them at the estate, although at the rapidity at which he was moving he was quite positive that he would reach it long before the bulk of the party were scheduled to arrive. One of them, Thomas---the strange human with the del’korm-sized sword---had even mentioned that food and drink would be provided freely.

That fact alone had enticed Claw so much that he had suddenly found his reluctance to enter an unknown entity's dwelling all but gone.

<They’ll be there before you. You and I have much to discuss, dearest Ajanok.>

A misstep; his concentration broken and with it his silencing spell; a startled yelp that rang out across a significant portion of a surrounding residual area. Large sections of stone and wood were torn free as Claw whipped his armored right hand out to his side in a desperate, split-second bid to find purchase with an adjacent wall, yet downward he tumbled, time itself seemingly slowing to a deathly crawl as the hard street below him lurched closer and closer to his face.

Voices in his head? How?

Knowing full well that he was falling, Claw could only wince his eyes shut in grim anticipation for the immediate arrival of two things: a wave of pain flowing over his whole as he impacted the ground with great force and the panicked bellows of about a half-dozen Zerulians who had been clustered directly below him the very moment he had lost his footing.

...and yet, mysteriously enough, neither of those things came to be at all. Instead, Claw felt himself utterly awash in a surreal sensation of pure...weightlessness, one that seemed to wane and wax in perfect tandem with the rhythm of his heart. An even eerier feeling of him traveling across implausibly vast stretches of land and water within a fraction of a second introduced itself next, while the world around him, devoid of all light and sound, seemingly spun chaotically too, prompting Claw to suspect that he had been knocked unconscious the very instant he had made landfall, and that all of this was a vivid dream or hallucination of some sort.

A dynamic eruption of illuminance, painful and blinding, forced Claw’s eyes shut and sent a new pang of anxiety coursing through his whole---but the immediate feeling of something that he was all too familiar with, and very much thankful to have in contact with his body at that very moment, set his nerves straight.

Ground.

Claw began to right himself. The world had stopped spinning. Actual things that verified his existence, such as sound and a direct sense of weight, had returned to his person in full. Still facing the ground, he first gingerly nursed the earth with his clawed hands to verify that he was soundly upon solid earth and that he was, in fact, alive and well, caressing what he suspected to be loose gravel scattered about a hard floor made of cave stone. Satisfied with his findings (and positive that he wasn’t a ghost), he snapped to his full height in one powerful and swift motion, gave his disheveled mane and fur a thorough shake, and opened his eyes to adequately survey his surroundings.

Claw could only stand there motionless, a direct, flat look drawn across his canid face as he peered upwards into the incandescent eyes of the most stunning she-del’korm he had ever seen. Although the cavern that he was in was sparsely lit, he could still see that she was beautiful beyond all reckoning, her face seemingly having been carved by the greatest stone-shapers of Malkor’Kurz’s southern planes. Claw felt himself become further and further enthralled by her arresting visage, yet when his wandering eyes began to scan the rest of her body, his admiration for her divine splendor was momentarily jarred. She was appallingly humanlike in appearance.

While she stood upright upon a pair of digitigrade legs like all del’korm did, the stranger lacked the distinctive predatory “slouch” that a quotidian member of Claw’s race normally possessed. She was garbed in a loose and modestly revealing two-piece garment that consisted of a diminutive vest that had been clearly tailored more for fashion and less for functionality and an elongated loincloth that covered her front and rear. Both articles of clothing, Claw noticed, had not only been woven from high quality fabrics, but they also bore sewing patterns and icons that he did not recognize as having belonged to any cultural group on Malkor'Kurz. The female's arms, ankles, and neck were showered in many fine examples of golden jewelry, the pieces just as alien and strange in appearance as their wearer was.

She was also noticeably taller than Claw--something that would have made sense easily to him had she been of pure Deep North stock, yet her physical appearance thus far suggested anything but. The stranger sported a much slenderer and shockingly much more curvaceous shape than a typical member of her race and sex would conventionally boast, one that stood in stark contrast to the stout and hardy bulk that both male and female del’korm normally maintained in equal measure. Claw did heed an appreciable layer of defined muscle situated just below her soft, slick coat of silver-gilt fur, though this spoke more of someone built more for pure athletics than raw physical strength.

