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Thud... Thud... Thud... "Ser"," Thud ... "Ser," Thud "Ser Charles, you must eat." Sacha's eyes peered forward into the darkness that consumed the cell separating himself and the shadowed sack of man laying limp on the floors of the catacombs. Thud...Thud...Thud... "Charles," Sacha begged with exasperation. With eyes closed he tried to temper his shaking hand. Before he could implore further the hulking mass of the man behind the cage rushed towards the steel bars. In a panic the younger man dropped the tray full of rations he'd been carrying. The smacking of cutlery and glass against stone echoed throughout the dank and serpentine corridors that rested below Fort Stag. "Mierde," he said as he cupped his hand over his nose and mouth trying to wipe away his frustration through muffled sighs. He quickly bent down to clean his mess, but lost his balance as a pair of sickly jaundiced eyes bore into his own. Charles' eyes were covered with a thick black crust that squished and dripped like tart from his eyelid to the sunken bags below them. Sacha's body dropped backwards as he rested along the wall opposite the cell. Before he could catch his breath a door opened towards the end of the hallway. The sounds of shuffling crept in as a figure emerged bathed in the candle light affixed upon a wall.

The Father, Gavan Marrow, was dressed in his ordained black robes, typical of high priests of Minerva. His slippers dragged like hushed whispers across the floor as he approached Sacha. He looked to the young noble for a second, and then to the cell that housed Ser Charles. It took only a moment for him to nod lightly in silent understanding. He moved over towards Charles as he began picking up what food and utensils he could. His back creaked, and he let out a small groan as he lifted himself back upright. Sacha followed his lead, using the wall to pick himself up. The Father parsed his thin lips as he handed Sacha back the rations and tray with another nod of contentment. "It is good of you to come, my child." His eyes wandered back to the cell. "Charles would have--"

"Charles didn't know me, nor I him. Even here, we'd never even spoken a word to one another," Sacha rebutted almost choked up as his stare fell towards the floor and his brows furrowed. "Father," Sacha added before clearing his throat. Marrow's head recoiled momentarily as his eyes narrowed. He cocked his head for a moment.

"Help me understand then Sacha." He'd regained his composure by now, resting a hand on Sacha's shoulder.

Sacha's eyes stung as he bit back a rush of tears. He almost laughed for a minute. A nobleman brought nearly to tears because a soldier was sick. He sucked his teeth before continuing. 'Charles served at Fort Westier, Father."

Marrow removed his hand from Sacha's shoulder. He rested his fingers in palms as his thumb danced about the knuckles. He sighed, "I've told you about speaking with Aemma regarding the sickly, Sacha. You know the good doctor's a tendency for the theatrics. It does you no good," his gaze returned once more to Charles who had returned to smacking his head against the bricks of his prison. "It does nothing for them either."

"Y-you're not hearing me, Father Marrow! ...Charles served at Fort Westier. He disobeyed an order and Commander Rolan requested his discharge. Without stepping a foot outside Moonshire Keep, my brother sentenced him to serve here."

"To rule with closed fist is grave a crime, but graver is it to rule with open hands. Charles knew what he was doing when he disobeyed that order, my child."

"He returned to Mornier to see his newborn child," Sacha retorted." And for it, my brother sentenced him to death. Aemma told me that scouts found him a stones toss away from Glenmont, near death. His escort abandoned him there." Sacha stepped closer to the Father, uncomfortably so. His eyes met Marrow's greyed blues, wrinkled and withered by time.

Marrow stepped away clearing his throat. This was enough to make Sacha retreat making himself smaller before the clergyman. Marrow studied the young man for a moment as the tension still sat between them. "I shall draft a letter to his family," he replied coldly. "I will make note of your...displeasure, my Lord".

Sacha looked defiantly back at the Father. Was he being toyed with? He rubbed the bridge of his nose before making his way passed Marrow and down the hallway.

"And Sacha," Marrow called again. "I won't be seeing you cavort with the doctor again."

Thud _{Thud Thud}

"Of course not...Father Marrow."

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It wasn't long after his encounter with the priest that Sacha found his way outside. The morning sky hung with the thick grey overcast typical in much of Vicelles. The air carried the smell of sulfur throughout the fortress. Undeterred, the soldiers of the camp hummed with life. A few men were nestled near the lower stables towards the eastern gate. One of them was practicing his aim with a bow. Sacha could almost hear the ranger plucking at the string as he notched another arrow.

Blacksmiths labored away at their crafts, and with their tinkering came a cacophony of clanking metal and hissing steam. There was audible arguing coming from above Sacha. Two soldiers were yelling back and forth along one of the battlements that lined the fortress walls. Sacha was sure he heard the faintest sound of a lute eclipsed by the pitter patter of horses hooves trotting about. Sacha let the tower door slam behind him. The resulting smack of its large frame was nearly muted by the ambience. Taking a deep breath and dusting off the lower part of his tunic Sacha moved quickly through the busy courtyard at the base of the fort.

His eyes were the same as father's. A sickening black lining about the bottom lid, and vacant pupils. Ser Charles must have been out there for days and...

Sacha only just noticed the lumbering brith ahead of him. Fiske, Sacha remembered. He was carrying two large pieces of lumber which Sacha nearly knocked from his hands. Fiske turned towards the human noble and hissed.

Damned wormskins, he muttered as he continued towards the eastern gate.

Apologies, Sacha said futilely. He sheepishly continued towards the central keep, but paused as he heard the ringing of the fortresses' bell.

"Open the gates!" By command from the ramparts did the gears and chains begin to rattle as the main gates to the fortress began to peal open. The loud creaking and dragging of metal and wood competed with the ringing bell. From his vantage point Sacha could see a familiar carriage. It seemed Elias Black had returned. Sacha watched as the Ward made his way through the gates as a handful of stable boys ran over to greet the man. One immediately began attending to the horses, one to the carriage and another to the cargo. Elias made his way towards the back of the carriage, and from its tent came three figures. From where he was standing Sacha could hardly make out there faces. He knew better than to approach. Sacha was hardly in any mood to greet the Ward, and Elias was hardly ever in any mood at all. Sacha rested on a wall as he studied the group.

More lambs to this slaughter

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"Out ye come," Elias' voice was stern and his Astorian accent was thick with a northerner's dialect. Most anyone could likely smell the ale on his breath, but Elias was a man of fortitude. He guided the three men out of the carriage with little trouble. First was Lambert, next Karlus and then Arlo.

"Welcome," he said with exasperated breath. His hands moved towards the dagger nestled in his belt. Flipping it 'round in his hand he moved towards each of the men, now abreast from each other, and cut at the hemp binding their wrists. "To Fort Stag." Elias whistled to one of the stable boys who quickly rose from his work to meet his command. "Boy, send for a priest." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small tattered piece of parchment. Elias could feel the humming of power in the rune affixed to it. He pushed it against the boy's chest. "Oh, and have them burn this."

He left the rest of the workers to attend to the carriage and horses as he motioned for the three recruits to follow behind him.

"Doubt ye'll find much comfort with the priests. 'Spose they're better than the college...or the rope." He could feel Arlo physically squirm from behind him as he mentioned the latter. Black never figured himself a conversationalist. Much of the trip to Vicelles was silent save for the random bouts of pissin', shittin' and bleedin'. What little conversation there was remained fairly curt. Black had little in the way of tact, but enough in spirits for any who would have some to dull the pain of the experience.

The four of them moved through the courtyard as the eyes of soldiers, medics and servants fixed on them. As they made their way passed, the doors of the main keep swung open.

"Ward Black," a daunting figure called out from across the yard. He was clad in a tourniquet of silver armor, adorned with the blue markings that denoted the Order's soldiers. Flowing from his back was a large fur cape that bellowed out as he hastened his step. Knight Captain Lucian Driskell was a rather large man cut from some of the finest cloth in Vicelles. Like his cape, a mess of black curls were pulled back and draped down to his shoulders. The two men embraced, each holding firmly onto the other's right forarm with the left hand.

