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Clara's attack had sent the maleficarum into a tree, and herself face first into the soil, again; twisting her body around so aggressively had thrown her off balance, and she had been met with a mouthful of dirt. Judging by how the frantic yells of her fellow magi were starting to peter out, it appeared their battle had finally drawn to a close.

But Clara wouldn't let this downtime go to waste, already fearing the worst considering how the last few hours had played out. Damage had been done to the maleficarum — Clara had made sure of that — but there was no telling if it had truly been enough to bring her down.

Then there were the inquisitors back at the barge.

If what Etoile had said was true, defeating the maleficarum would stop whatever magic was wrecking havoc on the barge, freeing the passengers on board from those horrid birds, inquisitors included. If they all hadn't had their eyes plucked out by now, surely they would be on the hunt for the magi that had started it all; and perhaps, any others they found along the way.

Inquisitors were a tenacious bunch, it haunted every facet of Clara's life. She'd heard the stories, her mother's stories, and she'd seen it happen. That night, the rocky deserts surrounding her home village did little to stop their chase. What was a couple of overgrown bushes and trees to people like them?

Clara tried lifting herself from the floor. A sorry attempt, as the true weight of all her injuries suddenly came crashing down. Her uninjured arm strained to heave her body up, when after numerous attempts she was just about able to sit herself up against a tree trunk, all sluggish and sloppy.

This was bad. She was in no condition to fight, to think, to do anything.

Where would she go? Where could she go? She wanted to run, she needed to run, far, far away from everything, from this terrible forest and from those terrible people, after all, running away was the only thing she'd ever been good at ever since—

"Hey Clara, you alright?"

A voice called out to her. Barely audible over the sound of her ragged breaths. Cautiously, Clara tilted her head to the side, where through her delirium and locks of matted hair, she noticed Pagonia sat a few paces away. He wore a smile on his face, bright and strong, as if the battered state of his body was a but figment of her imagination. As if he were trying to say that everything would be fine. That he was fine.

Clara felt sick to her stomach. She'd seen that kind of smile before.

Yet instinct caused her to feign a smile of her own, faint, but reassuring. An awful attempt at reassuring the man, maybe, but this wasn't the time to be vulnerable. She would have to worry about the pain later. Couldn't let her guard down now with the possibility of inquisitors hot on their trail. 

"…yeah. I'm fine. I'm fine, Pagonia. Really, I should be the one asking you that," Clara chuckled softly, hand held against the tree trunk as she struggled to her feet. "Please, go and check on your brother. And the others, too. They're not looking so good."

She looked past Pagonia and at Zestasia, who was hovering around Etoile and Pythia. She couldn't hear much, but judging by the grim looks on their faces as they exchanged words with each other, Clara figured they needed something — or rather, someone — to lift their spirits.

Instead of joining them however, Clara wobbled towards Lazulin, who was confronting the young witch. Young, she repeated in her head as she observed the two, a safe distance away from where Lazulin stood. It seemed the little maleficarum still had some fight left in her.

"If you are pursued, that means less work for us, at least," Clara intervened, arm clutched over her abdomen. "If you really want those inquisitors to take care of things from here, then be our guest. I know we're not just gonna sit around and wait for them to capture us as well."

Though she would flinch whenever she met the girl's black, empty gaze, Clara's own wasn't necessarily frightful. Instead, it was rather solemn. Pitiful, almost. People — children — didn't just… end up like that for no real reason. 

But Clara didn't have time to expend her pity. The group was in bad shape, and who knows how much time they had left before more demonic animals or inquisitors started jumping out of the bushes. They needed to get themselves together and get a move on, before things got a lot worse.

As Pythia turned away, Etoile sagged back against the tree trunk in adrenaline-debt exhaustion. Her eyes slid shut, almost of their own volition, and a powerful vertigo overtook her. Only the rough back biting into her back grounded her, reminded her that she was still upright, that she was still there. She allowed herself a smile, then: a small, mirthless, bitter smile.

An injured wolf, hmm?

How apropos that was. A wolf—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—so wounded it could no longer hunt. Could no longer fend for itself. Abandoned by the pack to wither away to nothing. It had no illusions of recovery, no impossible dreams of hunting again. It knew that, without hunting, it was useless. It knew it was doomed the moment it had failed in its task. And yet still, it snapped slavering jaws at anything that came near it; a vain, broken guise to hide its desperation from the world.

An Inquisitor—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—on the run from her former comrades, all support stripped away. All of that power, gone. All of that privilege, gone. Smoke on the wind, blown away with a single gust. Forced now to make a life for herself on the road, never comfortable, never safe, never stopping long enough to do more than eat and sleep for a night. Acting like she could still wield something of her old power. Anything to do away with the fear that hung over her head like the sword of Judas.

And a woman—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—with no idea what to do anymore. Her life's work was gone. Her ideals were torn to shreds. They hung in tatters behind her as she struggled to make sense of what was happening all around her. She wanted her cool, quiet room back. Everything was happening far too quickly for her. Too much was going on. The strange sense of familiarity she'd felt behind Pythia on the barge. The mismatch of Lazulin's words and actions. Clara's cold, cautious glare after shoving her away. The slow, creeping unease that she felt every time Zestasia or Pagonia spoke of their home. The maleficarum that they'd fought. Anníbas on the barge. It was all far too much. Was it too much to ask to be allowed to stop and think?

She opened her eyes, staring up at the faint sunlight filtering through the massive Ifrise trees. Then, a moment later, she looked at Zestasia. Poor kid. He didn't deserve any of what had happened to him.

"...Zestasia." Her voice carried none of its usual harshness. It was distant; quiet, soft, and sad.

"I'm...sorry for what happened to you."

Pagonia made no effort to interfere with the issue surrounding Etoile, knowing that he had no room to speak. He too had been an Inquisitor for only a few short years, training under Garland and lending assistance on missions. It was not his place to speak down on Etoile, instead he would believe in her words. He needed not anything else to go on beside what he knew of her this day. The surprise truly came in hearing his baby brother's response. He never expected the boy to accept an inquisitor, showing that his maturity was light-years ahead of what Pagonia was at his age. Walking backwards till his back touched a tree nearby, the blond let the weight of the world pull him down to a sitting position. Fatigue ran through his body at such a rate that he could fall asleep at any moment, magic having drained his body of stamina from the various fights.

"Hey guys, I'm rather tired. We gonna keep moving or rest here?"

His head hung low over his lap, eye barely keeping themselves open. Pagonia just wanted a long nap, though he knew it would be unwise with the witch still there and the numerous other dangers lurking, waiting to kill the group. Taking a deep sigh, he lifted his head up to stare at the group, ready to do whatever was decided next.