Finished with examining her physicality and sensing no ill-intent from her, Claw edged closer, circled around to her sides and flank, doubled back to her front, and took six quick sniffs of her scent. If anything, this would tell him where she had recently been, and having visited many places across Malkor’Kurz himself, her aroma would hopefully give him some insight as to where she was from and possibly where her tribal or sect allegiances lay.

Claw froze. He sniffed again.

Nothing. She smelled of nothing.

He took a step back, frustrated by how much of an enigma this person was. She had no smell. How was that possible? Nothing about her made any sense at all. Scanning her again for anything of informational value, Claw’s attention was drawn to her head from which an impressive mane of tightly-wound box braids terminated from, their collective length extending well past her buttocks, each one adorned with an elaborate grouping of silver tribal hair ornaments that aided superbly in accentuating her exotic appearance. In addition to being quite stylish, Claw was almost immediately relieved when he realized that the hairstyle had been woven in the traditional pattern of many of Malkor’Kurz’s northwestern clans and sects, and therefore informed anyone who was well-versed in the nokaski dom, or the “weave-tongue” as the northwesterners collectively called it, of the wearer’s name, allies, enemies, pedigree, and any honorifics that they happened to go by.

Disregarding her disturbing lack of a smell, Claw moved on to her mane. The knowledge that each twist, knot, and adornment that constituted her prominent head hair hoped to convey was clear enough, he thankfully discovered. As Claw worked his hands through the braids, the stranger looked at him leisurely, gently tracking his every movement with her glowing, pupil-less eyes, the barest hint of a del’korm’s coy smile slowly forming across her face. She made no attempt to stop his sudden invasion of her personal space.

< “Boa’Noktus...”> Claw uttered. He continued to study her mane, coursing his claws through the tightly-wound strands.<“...the Unseen Passion, Daughter of...no one...and life-companion to my Shivering Roar”?>

Claw relinquished his light grip on her hair, paced backwards, and looked directly at her.

<Not true...not possible,> Claw stammered. <You’re Boa’Noktus? You created the Fangs! But you being His...you are His--- but none of the sagas that are sung in His praise make mention of La’Kan having a Life Companion---or any companion for that matter. How--->

The female, or Boa’Noktus as he had learned, closed the gap between the two with such blinding speed that she appeared almost as a blur. Before he could fully perceive what had just happened, she was already squatted downward to Claw’s own height and running her own free claw through his own mane.

<That and oh so much more is true, Ajanok,> she cooed, continuing to motherly course one free hand through Claw’s own mass of braids. <I was His friend, His first, and ultimately His lover, yes? I aided my Shivering Roar during the New Times by seeing what he could not see and being where he could not be. I helped Him fortify this land against both the High Above and the Deep Below by erecting the Void Song, thereby ensuring that Ori’s ilk and whatever crept and crawled beneath would not harm us so. We fought as one against His half-brother, Hel’Rok, many moons ago when he set upon the warpath against Malkor'Kurz, and it was I who assisted Kota'Fo in ridding the del'korm of the foul Soul Plague all those ages ago. And I did all of this...> Boa’Noktus resumed her full height, her unassuming smile now a toothy grin of manic glee and wild anticipation, and spread her bejeweled arms to her sides with an elaborate flourish.

Claw was immediately struck with awe as the cavernous grotto that surrounded the two was shattered into millions of pieces in an instant, the fragments of rock, both big and small, being ferried upward into the sky by an unseen force. He cast a hand in front of his eyes, shielding them from a sudden barrage of piercing sunlight that doused him from every angle, while the ethereal laughter of Boa’Noktus seemingly echoed all around his immediate position, the cacophony of giggles and yips having no clear source whatsoever.

<...in faithful service to this.>

When Claw finally opened his eyes, a gorgeous vista greeted him: Malkor’Kurz in all of its enchanting charm, its rolling plains, gargantuan mountains, and northern jungles working in tandem with its bountiful forests and crystal-clear lakes to illustrate the absolute pinnacle of a free land. He could see three of the forty-two Fangs of Unirihusu, the towering teleportation monoliths erected by Boa’Noktus herself during the New Times to aid the del'korm in forging lasting alliances with one another shortly after the defeat of Ori and the Dri Consortium.