"Knight Captain," Elias greeted.

The Captain's eyes trained on the group of three behind Elias. He furrowed his brows, and was nearly pouting when Elias returned his gaze. The Ward sighed under his breath.

"Bloats," Elias said through a cough.

The Knight Captain nodded before looking back to Elias, he feigned a smile. "Well, I see three fit and capable young men before me. You've done us a great service Ward Black." His gaze focused to the three once more. "I look forward to welcoming you to the Order."

'As do I,' a middle-aged woman noted as she made her way towards the group. Another of Minerva's damned priests. "Minerva bless you brothers. I am Sister Angelique." Her accent was the thickest Vicellan accent that Elias had ever heard.

What a terrible language.

"And you sister," Lucian greeted. Lucian, ye blighted liar.

Elias was stirred from his thoughts as he realized both Lucian and Angelique were looking at him. He cleared his throat. "Sister, Karlus and Lambert. Both ready to dedicate their talents to the Order."

"Excellent, you two must be tired. I'll show you to your quarters." She motioned for the pair to follow her.

As the three walked off towards the temple Lucian's gaze met Arlo's and then Elias'. The two veterans shared a knowing look for a moment.

"Come on, boy." Elias’ hand stretched out over Arlo’s back as he corralled the young man away from the courtyard. As they left Elias looked back.

His eyes studied the Knight Captain who turned his stride back towards the keep. From there he saw him. Sacha. Driskell beckoned the young noble to follow him.

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There comes a time in life of every person where there can be no turning back. Where the multitudinous ways that a life might have turned out narrows down to a single, unavoidable, path. For some, their entire lives are a series of these moments, a continual narrowing of their options, until they are imprisoned, trapped, in the life that had been created for them. For others, this moment only came once. But there are none whom escape its grasp entirely. For what is death, but the final narrowing of our choices?

Karlus had never seen a man die before. Not until he came to Viscelles. Not until he had taken this last step on his journey down the ever constricting path that was his life.

He leaned his head against the wooden side of carriage, feeling the rough texture rub against his skin as they rumbled onward through the darkness of the night. He had been thinking about choices a lot recently. He had been thinking about the choices he had made. The choices Karlus had made had led him here, indentured in a strange land, watching strange men die. But still... I am not there. I am still alive. I am still a mage. He shivered at the thought of that, the fate he had only just escaped.

That choice had been an easy one, though in its way it was another constriction. But it was better to be sent to the fog haunted wastes of Viscelles than to be a Mute. In fact, it was probably better to be dead, than to be a Mute. It was not a choice Karlus had been expecting during those weeks he had languished in the dark places beneath the college, bound and chained in a warded cell. He had expected the worse. But when his time had come, and fate threw him this one last lifeline, he had clung to it with a desperate hope.

There was no turning back, but it seemed for Karlus, that final, inevitable narrowing had yet to come.

But we are not all so lucky... certainly not poor... Karlus's thoughts stopped in their tracks. He realised then he hadn't known the dead man's name. They had sat together for hours upon hours in this very carriage... But they had sat in silence. He supposed the dead man was free now in some way perhaps. He hoped he was.

And what had he died for? Nothing really. Just so that their new master could scare them into blind obedience. Once they had entered Viscelles, he had taken them deep into the blighted flog, to show them the horrors they would to face. And they had seen horrors alright. Rotted men, bloated like a drowned corpse, but somehow still living, and... hungry. Karlus couldn't remember how exactly it had happened, but he had seen them as they had feasted, ripping... tearing... biting.

It need not have happened, if they had not been bound, if there had been no ward.

He pushed those memories aside. What ever happened, he would not let that happen to him. He would become stronger, he would do anything, fight anyone. He would destroy them, these monsters, or The Order. He would find a way to free.

As the cart rocked Karlus to sleep, he dreamed of freedom.

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He awoke to the grey diffuse light of an overcast morning, and sounds of life outside of the canvas topped carriage. Bells. Karlus realised, he could hear the sound of bells. He sat up off of the bed of the cart and pressed an eye to tear in the fabric. Outside of the carriage the woods began to thin, walls and towers emerged hazily in the mist. Fort Stag, he presumed, their destination. There came a cry from the walls, and the sound of ratting chains and groaning hinges as the gates heaved open to allow them into the grim fortress.

The carriage stopped in the outer ward and they were called out by their keeper, Elias Black. Lambert, his fellow from the college went first. Karlus hesitated at the threshold of the cart. Another moment, another threshold, another narrowing, he thought to himself, until he received an elbow from behind and nearly fell, stumbling into the world outside.

He kept his head low, but surreptitiously glanced around him. The castle was busy with people, men and boys tending to horses, blacksmiths hammering away at their anvils, and soldiers, many soldiers on duty, or training, or just loitering... watching them. He felt out of place here already. These were rough men, coarse men, he had been trained as a scholar, not a warrior. Worse, he was slight... and pretty. Where men were kept confined with little company, dark things could happen, it had been the case in the college also.

Elias approached Karlus, knife in hand. Gods! Have they waited this long just to gut us here?! He flinched and almost stepped back from the man, until he realised it was only to slice the bonds from their wrists. Clearly they were no longer a threat now they were within Fort Stag. Karlus didn't feel like threat himself right now.

As that baneful erasure ward came out of the Ward's pocket, Karlus averted his eyes. He had felt its presence the whole journey, always there, always in the back of his mind. Pulling at him. He was glad it would be gone soon.

They were escorted across the yard as Elias Black spoke to them. The stares were accumulating, and Karlus withered under their presence. Self consciously he buried himself deeper within his cloak, trying to will himself to be unseen. It did not help when they halted by the arrival of some grandee from the keep that looked over the courtyard. This lord adding his own gaze to the collection. Karlus did not meet it.

A woman arrived next, a priest of Minerva, with an accent so thick for a moment Karlus did not realise she had been speaking Common. Elias gave his name to her, Sister Angelique, and then he and Lambert were passed into her care. Awkwardly he slunk through the gathering crowd, eyes cast down, following the heels of the Sister.

She led them out of the courtyard, and into some hall that led off from it. It was quieter here. As the number of people staring at them began to lessen, Karlus glanced up to get a bearing on his surroundings. Light diffused in from the arched windows of painted glass set high above. Two long rows of wooden pews led down to an altar at the far end, beyond it stood a statue. Flowing hair and robes, snake in hand, and fox curled at her feet. It was one of the Ten Divines, Minerva. They were standing in a temple. Well, that would make sense considering the Priestess. He would be living in a temple it seemed. I hope they aren't expecting me to give sermons. The thought almost made him smile.

"This is her Ladyship's chapel. She is a patron of our Order, your patron now." Sister Angelique paused at the crossing of the nave and transept and looked up to the face of the statue. Karlus followed her gaze. He could see the symbol picked out on the Goddess's forehead. An erasure ward. The God of magic is a Mute.

They turned down the transept, and went out from a door to emerge into a walled cloister set to the site of the temple. A covered stone walkway led round the circumference of the smaller courtyard, the outer walls lined with many doors. In the centre were raised beds, the scent of medicinal herbs overlay the sulphuric stink Fort Stag had smelt of so far.

"The Clergy keep our quarters on this side, closest to the temple." Sister Angelique pointed as she led them down one side of the cloister. "On the far side is the infirmary, where you will do your duty as healers. You'll be under supervision of Doctor Aemma there, she is a little strange, but she does the Lady's work." They turned the corner, standing under the walkway that led between the Chapel and the Hospital. "This side is where we keep the Mages, the cells at the end should be vacant. If you need anything, please find me in temple, do not disturb Father Marrow, he is a busy man, a great man in fact. You have him to thank for the tolerance Mages receive here in the Order. That is his vision, guided by Our Lady of course."