Home. He was home.

Claw freed himself from the entrancing scene displayed before him and turned to look at Boa'Noktus. There she stood, hands folded neatly behind her back and wearing that same mischievous grin that Claw had begun to associate with her. Her saber-shaped tail twitched excitedly behind her periodically.

<What are you?> was all Claw could ask.

Another innocent laugh; another series of bodily movements too quick for mortal eyes to adequately comprehend. She was behind Claw now, her arms wrapped securely around his upper torso in a gentle and surprisingly warm hug.

<Something and someone special,> she whispered into his ear. <But not as special as you, I’d like to think. As I said my sweet Ajanok, you and I have much to discuss. Fear not, for I will explain everything and answer any and all inquiries that you may have...and then I shall return you to your friends, whole and unharmed, yet laden with the gifts that only a del’tes can provide!>

With those final words and a seering flash, Boa'Noktus and Claw were nothing more, ferried off to places unknown to all except the Unseen Passion herself.

- The Previous Night -
- One of the Guest Bedrooms, Remdal Estate, Zerul City -

Angora sloped into the room, exhausted. She had been slogging about the city almost all day, trying to at least cobble together an outfit that didn't resemble that of a dockside girl from bartering her various jewellery that she had collected whilst she was under the influence of the... thing in the sword. Try as she might, she could not quite understand what it was that compelled her to do what she did in the wilds, what the spirit... or outsider... or whatever it was called, actually was. Olan had tried to explain it to her as best he could, but it was no real use - Angora simply didn't understand what - or who, if it was a person - it was.
All she knew for certain was that it had tried to take control, and Iridiel's ritual had beaten it into submission. At least, that was the idea, and Angora's hope for the future. She unslung her pack onto the tiled floor next to the bed that had been given to her, and sighed heavily, walking over to the window overlooking the surrounding view.

It had been a very long day indeed, and... by the gods she ached. Her whole body simply hurt.

Not a sharp, stabbing pain as one might expect from, say, an injury or a torn muscle or anything, but just a dull, throbbing pain in all of her joints. She pulled up a chair and sat down, the wood creaking slightly as she rested her weight onto it. 'H-Huh... I suppose this is the first time I've actually been able to think for myself for more than half an hour...' she thought to herself. 'I guess the spirit's influence was able to push me to the limit without needing to rest.' Looking around the room, she noticed some bottles of red wine - an import from Relimon perhaps - and some crystal glasses, almost begging to be drunk. Angora cracked a wry smile. She could certainly use a good, stiff drink, and a warm bath and bed after such a long time in the wilderness with none of the creature comforts and relative security of home, at least such as it was.
The latter gave her some concern, however - the Firm likely learned of her arrival back in Zerul the moment she passed through the gates. It would have been pointless to try and conceal herself - she was known to the Firm, and any efforts to camouflage her presence might actually have made the situation more obvious to an internal observer. Still, there was little she could immediately do, given the circumstances. She could sleep on it.

'Problem for another day.'

Angora reached down to unlace her boots, but before she did, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye, to her far left, in the room. Despite her weariness, she sprung to her feet, starting for her blade, before realising it was not at her hip, but instead out of her reach, with her pack, she having covered it up in an attempt to make it less obvious that she was carrying an unbelievably rare artifact of the gods... well, at least as best you can conceal such an item. No matter, she would be able to overpower-

Nothing. She must have imagined it. 'Must be getting tired.' She sat back down and unlaced her boots, kicking them to one side before getting up to walk over to the wine bottles, taking one in her hand and, unsheathing a knife she had purchased earlier that day, she opened the cork with a couple of twists of the knife. She sat back down and took a long, thirsting drink. The heady, intoxicating, sensuous liquid washed down her throat, a welcome relief from naught but water, or the odd travel drink or caudle that she could steal from travellers, for months on end. By the gods, it was good... She took another drink from the bottle, and sank back into the chair, letting her exhaustion flow over her as a swollen river would flood in times of plentiful rain. Civilisation... you couldn't beat it. She took drink after drink, staring out at Zerul City, until she finished the bottle... It had barely taken her a few minutes to drain the entire thing. 'I must have missed that more than I thought. Still, you know what they say... alcohol, the source of, and answer to, all of life's problems.'