"Thank you." For the first time Karlus allowed his gaze to meet with that of the Sister. The words he said were low, polite, but there was something in his eye, something cold and hard. They will tolerate me? No, rather I will tolerate them.

"Minerva bless you both." The sister spoke as she departed, Karlus kept his head up and watched her go, footsteps echoing down the stone halls. The priestess went back into the temple, and for the first time since he had been hauled out of his cell at the college, Karlus was unwatched, alone.

Alone that was, except his fellow former student, Lambert. They had both been so silent on their journey Karlus had almost forgotten he was there. But now the elf turned to Karlus, stealing a glance at him now they were unobserved.

"What happened back at Cambridge? Is it true what they said? Did you try t-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Karlus stopped him. "You shouldn't talk about it either." He slipped into one of the ajar wooden doors before them and securely closed it behind him.

Breathe.

Now he was truly alone.

The room was smaller than the one he had roomed in at the college. It was a stone cell, dusty with disuse. A small window set with bars opened out onto a view of another stone wall, but it did let in a small amount of light. There was a desk, a chair, a wooden trunk, and a bed. His bed now. This was his room, and his room alone. He had never had that at the college. The only time he had been alone was in the dungeon.

Karlus dropped the bundle of his meagre possessions on top of the trunk and sat down on the side of bed. A slow realisation came to him as he lay back. A feeling he hadn't experienced his childhood, since before he had been taken to the college.

No erasure ward.

In privacy of his own room, Karlus smiled.

Content Warning: This RP/Post may contain uncomfortable or violent themes.

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Captain Driskell stood opposite of Sacha with his back resting against his desk. The room was mostly lit by the fire place on the right hand side. The wooden furniture was far from ornate, but still leagues better than what one might find in other places throughout the keep. Driskell's arms were folded. Since Sacha arrived, Driskell had always tried to play the part of older brother...or mentor...or something. Sacha could never really understand why aside from shared noble peerage. Though Driskell didn't seem the sort for such considerations.

You can't keep going down to the catacombs, Sacha. The Captain had took his time cutting through the silence as he shifted to a more comfortable position. Father Marrow certainly hadn't wasted his time in running off to tattle to Knight Captain Driskell.

My family is responsible for what is happening to him. Despite his passion, Sacha couldn't return the older noble's eye contact.

Sacha, Driskell lifted himself from off the desk before sighing. Your anger is righteous, but as the leaders of this kingdom we are not afforded the luxury of mercy. To act in one's own interest is to betray one's countrymen. Driskell inched closer to Sacha. If the Crows or the Silvered Sons were to launch an attack- how many lives would be lost because a soldier abandoned his post?

But what's the point of fighting, of dying- if the act of living is punishable by death.

The sentiment was enough to make Driskell break his eye contact. He thought for a moment before responding. You've the heart of a philosopher. In Cambridge or Redcliffe, that might serve you well. But you are a child of Vicelles. You know what it means to serve her, what she asks of us. He paused for another moment before walking back over towards his desk. Sitting at the chair rested behind it he reached for parchment and a quill. Dipping the quill in a small cylindrical bottle he looked back up at Sacha. I will see to it that Charles' title of Ser is returned to him, and that his family is compensated.

Before Sacha could protest, the Captain was already motioning him to keep quiet. Of course I know it isn't perfect Sacha, but it is something.

Yes, Captain.

Driskell's gaze returned to the parchment as he began writing. You should speak with your Uncle. I imagine you'll have much to catch up on.

I could smell the stench of booze on him from the catacombs. He's likely drowned in the stream by now. He'd hardly looked in any condition to reminisce- not that there'd be much to reminisce about. Sacha mumbled a soft chuckle to himself. The last time he'd seen Elias Black had been four months ago before his trip to Astoria to gather the new recruits. At the time Sacha was still coming to grips with life in the Order. Black had proven himself to be quite illusive in the first month. In the second, Sacha came to learn he was hardly the man he thought he remembered. The warden was stand-offish, as if Sacha had personally wronged him.

It was no wonder then that Driskell met Sacha's chuckle with a stifled laugh of his own. Have you always been this uncharitable. I remember a time when you could sing nothing but praises for Uncle Black protector of the realm. Sacha could very vaguely remember seeing Lucian Driskell at court as a child. The man was around fifteen years his senior. Still, he would remember his father and Lord Driskell bantering about their war stories. That was before the sickness had really gripped his father's mind. Divorcing from thoughts of the past Sacha looked to the Captain with a smile. That was another life. Another Sacha.

I'll speak with him soon, he said with a feigned smile.

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It seems this one's avoided the taint, an elderly woman groaned. Her voice was coarse and low-register, no doubt grated by time. She spoke with an accent foreign to most anyone in Carthus. A sort of magnifying spyglass fixed upon a lens rested on her left eye as her old and withered hands poked and pulled at Lambert's lower lid. Her hand moved to the other eye for similar inspection.

Excellent, Sister Angelique exclaimed from behind her. Her, Karlus and Arlo sat in a makeshift examination room towards the back of the infirmary. The wailing of the injured and sickly hung just outside the door to the room.

The elder woman sighed to herself as she tried her best to stand upright. She was a bit hobbled, forced to hunch over slightly as she walked. Blackroot...Swampseed...Two Cups of Blight Milk The dark-elf began to murmur to herself. As she did so she paced for a few moments back and forth all the while compulsively pilfering the many pockets of her longcoat.

Father Marrow wants to ensure there are no signs of blood magic as well, Angelique interjected again.

Aemma stood a bit more upright, sighing one last time through her nose. She looked back towards Sister Angelique. Would you mind stepping out of the room, Sister.

The sister was taken aback by the request. I-I hardly see that as necess-

It is my responsibility to make sure our new recruits are safe. Meaning they must also be willing to trust that I mean them no harm. They are not our prisoners. Let me do my work, sister.

Conceding her defeat on the issue, Angelique took a protracted sigh. I'll be right outside, She offered flusteredly.

As the door closed behind the sister, Aemma murmured to herself again. Blackroot...Swampseed...Two Cups of Blight Milk. The doctor composed herself as she continued examining Lambert. She was much darker than the relatively fair-skinned city-elf. Her hands moved up to his ears. Her fingers traced where once must have been the pointed ears common to all elves regardless of their race. They'd been shaven down, likely at birth. She paused there feeling them for a moment. She cleared her throat and blew hot air upwards to keep calmed. She then moved towards the mage's arm. Lambert instinctively flinched at her touch.

You're alright, Aemma said. She helped firmly onto his hand before she motioned towards her own arm, raising a sleeve to her elbow. Lining up the entirety of her forearm was a series of fresh cuts, the mark of a any blood mage. May I? Lambert offered his arm in compliance. As she lifted the sleeve to his robes she found that there was minimal scarring save for one. The way the scar scaled the arm was clearly not an attempt at blood magic. Her eyes wandered to his for a moment in silent recognition. She turned rolled the mage's sleeve back down.

They allow you to use blood-magic, Lambert finally asked.

They do, Aemma grabbed two small vials from a shelf before handing one to Lambert and another to Karlus. Caster's milk, drink up. I imagine the journey here was unkind. Lambert complied with the doctor's orders. He was good and bright. Not many like that in Vicelles. A small pop erupted from the cork nestled into the bottle as Lambert inched it out. He gulped it down quickly. Typically Caster's Milk took a half hour to take hold, and the taste had always felt off to Aemma. Like milk that didn't quite know how to settle in the gut.

May I ask something, Lambert looked to the mage doctor waiting for a nod. She was quick to comply, and offered a smile. Why was Arlo not taken for examination with us if you're checking for more than just blood magic. Aemma's smile quickly evaporated at the question.

Then they haven't told you, Aemma paused for a moment retrieving the now empty bottle from Lambert. Arlo will likely be under my care soon enough.

I'm not sure I follow.

There is a...ritual of a sort. When new recruits come to the Order for some crime of brutality, Aemma looked back towards the door for a moment. Said recruit is forced to fight, or not fight really. They must withstand a fight against some of the men of the Order. A sort of repentance, they call it. To let things outside the Order die at its gates. It's barbaric if you ask me Aemma placed the empty bottle on a table behind her. She shifted her attention towards Karlus. If it is alright by you, I must perform the same examination for you.

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They had taken him to the infirmary. It was a place both familiar and strange to him. There are commonalities between all hospitals, hospices and infirmaries, Karlus had been trained and had often worked in the one that had been attached for the college, so that was why this place felt familiar. But it was also strange, not just because this was the first time he had visited this particular one, but because of the illnesses he had seen as they had been taken to this examination room. The sick here... screamed... a lot more than the ones back in Cambridge.

They had inspected them for something, the 'taint', by examining the whites of their eyes. The sister was there, but it was this strange, foreigner, who was the healer who ran this place. She was an elf, but her skin was dark and dusky. A dark elf, Karlus had never seen one up close before. She was old and withered, hunched and hobbled, but her hands were quick and nimble enough to work her instruments and pull strange tinctures and concoctions from the long many-pocketed coat she wore.

The first examination was inconsequential enough. But then the sister spoke a sentence that sent a shiver of cold fear up Karlus's spine.

"Father Marrow wants to ensure there are no signs of blood magic."

Panic filled his mind. He thought those in charge here at the Order already knew what had happened, but perhaps the masters of the college had neglected to tell them the whole story. If that was the case, what would they do? What will they do to me? Karlus's eyes began to frantically shift around the room, looking for an exit, for an easy escape of some kind.

But then the old healer, Aemma, sent the sister out, what did that mean? He tensed up, mind reeling, ready to run or to fight somehow. He supposed it was to his advantage, she was only an old woman, he could probably overpower her if he put his mind to it. And yet, she wanted him to trust her? Why should I trust her? Because she's a fellow mage? I know what mages to do other mages. I know what we do to ourselves.

He could feel himself shaking with the tension as she stroked Lambert's ear, his hands curled ready into a fist as she examined his arm. He would do it, if he had to, they couldn't know, they would hang him if they knew. Or worse.

Then she showed her arm, and Karlus's jaw dropped open.

She was a blood mage. The Order tolerated that? It was unthinkable compared to what Karlus had been taught at the college. Lambert asked the question that had also been on his mind as he was was passed a vial of Casters Milk by the old dark elf. His eyes followed her around the room, the shock and awe barely contained in them. Perhaps... perhaps I can trust her? Perhaps its better than trying to hide it... It didn't work, after all.

He drank the concoction, barely listening to the conversation about Arlo and the trial that he was most likely facing. Karlus was too absorbed in his own thoughts. He had a choice to make, to deceive or to trust. Most of his life he had tried to hide so much of himself from the world around him. Deception was natural for him. It was comfortable. But... it has also led me here.

He was so wrapped up in his own mind that he started when the doctor turned her attention towards him.

"Sorry... what did you say, just now?" He asked meekly, warily.

"The examination? Your arm, please?" She replied in her strange foreign accent, reaching out to take hold of his hand. Karlus flinched away from her touch.

"Please... I'll... I'll... show you... Just don't touch me." He set the empty vial and pulled up his left sleeve.

The skin was lily white, except for around the wrists, which were still red, bruised and raw from his time bound and shackled. The sleeve went up past his wrist to expose his thin weak forearm, and up further still, to the elbow. It was there, right at the top, almost in the pit of Karlus's elbow that the mark lay. It was almost gone now, a small collection of freshly healed scars, only the deepest of them still bearing any redness. They were arranged in a cluster, like a figure of eight composed from straight lines, scored through down its length.

The old elf's eyes widened as she saw the mark. She looked at it for a few moments saying nothing, but she did not reach out to take his arm to examine it more closely. Karlus was thankful for that. Lambert was staring at him too. Karlus did not like it, but he let them look. He had made his choice now, and he would live with it. Or die for it. Finally the doctor spoke.

"What have you done, boy?" Her voice was low and husky, thick with that strange accent Karlus could not identify.

"I only tried it once. It didn't work." He whispered back, not meeting their gaze. She sighed and rubbed at her corners of her wrinkled eyes.

"Then you are lucky. It is a dangerous art, Blood Magic, especially so for those who are young and inexperienced. You should not covet this power, it has a cost, it always has a cost."

"But you use it." His voice almost had an an edge of defiance to it. But underneath that there was something else, a yearning for something. Understanding. Vindication.

"Indeed I do. It is a tool like any other, and it can used to do good in the right hands. But it can also be abused. Either way there is a cost. I am willing to pay it."

"I've already paid for it too. I'm here aren't I?" Her face crinkled, there was a look of sympathy... or pity, in her eyes.

"That is not the sort of cost I am talking about."

He felt the need to explain himself. Why he had done what he had done, why he had need powers beyond his own. She must be able to understand him, after all, she had done it too. He wanted to explain himself, but the words wouldn't come, not like how he wanted them to. He had to force them out, and even then, they didn't explain much. They barely explained anything.

"I just wanted something... and I thought it was the only way. It wasn't evil. And it doesn't matter now, I'm not there anymore, so it doesn't matter. I won't try it again."

Karlus let his arm drop back to his side, and slowly slide his sleeve over the fading remains of terrible, terrible mistake.

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Elias was huddled in some dank corner of Fort Stag's tavern. His arm rested lazily on the table sat against a window that gave him view of the barracks and training area. A sizeable crowd had already taken form around a small pit there. Word traveled fast, it seemed. His thick digits pressed into the hood of his eyelids as he took one last swig from his canteen before getting to his feet. The clanking and rattling of armor and leather filled the nearly empty tavern. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out two silver livre before pushing them along the bar to the barkeep. Despite the barkeep's thanks Elias never even paid him a glance.

Let's see this over with.

By now the daytime clouds had all but evaporated into a haze of deep blues and greys. Only a few stars had managed to worm their way through the ever present overcast. Tucked away towards the western skies was a pocket of waning orange. From within the walls of the fortress though, alight with torches, the orange had never left. There was a heavy chatter stirring throughout the fortress as a good number of the fort's occupants had gathered around the expanse. They were eager, restless. As Warden Black made his way towards the barracks he could see the Knight Captain escorting one of the new recruits towards the crowd. He made haste for the pair.

Driskell soon noticed the older man make his way towards them, and signaled for him to approach.

I-I don't think I can do this,Arlo whimpered as he slowed his step. Ignoring his plea the Knight Captain turned his attention towards Black.

Cristo, are you drunk? Before the Ward could respond, Driskell brushed off any response with a simple flick of his hand before continuing forward, using the other hand to guide Arlo closer to the circle.

I see you've told him. Driskell was always shy to the traditions of the Order. Not that Elias could blame him. Still, they served a function.

Please m'lord, th-they'll have my head!

He's not a Lord, and you aren't one of us. Not yet, Elias took control of the situation by position himself between Driskell and Arlo. Elias' hand was much less gentle in shoving Arlo forward. The recruit stumbled forward, barreling into a few spectators as they neared the center. Make way! Elias managed to continue to shove Arlo through the throngs of bodies as he himself pushed passed a number of onlookers. Most of them were so caught up in drinking and banter that they hardly noticed the three push their way through the crowd. They and Captain Driskell neared the edge of the small makeshift pit. A large circle had been carved into the dirt.

_{We are here tonight,} Driskell tried to bring the crowd to a hush, but his voice went unheard. _{To wash away the sins of our new brother,} Still the crowd proved too loud for the Captain.

Enough of this.