A fresh wave of exhaustion washed over her... it was no use, she had to sleep. Angora got to her feet and eased herself out of her ragged excuses for clothes, allowing them simply to fall to the floor in a rumpled heap of effectively rubbish. Gods, she must have looked a state to her travelling companions, with her wild, unkempt hair, her no doubt foul and offensive smell, and whatever it was that passed for clothes she had on her back. But now, she felt free. The old Angora, the Angora of crime and punishment, was there, in that heap. The new Angora stood atop the pile, victorious with her companions' help. On cue, in the distance, she could hear the raucous shouts, and songs, and laughter, of the far-landers, Iridiel and Domnall... they sounded like they knew how to enjoy themselves at least. Free drink did that to people, she guessed. They were laughing and conversing in their own language - Domnall's rougher, coarser, almost more stereotypically-barbarian tones evident against Iridiel's more rounded, mellowed speech. Angora walked back over to the bed, her feet padding softly against the stone floor, as she listened to the two of them. Perhaps Iridiel was of townsfolk stock, whilst Domnall was of the wilds, like her? Who knew... Her mind wandered as she lay on top of the covers, wandering to her other companions... Olan, the kindly old man, the one who had taken pity on her and tried first to commune with her when she was first under the spirit's influence, and who had given Iridiel the idea that there was someone beneath the spirit's influence, trying to get out. She owed him, owed him an awful lot. She owed Iridiel, too. And she owed Jaelnec.

Jaelnec.

She whispered his name, almost rolling it around her mouth as one might roll about smoke from a fine tobacco pipe or cigar, to savour the sweet, smoky taste. She stared at her reflection in the empty wine bottle, and reached out to take hold of it.

((This post hasn't been entirely reviewed by cthulu and may thus be subject to some changes.))



Thaler had slept, her dreams were not comfortable, they were drenched in blood that felt more like acid, she was burning and drowning, she was tormented for her failure, her betrayal, her uncertainty. Then all was peaceful, all was simply black and this allowed her what she needed. Her body warmed in the foreigners arms, for all the damage the pair had taken the sharing of warmth and rest was helping them both.
Thaler didn’t stir until the gates echoed open, her mind telling her that something had happened and she should rally and her body fighting the idea. Her heart, too tired and too scared to pick a side allowed her to slumber a moment more. It was as the dekkun began to move once more that finally the daywalker began to stir. First to come to her were the smells, she could smell herself, drenched in gore and ripe with drying blood. Aemoten, the dekkun and then...the city? Sounds soon followed, filling in the blanks, bird song and general chatter that behove a city. She groaned quietly, rolling her head into Aemoten’s chest and trying to drag herself back to the waking world. She was warm but still a shiver ran down her spine and she could hear the weather around her. “Aemoten?” She whispered, her voice hoarse and her mind, body and heart still rebelling her choices.

Seated seven and a half feet up, Aemoten overlooked the street with ease, towering over even most carriages, let alone other riders of common beasts. There was uncertainty in the people surrounding him; most gave Etakar a wide berth, rendering no obstructions to his stalking, quiet, catlike gait (with an almost imperceptible limp owing to his left forelimb). The dekkun was used to cities as such; beings of his kind were a common sight in Sekalynic settlements, not uncommonly seen lounging on roofs or prowling on the streets on their own. Beatrice had dug her talons into the dekkun's mane, and was overlooking the street with a dare in her gaze, feathers ruffled and her single good eye gleaming.
Aemoten himself ... "remained troubled" was perhaps the most adequate way of putting it words could cover. The Withering, the Devilgod, Angora, the soulless who was once Immanuel, the mental and physical states of himself and his companions... One thing at a time he had insisted to himself, yet during apparent downtime, he couldn't help but keep pondering. Find an inn. That was the next item down the list, something he could do, here and now. Anything that offered good proper beds, baths and hot tea. The man's eyes scanned the nearby signs, attempting to assess the establishments they advertised. Not his first time in Zerul City - but he was hardly a common visitor. It had been years, hadn't it?
He felt motion against his chest - something, perhaps the stop and conversation at the gate, or the general bustle of the City, had caused Thaler to stir. Well, they were almost there... And ... they made it this far, in spite of everything. Together. Things still felt fragile, somehow, but yet there was reason to - and place for - hope.
"Aemoten?" inquired but a hoarse whisper, one he wasn't entirely sure whether was a question, or just a confirmation that she was really awake and he was really there. Regrettably, there was little he could do against dreams - just hope the were better than the ones she'd have had if she were sleeping somewhere cold, alone.
"Yes," he affirmed, lightly squeezing her shoulder.