Quiet! Elias had managed to cut through some of the noise, but still some of the crowd remained unswayed. Before Elias could yell again the sound of a rifle being fired rippled through the air. The crowd quickly quieted save for a few murmurs among them trying to find the source of the shot. I said quiet, ye damn fools! Smoke billowed out from a nearby wall of the barracks. From the smoke stood a towering mass of man, his face obscured by a large witch's hat. Elias could see the figure from his vantage point, and could feel the corners of his mouth perk up in a smile. Old man Lurch Realizing the crowd had fallen silent, Elias gathered himself quickly. Without so much as a word Elias shoved the recruit face first into the mud of the pit. The crowd erupted in a brief cheer.

Elias lazily lifted a hand in the air to quiet them again.I know I don't need to tell you crazy bastards why we're here, Elias' breath turned to mist from his mouth against the crisp night air. He quickly rubbed his hands together for some warmth.When you take the Oath of Blood you are born new men. A number of people gathered in the crowd voiced agreement with the sentiment. But there are those whose blood- it don't wash off that easy. Are we not slayers to monsters?! Protectors of kin?! The warden's rallying cry stirred another cheer amongst the crowd.

Arlo was already covered from head-to-toe in mud. His typical blonde hair dirtied and messy. He picked himself up as Elias spoke before reaching out for the Ward's hand. Please, by the Ten! Show mercy! Whatever price there is to be paid, I will pay it. Please m'lord. You can't let them kill me. Before Arlo could continue his begging he could make out something flying towards his eye. His hand quickly moved to meet whatever had hit his face only to feel the slime of spit and snot dripping from his brow. He wiped away at it in disgust. Much of the crowd began laughing, one soldier in particular was suggestively shoving another of his comrades as he let out a belly laugh.

F*cking coward c*nt. The soldier managed to yell out towards Arlo through gritted teeth before laughing again.

Elias' gaze shifted to the soldier. Do it again, and I'll carve you a fresh new c*nt for prickin'. The soldier's smile quickly soured as his brow furrowed and he looked away from the ward. He knew Elias Black could make good on that threat. The ward knelt down to meet Arlo's gaze. They already know what ye done Arlo, better this than a shiv in your sleep. Ye won't have their respect without atonement.

Oh gods, please. Arlo was crying by now as he collapsed back into the mud with a whimper. A bit of rain had begun to pick up. The smell of sulfur returned as raindrops pelted down from the night sky.

Arlo, son to Astoria, ye have committed crimes unforgivable to the Order. For those crimes there is no reprieve. So, let the man that committed them die here, in the muck and dirt.

Before Elias could say anything more the soldier from before jumped down into the pit. Arlo rose to meet the challenge only for a hard right fist to send the recruit back down to the dirt. Arlo sat there on his hands and knees for a moment. His hair was completely wet now, and he was bleeding from the eye. He wiped what blood he could away before standing up again. This time when his opponent went to swing Arlo blocked it before pivoting backwards and landing a blow himself. The soldier quickly shook off the blow and smirked back to Arlo before delivering another bunch towards the forehead. As the recruit fell back towards one of the walls of the pit another soldier from the ledge kicked into the back of his head.

Soon after another soldier jumped down into the pit, and lifted Arlo back to his feet. He held him in place as the first soldier delivered a number of blows into his gut. At this point Arlo had begun to cough up a bit of blood onto his shirt. The soldier holding him in place shoved him towards another edge of the pit. The albino brith that was in the courtyard when Elias arrived, Fiske, reached out and bore his claws into the roof and cheek of Arlo's mouth. It was only when Arlo propelled himself forward did Fiske let go. The brith was satisfied enough with the rip he heard as his claws released the human. As Arlo lay on the ground another of the Order began kicking him in the gut, and pushing mud into his face with his boot. Another soldier spit on him from atop the edge of the pit.

Arlo had quickly been reduced to a bloody mess, whimpering as he laid in the mud and accepted death. The rain had turned to a downpour. It was clear that some in the crowd were displeased. A few clergyman and healers dispersed, and a few still stayed to express that it was enough. Still neither Elias or Driskell stepped forward.

Arlo's jaw was swollen, and he could hardly speak. An eye was swollen shut. His blood mixed with mud and rain in a puddle around his head. Through a raspy whimper he could only manage a prayer.

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This is madness. Will no one stop them?

Sacha pushed his way passed a swarm of bodies all looking towards the center of the circle. The rain and the constant thudding of boot against flesh hit against Sacha's consciousness as he tried to snake his way through the crowd. Stop this! You're going to kill him, He shouted as he desperately continued forward. A few in the crowd stared back at the noble though none tried to stand in his way. Finally cutting through the crowd, Sacha jumped down into the pit.

Still, Arlo was limp on the ground muttering to himself as a few men still eagerly pummeled him. Sacha quickly pulled at the ornate wheellock pistol fastened to his belt before aiming it at the soldiers. So distracted in their delights were they that nary any of the men even noticed Sacha aiming at them. That's enough, Sacha commanded.

What the fuck are you doing? The first soldier to strike at Arlo turned his attention to Sacha. There was a sort of animalistic bewilderment on his face. As if Sacha were the brute of the two.

You've all made your point, Sacha tried his best to keep his hand from shaking. His brows were furrowed as his stared with intent towards the soldiers.

Apparently not, he said inching closer. Must be as sick as this one to wave that thing at me in his name. This is the way of the Order.

Then your way is wrong, Sacha stood firm against the rain and building wind. His wet hair collected on his forehead, and his clothes were nearly soaked. I won't tell you to step away from him again.

Stop, Black called out from atop the pit. The boy's nearly at the plunge. Get yourselves cleaned up. You smell like dog. The Ward's eyes met with Sacha's for a moment. Elias remedied that fact by walking off back towards the tavern without so much as another word.

Let's get him up, Captain Driskell said through a groan as he pulled Arlo's body from the fighting pit. The recruit cried in pain as he did so. Arlo laid motionless in the Captain's arms. Compared to Driskell, Arlo was quite small. Driskell looked to the men in the pit.You have killed what was. See to it that this, he continued as his eyes moved from Sacha to the soldiers. Died with it.

Sacha stood in disbelief. He shook with a quiet fury. His pistol rested loosely in his right hand, and his eyes met the dirt and mud beneath him. His hair now completely obscured his eyes. The soldiers pushed passed him, and Sacha made no attempts to resist. He simply stood. Even as the crowd began to disperse.

M**rde

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It was the sound of a commotion breaking out in the infirmary that drew Karlus from the quiet privacy of his own room. After the examination he had not had the stomach to face anyone else. Opening up to Aemma, exposing himself like that, it had taken more out of him than he had expected. He still didn't fully believe it, that there was no further punishment for him, no further recriminations. Despite her assurances to the contrary. Every time he heard a set of footsteps in the cloister, he half expected them to march to his door, and then they would knock it down and drag Karlus out to the gallows - or worse.

But it never came. Somehow he was still safe.

Still, his heart had leapt in his chest when Karlus heard the sounds of raised voices and quickened steps making their way through the courtyard. This time, he thought, this time they will surely come for me. But no, they marched right past his small dark cell, and faded way, disappearing off in the direction of the hospital. What exactly was going on? It piqued his curiosity despite his fear, and he supposed if they did come for him, the flimsy door of his cell would not stop them for long.

He crept out into the cloister. The night air was crisp, even if it still smelled of sulphur. He could hear the patter of the rain, but it was dry beneath the covering. Orange torchlight spilled from the open doors of the infirmary. Karlus could faintly discern voices from within, so he crept closer still. When he was pressed to one side of the the double doors he could make them out clearly.

"-you were to wise to bring him when you did. Much more and he might have been beyond our arts." The rasping tones and strange accent of the old dark elf Aemma were unmistakable to him already. But the other speaker he did not recognise. It was a man's voice. Not particularly loud but there was some gravity to it, as well as an aristocratic roll of the tongue. It belong to noble, that much, Karlus could tell.

"You should thank young Sacha then, it was he who ended it, not I."

"Hmph, perhaps I will. You know my thoughts on this. I won't repeat them here, save that I think its cruel and unnecessary." What were they speaking about? Karlus cast his mind back, Aemma had mentioned some kind of initiation ritual before, during the examination, but he been more preoccupied with his own situation then. The male speaker sighed before he continued.

"And you know I once shared them. But I see now it is necessary. We are one Order, with one aim, united in purpose. If we are divided against each other we fail. The initiation is part of what makes us equal, whether commoner, criminal, noble, mage. We all must work as one in the order. It makes us stronger, like hammering steel to drive out the impurities."

"Here lies your steel, Knight Captain. Does he look pure yet?" The words were spoken with something akin to a snort of derision. And to the Knight Captain? The leader of the Order at Fort Stag? Somehow the healer Aemma dared speak to him in that way. The corners of Karlus's mouth curled up slightly as he listened silently.

"In time. I leave him in your care for now, goodnight, Doctor."

A set of heavy footsteps began to approach the door that Karlus crouched beside. He slid back away from the entrance to the hospital and into the dark of the cloister, pressing himself flat against the cool stone of the outer wall. The silhouette of a large, armoured figure appeared in the doorway, illuminated by flickering light of the torches beyond it. The Knight Captain stepped out into the darkness and walked towards the edge of covered walkway. Karlus make out his features in the dark, but it seemed to him as if he was just gazing out into it, staring at something. But there was nothing there, nothing that Karlus could see at least. The Captain held his hands out into the rain, letting it wash over them, before wiping them against each other. He was cleaning something off of them. Mud? ...Blood? After a minute or two, with another sigh, the Captain turned and walked away from where Karlus hid, out of the courtyard and into the night.

When he was gone, Karlus emerged from his hiding place. He didn't know what to think of what he had just heard. He supposed he could go back to his room if he wanted, but he was curious still, and he could hear the sounds of Aemma working away in the infirmary beyond. He decided to stay, to try and catch a glimpse at least of whoever was brought in and what this 'ritual' they had discussed had entailed. He crept in through the open door.

The main ward of the hospital was largely empty, there was no sign of Aemma or any of the others who worked there. Karlus could see a figure lying on one of the wooden tables that were used for the more seriously injured, those who would ruin any linens or bedding left under them. His eyes darted around the room before he approached any closer. Just one quick look, he thought, then I'll go back to my room.

The figure on the table was still and unmoving. He was covered head to toe in mud still, blood seeped out of several of wounds and cuts. He had been beaten badly, especially so in the face, his eyes were swollen shut with bruising. But the worse of it was around his mouth, the jaw was broken and it looked like someone had taken a knife to his cheek which hung away in ragged red flap. Such brutality...

His curiosity satisfied, Karlus went to turn away from the body, but something caught his eye that made him stay. The man's hair he noticed was blonde under the crusting of filth and blood. It made him take a second look at him, and then with a sudden shock he realised he knew who this man was. Karlus hadn't recognised him at first because of how badly he had been beaten, but now he could see it. It was Arlo, one of the men he had spent the last few days with in the back of the Warden's cart.

"Ah there you are." Karlus nearly jumped out of his skin. From a side room, Aemma had emerged carrying a bucket of steaming water and a stack of clean linens. She had taken him by surprise. "I wasn't going to get you, but since you are here, you can make yourself useful. I've already stopped the worst of it, so he's stable and beyond pain, but he still needs cleaning and patching together. Let's see what you can do, Karlus."

She approached him surprisingly quickly for an old woman and thrust the clothes and water upon him, before disappearing off into another room, muttering what sounded like a list of ingredients under her breath. Karlus watched her go. Should he tell her he had overheard her conversation with the Knight Captain? He wanted to ask her questions about it... but still, she was still a stranger to him. She was still a danger. But he could hardly scurry away now, so Karlus resigned himself to unfastening his cloak, and began to get to work.

The cleaning was the slow part, there was no spell for that. It needed to be done too. Magic could easily close a wound or seal a cut, but what if there was still filth or dirt in that wound? Then you sealed it inside of the body, whereit might fester, and cause worse injury than had it not been healed. So you always tried to clean them first, if you had the time, like they did now.

After they were clean you looked deepest first, there was no point in closing a surface wound if the organs beneath were damaged, it would only make your work harder when you came to heal those. After the organs, then there came the muscles and the bones. Only then, last, did you heal the the skin. Anyone who had any small skill in the constitutional arts could close a cut, the real mastery came in healing the wounds most people could not even see.

Aemma had stopped the bleeding in Arlo's guts, though no doubt he would still be in great pain when he awoke, so Karlus turned his attention to the face instead when he finished washing him and removing his soiled clothes. Under his light touch he reset the jaw with a few words, before he began to try and rebuild the cheek. It was difficult enough work, whatever had cut him there had been wickedly sharp and had tore through in several places. It took him a while, but as Karlus muttered the closing words of the charm, he was pleased with the final result. Aemma was leaning over his shoulder, he hadn't noticed her approach, he had been so consumed by the work.

"A good job. Try not to be too neat though, they will want him to have a scar, to show he suffered."

"Why?" He found himself asking softly. "What did he do to deserve this?" The old healer shrugged in response, a universal gesture, despite her far flung origins.

"I do not know if he deserved it. But it is the way of this Order, barbaric as it might seem. This is their justice."

Karlus felt drained from the effort of healing Arlo. Aemma took over with her assortment of salves, tinctures and concoctions. She smeared them over the freshly closed wounds and bound them with bandages. Meanwhile Karlus thought about the Order, and what kind of justice it had. He had thought he might have left that kind of 'justice' at the colleges. But somehow, it seemed to have followed him.

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He'd be gone again, by morning.

Sacha quickened his pace towards the stables that sat towards the eastern gates of the fortress. It was darker now than before, and the humming of torches and crickets played about the air. From where he was walking Sacha could already see him. His uncle, by honor, ready once more to journey beyond the walls of Fort Stag.

Elias Black was a bastard, a man born to no-name peasants in some fog-consumed town. That's what little Sacha could gather in his time in the Order. To the young noble though Ward Black was a war hero, a tactician, and the best friend of his father. When the fog had only just taken the Duke's mind, Black visited as often as he could. It seems the war took something from them both.

Shaking the thought of lifetimes passed, Sacha made his way towards Elias. The soldier was loading small tonics and scrolls into a sack attached to the satchel of his horse. You're off again, Sacha said. He wasn't really sure if he was asking.

Aye, I've business at the capital. Elias hardly turned his attention to the boy, but instead moved towards a small pile of crates. He let out an exaggerated groan as he knelt to pick one of the crates up before loading it into the cart. Ye shouldn't have stepped in...at the pit. Elias winced as he spoke. For a moment he almost buried his body in the cart as he placed the crate inside.

Sacha quickly motioned to help Black, picking up another crate to hand to the Ward. He let Elias' words hang for a moment. The two shared a short glance as Sacha handed Elias the crate. In return the man offered a small huff as thanks. ...If I hadn't, they'd have killed him. Sacha was surprised to feel the weight of the man's fat hand pat his shoulder a few times.

I'm glad ye did.

Sacha could feel the corners of his mouth perk up, but quickly turned downwards towards the final crate. He passed it to Elias. I'm certainly glad you stepped in, old man.

Elias fasted the ropes that held the crates affixed in the back of the carriage. There was a loud cacophony of clanking and creaking as he fiddled with the luggage.

I hadn't loaded the powder. Without turning from his position Elias let out a small belly laugh which in turn made Sacha chuckle too. Amidst the orange-lit camp in the dead of night, they laughed together.

...

Ye intend to visit him? Elias pulled the curtain down over the luggage before turning towards Sacha who looked to him with a brow raised. Arlo.

I...

I wouldn't blame ye...do or don't.

The things they've said about him. What he's done...