She stretched, ever so slightly in his arms, feeling lightly around until she found Beatrice and gave an audible sigh of relief. She had been so worried she’d dropped her. As her senses became more aware of her surroundings she sat up slightly, brushing her fingers through the coarse fur of the dekkun below her, good they were still on Etakar, so she likely hadn’t been asleep too long. Although judging by the sounds she could hear they were in the city, wait, the dekkun was in the city? Something must have transpired for the beast to be allowed in, she imagined a lot of people would be quite uncomfortable with seeing such a creature.
More importantly they were –in- the city, Zerul was old stomping grounds so there was some call to keep a low profile, if only so people didn’t remember her from her childhood. Though by now most of the old inhabitants of their quarter had moved on, in one sense or the other, it didn’t hurt to be too cautious. “Where are we headed?” She asked at length, what was it they had decided? Inn, tea, bath, sleep? Something likely that anyway. She had to confess, both bath and tea sounded good and while her stomach lightly rumbled it was silenced as the stench of dried blood and gore still competed for her attention.
Although the scents of fresh breads, pastries, cooking stews and flowers were enough to make her dizzy enough without the smell of their last fight still lingering on her flesh. It was the memory of this fight that reminded her of one of the key reasons she herself had wanted to be here. The temple of Reina, regardless her ‘will’ in the matter (for how can it be freely given when one is threatened with losing everything and one they hold dear if they do not relinquish? Or that they themselves would be struck down, if not by her companions by others seeking her power or to destroy her. When coercion had been used was anything –really- freely given up?), she had betrayed Rilon. Sleep had not made her feel any better for it, for one reason or another the god had spoken to her, he’d almost seemed to...care, well as much as a god could for any fleeting mortal life. He’d changed his own artefact to suit her and then under the pressure of her group it had been given away to some other power.
She had little chance to get it back; though should the ability arise to do so she would likely jump on it, so the only atonement she could muster is to carry out the mission she was tasked with. If not only to appease her own guilt but to make sure that the blood god did not hound them with repeated misfortunes, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it right.’ She thought, to no one in particular though some vain part of her hoped the god could hear the honesty in her thoughts. She also made a pledge to herself, regardless what scare tactics or threats were used against her from then on out, she would not cave to the pressure’s and walk her own path, no matter how hard that would be or how alone that would make her feel.
First though, bath, tea, mayhaps a healer, perhaps at the temple. It would give her a chance to scout things out a little after all. “Which part of the city are we in?” She asked quietly.

The daywalker straightened up, her hands carefully exploring the surfaces around her, brushing against the dekkun's long mane and Beatrice's warm, scaly feet ("Korr," said the raven from the bottom of her throat, her feathers puffing up as she moved her weight from one foot to another), eventually settling on running over the noble beast's fur in stroking motion.
“Where are we headed?” Where, indeed?
"I'm looking for an inn for us," the Sekalyn explained, simply. "Someplace with good proper beds, baths, tea... The sort. Regrettably, it doesn't appear they tend to detail the extent of their amenities with such a precision on their signs." He supposed hoping for one that also sold clothes on the spot would be a bit too much, so the best he could do was give Thaler a new shirt, and somehow wash the rest and hope the garments would dry by the morning if he hang them in front of the fireplace... Would inn rooms with fireplaces be considered exorbitant luxury here? He did not seem to recall seeing many in city-inns in Rodoria. But then again... "It ... is your home city, isn't it?" Did it mean she also had an apartment somewhere over here? Probably. She never had been quite as specific in her description of her life here. "Any word of mouth you recall? I fear I'm but a tourist."
“Which part of the city are we in?” She asked quietly.
"Not far from the main western gate yet ... still can see the gate behind my back." He winced. "I reckon it was my chat with the guards that woke you up."

It was a bustling city, filled with an assortment of establishments, some more posh and flamboyant than others. The cheaper end used what could mostly be described as pictograms. A red rooster. A cauldron (although Aemoten wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't some shop dedicated to conning money out of less knowledgeable visitors. From what he knew, magic was more about inner powers, crystals and runes than boiling pots. Sometimes random enchanted items, but it was rarer; usually not sold for a coin or trinket by the hundreds. Nicer houses, light-colored stone instead of wood. Fewer refugees; he suspected only those who had been lucky (and rich) enough to have horses to ride in on had made it here by now, and even they had largely made it without most of their possessions. In half a day, day, two, the City would be flooded, and not a single cheaper inn would admit anyone.
He picked one with a black horse that actually had "Inn" written under the rearing animal. Not the richest place, but affluent enough for baths to not be considered an unreasonable request. He was by no means a wealthy individual, but he had enough after he liquidated his old household any anything reasonably valuable within, and he reckoned they were both sufficiently tired and deserving to afford it. Thaler especially deserved a break. He will arrange that break.
Etakar lowered himself to ground and watched with languid boredom as Aemoten brought a leg over the noble beast's spine, remaining half-crouched as he supported Thaler enough to let her stand, and only then strightned himself - with considerable effort.
"You!" he insisted, startling a passerby who nevertheless halted. His voice was still hoarse when he tried to speak, and while his clothes were generally of reasonable quality, he had run out of spares outside of a couple shirts, so there probably still were blood stains on his pants (which was probably preferable to other pair he had left, which had a foot-long gash his hip and thigh), his coat both dusty and likewise stained in dried blood. Incidentally, blood showed decently well on black, once it had dried and begun to flake off. At best, people who had gotten a closer look might assume he was a foreign or mixed-blood refugee. People had probably picked up on them, now.
The young guy in patched clothes halted, staring at him. Then at Etakar. Then at him again, unsure whether to comply or to just pretend he didn't actually hear the shoutout and continue his failed attempt to slink past the odd set via the opposite side of the street.
"Could you send him to the gates? Or, if you'd like, show him the City first." Another stare at Etakar. "He's not dangerous to anyone without harmful intent; he's about as smart as a human, and I dare say more persistent and capable than most of them. A good friend of mine taught him to write - sadly, not in anything a Rodorian would fathom, unless you can read magical runes - and insisted he'd make a decent earth elementalist. I don't think it would be wise of me to request he attempted to fit within my room, and merely figure he'd alarm people less if he had a companion. I'll give you a rodlin now, and another if you meet me tomorrow, with him, and we have not been disturbed by the time the sun rises high. He'll meet you where you part from him."
It was not his typical way of dealing with things, the incorporating random strangers thing, but it usually worked if you singled them out and there was enough motivation to comply. Especially since few would voluntarily decide to cross Etakar. The guy continued to stare at Etakar, and then at the noble beast's "hand". The dekkun himself looked at the guy like a bored cat looks at a sparrow.
Of coure, Aemoten could be paranoid now, he could assume the stranger to be a thief and a backstabber, someone to try and pass off Etakar as a threat and try and relieve him of whatever riches he obviously had, but the planes be damned if their luck continued to be as dreadful as it had been up until now. That, and he figured he still would have some basic knowledge of people. And they wouldn't be alone in a space with openings.
"Uh, I guess?" the stranger responded after a noticeable delay. It was unclear whether it was the way to easily earn actual rodlin or merely some automatic unwillingness to decline. The Sekalyn offered select few words to the dekkun - in his native tongue - and the beast responded in an affirmative growl and a series of seven symbols, sharp tap, four more drawn on a cobble.
"Here," Aemoten switched back to Rodorian, producing a lone silver coin, which the guy inched closer to accept, eyes flitting between the noble beast's hand and his head. "How do I..."
"Just stick to his side. Could also try sitting on his back, but I doubt he'd be overly amused by it. He's generally quite capable of getting his point across even when he doesn't get your language."
"Right... Okay... Thanks." The stranger only briefly looked at the outlander, and then back onto the dekkun. "Uh, come? Please?"
The dekkun scoffed in reply, and responded with a much more universal hand-gesture - something akin to sideways beckon - as he slunk forward.