Terrible things. Unforgivable. Still, it might do that wandering head of yours some good to speak with the dark-elf. Can't cripple yourself with the crimes of another man. Leaving him to die in the mud was never going to unmake what he's wrought. Elias made his way towards the front of the carriage before mounting the small seat atop the cart's front.

When will you be back? Sacha walked towards the front of the cart too. He placed a hand on the steed meant to steer the carriage. He was dark brown in color, and warm to touch. The horse grunted under the weight of the nobleman's hand petting at his mane.

A fortnight, abouts.

When you return, I'd like to speak of my father. Before the taint took him. Sacha looked towards the Ward with a hint of desperation. Elias seemed almost taken aback by the request.

Surely, my Lord, Elias said mockingly. He met Sacha's gaze with a half-baked grin of his own before realizing the boy was entirely serious. He cleared his throat, clearly lost in thought for a moment. He looked away from Sacha while he thought. He took the breath of a man about to conquer his fear. He sat resolute as he answered again. When I return I'll answer any question that curious tongue can think to ask. With that the Ward hit the reins against the back of his horse as the carriage jerked forward.

Until then, uncle. Sacha watched as Black rode off into the darkness.

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Aemma wrapped a final bandage snuggly against the forehead. Chunks of the recruits hair had been ripped out from the scalp. Her withering fingers traced the tearing along the head. The young mage had done well in closing most of the wounds. She could feel where his magic webbed the skin together. Turning to Karlus she could sense the boy was lost in his thoughts. I would like to gather some incense if-

Before Aemma could finish, the sound of footsteps approaching the room filled the hallway outside. A figure pushed back the covering that hung at the doorway.

I apologize for disturbing you doctor, the nobleboy, Sacha came into the torchlight. I...hoped I might... Aemma gave the boy a small nod and smile. Sacha gave a half-hearted smile before cautiously making his way towards the bed. He nearly let out a gasp at the sight of the bruising lining Arlo's body.

I spoke with the Knight Captain. Thank you, Sacha. Sacha couldn't give an answer. His glance stayed on Arlo. He studied the man. Where cuts and gashes should be were scars. Had the boy never seen magic?

This is incredible, he said, mystified. He only looked back towards Aemma for a moment.

Aemma's glance shifted towards Karlus and then back to Sacha. This is another of the new recruits, Aemma motioned to Karlus. The credit is his, mostly, she said with a huff of laughter.

Of course, Sacha noted with some semblance of surprise. Apologies, he offered with another semi-smile.

Sacha intervened in the initiation.

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The use of magic was always draining up the user, this is a fact known my all scholars and mages. Every mage only had so much power they might draw upon at a given time. There are ways to enhance one's capacity, the potion known as Caster's Milk being one of the more common, but ultimately all mages are limited by their strength of their own innate magic.

The lesser effects of expending magic are no different from expending other forms of energy. It begins with a tiredness, a weariness in the limbs. It makes one's thoughts run slow, causes the eyelids to grow heavy and droop. When a mage expends too much of their innate magic, these effects worsen. Overextending one's capabilities leads to cold sweats, painful headaches, shortness of breath, muscle spasms, leading to loss of consciousness, and in some cases, even death.

But there is another side to the use of magic. It drains, but so do does it invigorate. With the use of great power, some mages say there is a feeling of elation, a euphoria that is indescribable to those who have not experienced it for themselves. Like the flush of endorphins the athlete knows, or the rush of adrenaline the fighter makes use of in battle. A high that comes before the low, before the potentially fatal costs. In that case, is it any wonder some mages have been known to destroy themselves in pursuit of ever greater magic?

Karlus was sat on a bench at the back of the treatment room, feeling the after effects of his own use of magic. He felt tired, but pleasantly so, satisfyingly tired even. The joy of letting his power flow through him and into Arlo was fading, but the end of the warm glow it left behind was still there just. He enjoyed the feeling while he could. It had been a long time since he had been able to use his magic so freely. It was nice, despite the circumstances.

His reverie, however, was short lived, as a figure emerged into the ward through the curtains that hung over the doorway. Karlus immediately snapped back to being alert and shrank back into himself. But it seemed to be alright, whoever he was Aemma was dealing with him. Karlus just made himself small at the back of room, surreptitiously watched the newcomer through his lowered eyes.

He was young, he couldn't be much older than Karlus himself. A little taller maybe, and more robust, though still lithe. He was dark where Karlus was fair though, both his hair and his tanned skin. The biggest difference between them was how he carried himself though, there was a sense of assuredness, of confidence, in the way that the young man moved. His accent was Viscellean, but well spoken, he was educated, perhaps even noble born. His name was Sacha it seemed, that sounded familiar for some reason.

Karlus watched as he approached Arlo, and he could not help but feel his lips curl up ever so slightly when Sacha exclaimed his incredulity at Karlus's magic. It quickly faded as Aemma directed the young man's attention to where he had been quietly sitting at the back of the room. He averted his gaze, but not before catching the look of surprise on Sacha's face. It did not surprise him, people had always underestimated him.

But what Aemma said next made him glance up again. Sacha intervened in the initiation. Sacha, that was the name the Knight Captain had used earlier, that's where I recognised it from. He studied him once again with his vibrant green eyes, half hidden behind white-blonde hair. When he answered, his voice was soft, and low.

"Don't apologise." There was a moment's hesitation before Karlus continued. "You don't have anything to be sorry for... you must have a kind heart. To help him, I mean."

He pointed at the still, bandaged form of Arlo, lying atop the table. As he did so, the sleeve of his shirt rode up his arm slightly, exposing the raw damaged skin at his wrist, from where he had been so recently bound and shackled.

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Sacha's eyes trailed to Arlo as Karlus' fingers stretched out towards his bed. Anyone would have. Should have, he coughed out meekly. As Karlus' hand fumbled along the edge of one of Arlo's bandages a sleeve rolled upward along his arm. Before Sacha could think his hand extended outwards to grasp at Karlus' arm. He could feel the mage's hand shrink away from his touch instinctively. I...sorry... He took a step back as he gestured towards the mess of pealing red skin. He could feel Aemma's eyes studying the pair. He figured he'd caught Karlus' glare too, but he could hardly dare to return it.

He'll be healed before long. Sacha instead looked back at the doctor as she fiddled with supplies at a table in the room. They've done worse...to some of the others.

How much worse.

The clattering of vials and the scratching of papyrus stopped replaced by the dancing sounds of flame to torch. Aemma stood for a minute more. It was good that you intervened when you did. She soon went back to adjusting her supplies. She muttered to herself, as she usually did whenever Sacha visited her. He wasn't sure if she was taking some kind of inventory when she did it, or if it was some kind of ritual. The physiker had all manner of incense, powders and potions, and Sacha was hardly an expert in anything magic. Quite often it made him weary. After all, wasn't magic what had brought ruin to so much in Vicelles. He was lucky to be born without it. Lucky to be a mute. Just like the Goddess Minerva herself.

Shaking off the thought Sacha pinched the bridge of his nose. There is another matter, doctor. Sacha turned again towards Aemma who shifted her body. She now faced the three men. Father Marrow, Sacha said. Aemma sighed before turning back to her work.

Ah, not fond of your visits to the infirmary is he? She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth a few times as she scribbled a few notes onto the papyrus with a small powdered chalk material.

Nor the catacombs. His voice went up in pitch, and with it some sound between a sigh and winging. Are we not meant to find a cure for the taint? The Father is stumbling in the dark writing letters to orphans and widows.

Aemma's eyes widened and darted towards the door suggestively as she shushed Sacha. Your tongue moves before your head, nekat. I will continue my research regarding your people's sickness. You will not anger the Father further, understood, she asked like a scolding mother. Her accent was even more pronounced when she spoke sternly. Sacha nodded in compliance.

I suppose it matters little now, Ser Charles has already passed.

He...hasn't, Aemma winced. It was clear she hadn't meant to let that slip to Sacha. Father Marrow's doing no doubt.

What? Sacha's brows furrowed as he looked to the doctor.