The exterior of the inn had mostly been white stone blocks; the interior, aside the walls, was mostly wood. Cheap floor planks, darker - and older, more worn - chairs and tables. The innkeeper regarded their appearance with mild suspicion, but didn't ask any questions, and did not seem overly surprised. Chances were he lumped them with the first wave of refugees, around half a dozen of which could be seen lingering in the main hall. Probably turning to alcohol to forget the sights, first occasion of proper rest since the incident, and morosely contemplating whether to bother fellow survivors for any news of people they had known back at their now razed homes.
One could only assume the owner of the establishment was torn between the extra customers and their respective appearance and the promise of further rabble. But as long as they paid like anyone else and didn't bother the other inhabitants... Aemoten's insistence that someone else bring the water up was met with minor grumbling, but for some extra pay and the notion that he himself isn't exactly fit to do it himself, the barman acquiesced and offered to send a hand. It was good that it'd only be for this evening, or he'd run out of funds in a couple of weeks, and miscellaneous trinkets in another two.
Thankfully, they were, for once, left undisturbed in their room, save for the inn-hand making multiple trips to bring water, and later leaving tea by the door outside.
Much like he had done by the pond, he let Thaler do her thing with the bathing while he, out of respect, took a seat by the small second-floor window and observed the commotion down below. There was tension in the silence, but he had no desire to talk about the morning, either. Now that there was no imminent threat to themselves, goddesses, or the world at large, there was no need to. Instead, he opted to tell her about a more peaceful segment of his life before he arrived in Rodoria. Something akin to a travel story. About Ardjan. About Ramiyletara. About the - to Rodorians - indeed quite bizarre culture. He had thought about going there again - going south. With Thaler.
It felt nice washing the dirt off and wearing a clean shirt again. Not too much he could do about the pants besides getting the worst stains off, but that had to wait until tomorrow. Even if they miraculously found a vendor who was still displaying their wares at this hour, they both were too worn to deal with it. A healer might be useful, too, perhaps. There were no open wounds on either of them any longer, but there was no denying they were quite bruised and beaten.
Hot tea was just as welcome. Perhaps more so due to Thaler having been ill recently and he having torn his throat raw earlier that day.
Come evening, he wasn't sure whether to stay with Thaler or give her more space. How would one even protect a person from dreams? In the end, he simply fell asleep in the armchair.

He woke abruptly at daybreak. Usually it would have been habit, but now it was mostly due to a faint rustle and a set of eight talons digging into his scalp as a wicked beak gleamed above a single hostile eye but an inch from his nose. "Korr."
He started, his right hand involuntarily twitching before his mind caught up with what was going on. "Reckon you're hungry?" he rasped. Perhaps attempting to talk right after waking was not the best idea.
"Korr," insisted Beatrice, still perched atop of his head and leaning down to stare at his face, her head upside down.
"Don't do that..." he muttered, carefully prying the raven's hot toes from his head and urging her to relocate to the chair's backrest. (Why were birds' feet so warm?) "Wait here," he sighed, getting up, stiffly, but less painfully than last evening.
Beatrice ... snickered? Chuckled? It was an oddly human sound, sinister and mirthful. The human stared at the bird.
"Didn't know you did that. I'd rather you didn't."
"Korr," replied Beatrice in her usual manner.
Fetching a tray of food and more tea was, thankfully, quite uneventful, even though it earned him a look from the gal manning the counter. (Curiously, it appeared the night watch was a young woman. A thin, serious one. One could easily imagine her older self telling that you either ate what was given to you - or not at all.) The breakfast appeared decent, though. The bread was even warm.
He tossed beatrice several slices of cheese, himself sitting down to shave - and think. Thaler could sleep a little bit more, though he should probably wake her while the food was still fresh. Should hopefully have an appetite now that they were rested and the traumatic events of yesterday were a bit further removed. Just ... no repeats of yesterday morning. The devilgod had no business here.
"Thaler?" he inquired, half-kneeling next to her bed as he lightly touched her shoulder.