I'll be studying his sickness at dawn, as per the Father's request.

You must share your findings with me, doctor Sacha asked.

Must I, Aemma returned with an eyebrow raised. She huffed out a small chuckle at Sacha's exuberance. The two had come to a lucrative arrangement. Sacha would harvest supplies, and use what resources he could to assist Aemma as she researched the taint. Aemma would keep Sacha in-the-know regarding her progress. Unfortunately, Sacha was hardly known for his subtlety.

Sacha briefly looked back towards Karlus before returning his gaze to match Aemma's. Please Aemma, you know what this means to me, he begged.

What I can do, I will she said as her eyes shifted from Sacha to Karlus, and then back to Sacha.So long as our new recruit has no objections. The doctor was being curt, and perhaps Sacha deserved it. He was never one for secrets and whispers. Certainly every one in the Order would see the blighted taint gone if they'd the means? It hardly felt an endeavor worth hiding. Still, her cagey tone was enough to make Sacha look away sheepishly.

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Karlus Marsh

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Karlus watched as these two virtual strangers argued in front of him, secrets spilling from their lips as they did so. He still had one arm clutched to his body, cradling it, as if it had somehow been wounded. This new stranger, Sacha, had reached out to touch him as he had spoken before. Karlus had flinched away, but for a moment, he had been sure that his fingers had made contact with wrist. Where they had brushed him he felt it burn against his skin. Or was he just imagining things? Remembering other hands, other fingers that had once burned.

He pushed those thoughts away. He was not there anymore.

Slowly, Karlus released the tension in his body. His shoulders shrugged back down, he released the grip on his own arm and let it fall back to his side. In the intense conversation between Sacha and Aemma, he seemed to be forgotten. Or at least, Sacha seemed to have forgotten that he was there. Aemma was facing the both of them, he could see the pleading for discretion in her eyes, annoyance bordering on anger. But she humoured him it seemed. Why though, Karlus could not understand.

Karlus knew a thing or two about secrets. He had kept plenty of his own at the college. It seemed he would have to keep more here to survive in the Order. He was resigned to that, this world was one which was hostile to his kind, secrecy was the price that must be paid for greater freedom, greater power. Secrecy was shield that guarded him and those like him, those like Aemma.

And here Sacha was, spilling secrets in front of him. He made a note not to let him into his confidence, as much as he let anyone in. He might might act kind, but what did that matter when a careless word could get someone strung up by a rope - or worse.

Almost as if he knew Karlus was thinking about him, Sacha glanced over at that moment. Karlus did not return his gaze. He would just keep his head down, none of this involved him as far as he was concerned. It was then that Aemma asked him if he had any objections. He looked up, eyes darting between the two of them. Did they think he was somehow part of this now?

"Me? Objections?" He weakly repeated the end of Aemma's statement back to her. "I'm in no position to object to anything. It doesn't involve me... although..."

Although he was interested in the sickness, he realised. He had seen its horrors first hand, he understood why the Order was here to combat it. But there were other things he had heard too, back in College. Most Astorians cared little for what happened over the border in their fog blighted neighbour, but there had been some scholars who had devoted time to its study, in particular the creatures it created. As a healer he had read a few of those books that spoke of the curious effects of the fog. It could kill, destroy, drive mad, corrupt... but it could also give power.

There were witches, he knew, that somehow derived their power from the fog. Beings who were gifted with agility, strength, and endurance in exchange for being forbidden from the light of sun and consuming the blood of others. If one understand the fog and its sickness, perhaps one could understand the powers it also bestowed.

Now that... that was interesting to Karlus.

He stood up slightly straighter, and looked the old dark elf directly in her eyes for once.

"...perhaps it could. If you wanted."

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Aemma sunk into herself. To this point, she hadn't known her form could shrink any lower as she had against the table. Sacha had the temperament of Raanidus and his war hounds. The elf often wondered to herself if involving the noble was worth the trouble. She was horrified, then, to hear that yet another youngling had taken up their cause. While she'd only meant to ensure he would not report their musings to anyone of authority- she supposed another mage could prove useful to her studies. She certainly had little choice now. At the very least, the Astorian seemed the sort for discretion. And, despite his tendency for theatrics, Sacha was soft of heart and noble in his intent. The young Vicellan looked between the pair of mages, as giddy as a pup, content with their new arrangement.

In response Aemma stood upright from her post. You should both get some rest. I will gather you come sunrise for the examination, Karlus, she said as she motioned towards the doorway of the room. I doubt Arlo appreciates our dithering. She shuffled towards a few vials that sat at a small counter beside the cot before carefully collecting them.

Aemma could feel Sacha walk closer to her. He offered a firm hand upon her shoulder. As her gaze fell back to meet him he smiled. It almost brought her back to another time, another life...another boy. Her hand met his as her fingers caressed his with a maternal embrace. She returned his smile with one of her own. Thank you, doctor, Sacha said as he made his way towards the room's exit. He looked back towards the Astorian mage. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Aemma's gaze met Karlus' one last time as Sacha retreated from Arlo's quarters. She nodded him off before returning to her own vials. When she was both of the boys had left she retrieved notes from one of her pockets. The papyrus was ripped and crumpled, but on its page the diagrams and scribblings remained legible. The notes detailed a number of victims taken by the fog taint, their names and their symptoms. Towards the end of the page, emphasized by bolded lines, was one word. "Mute?"

The dark-elf folded the notes away again before looking towards the door and then back towards Arlo. Snuffing out the torch that had kept the room only barely lit, Aemma let the doorway's tarp fall behind her as she stepped out into the hallway. Her shuffles echoed through the corridors of the infirmary.

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Karlus Marsh

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"...perhaps it could. If you wanted."

Karlus regretted the words even as he had spoken them. What was he doing? Involving himself in the problems and passions of these strangers, people he had only just met, and as of yet had little reason to trust. In fact he had already seen how the young one, Sacha, handled his secrets. By offering himself into this conspiracy he was as good as signing his own writ of execution. And yet... he had done it anyway.

Perhaps his brush with death had not chastened him after all. He had stared death in the face before, and he was still here. Somewhat reduced, somewhat constrained... although not as constrained as he had expected, perhaps even freer in some ways if what Aemma told him about the order's attitude to mages was to be believed. Maybe he should be bolder in pursuing what he wanted, and the power he would need to achieve it.

He kept his own face impassive as he saw the look of giddy excitement spread across Sacha's. Aemma was more difficult to read, but she did not seem thrilled by their exchange, perhaps she harboured some of the same misgivings Karlus felt. But she acceded nonetheless, she would bring him tomorrow morning for this examination they would perform. At her motion he nodded his head to her and went to the infirmary doors. He had almost left when some instinct made him glance back.

Sacha stood beside the old doctor, hand upon her shoulder, fingers intertwined, while she held him in a maternal embrace. It made him pause. Affection such as this was a strange sight to Karlus. The College had never been a place of warmth or love, such emotions were discouraged. He had few memories of what the life he had with his birth family had been like, but he did remember what it felt like to be held like that. Or at least, he thought he did, maybe he just wanted to believe that he had been loved by someone.

As Sacha thanked the doctor and they broke apart, Karlus realised he was staring, he glanced away self consciously. He kept looking away as the other youth went past him. But before he left, Sacha turned and spoke to him one last time. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. He didn't know what to say in return. He wasn't good at small talk.

"Ummm... yeah, pleasure." He mumbled in reply, looking like a startled animal at the unexpected address. After he had gone Karlus's eyes met with Aemma's one last time and she nodded him off. Karlus took his leave without another word.

He returned to the privacy of his own room through the darkened cloister, he could see some faint lights coming from the widows of the temple, but other than that it was dark and quiet - except for the sound of the rain. Once the door was closed behind him once more, Karlus lit a single candle, sat the his plain wooden desk and opened the leather bound journal he had placed there.

He began to write.