A5G

Absolved Will Be the Saviors

"Uh. Well."

Mirielle certainly didn't expect the sudden question, nor the unusually childish way it was asked. Reminded her of the children of her old orphanage, on the rare occasions she was afforded the chance to visit. Which was weird already, considering the woman before her was definitely an adult.

Thankfully circus man jumped to rescue while she's frozen for a moment, wine cup halfway down to the table. Nodding sagely, she immediately followed that trains of thought as if it wasn't something invented on the fly.

"Of course, it is not always bad or good. Time and place for everything, and while some things needs haste - like our purpose here, for one - on other occasions haste will only make waste."

Nothing particularly revelatory in that statement, but it's all in the presentation. Radiate enough confidence and anything can be made to sounds convincing. The fact that Mirielle wasn't actively aware of it wouldn't stop her from making use of the fact.

Whatever may follow had to be cut short by the door opening, marking the return of the Archbishop back to the hall. Mirielle sat straighter, her attention skipped past the nun for a moment before the incongruity caught up. The once-inquisitor jerked back to the woman clad in spiked robe, visage halfway twisted into a wary snarl before she managed to control herself.

"A penitent!"

Her senses must've dulled if the mere sight of that robe didn't immediately draw her attention. The world faded away as her attention tunneled to the pale woman, how closely she stood to the Archbishop, and a thousand horrible visions where the sinner managed to murder the man in cold blood before anyone can do anything about it.

Yet the seconds ticked by, and none of those visions came to pass. The wariness begrudgingly faded away, sinking into an ever-present pressure at the back of her mind. To always keep some attention onto the penitent, at all times, so that she can immediately act if the sinner did something nefarious or silently disappeared.

Pale yellow eyes flickered to the Archbishop, and then Carmen. This was an unpleasant surprise. A penitent was a sizzling powder keg at best, why was the presence of one deemed necessary? What else were being kept from Mirielle, and the rest of the team?

The ex-inquisitor listened in to the introduction, noting that this one's sounding stable. Those were always the worst kind, you'd never know when they'd decide to stab you in the back. Sometimes the inquisitors in charge wouldn't even notice. And worst of all, seemingly everyone present had no idea how big of a threat a penitent was.

As for the name... rung a bell, but nothing came to mind. Eh, Mirielle can find out later. Preferably grilled out of Carmen, away from prying eyes. She should still had some leverage over the man, even after his promotion.

Absolved Will Be the Saviors

"Hear, hear!" Mirielle didn't understand half of the conversations going on the table, but she could get Carmen and what he'd been so passionate about. Creator knew the world needed less grandstanding and more direct actions, yet it's as if everyone who ended up in a position of power agreed to grandstand in a massive genital-measuring contest instead of doing anything helpful. "We could use less politicians. How important could they be anyway?"

As if she hadn't just said something completely irresponsible, the ex-inquisitor resumed attacking her meal as if she's picturing a pile of politicians piled at her mercy under the fork. Feeling the stare again, yellow eyes flickered to the redhead circus man... what was his name again? Oh beans. Let's hope someone mention it soon.

Why's he staring though? She hadn't said anything overly interesting, had she?

He smiled. Mirielle paused, swallowed, and smiled back all businesslike. Ah, must've been a polite lad. Moments like this was the entire reason she spent more time than she liked to admit to make a "normal" smile. Whatever that meant. The others didn't elaborate much back then.

"The elves act at a pace that would make moss growing looks speedy. Perhaps it's their lifespan, but they cannot move with the same urgency we do." Back to Carmen, she quipped with undisguised annoyance at their long-eared neighbors. That particular people had always been a source of mixed feelings. On one hand their origin was most noble, yet on the other hand they always felt rather... out of place. Always half-measures on all things despite being able to do more. "We'll finish what we strive out to, leave what comes after for the future."

That long speech (for Mirielle standard) done, she nonchalantly leaned back and sipped on her wine. Maybe it's getting to her? She's being more talkative than usual today.

Absolved Will Be the Saviors

Mirielle grinned at the redhead, lips curling in an unrestrained display of approval. Not everyone would answer the call to do the right things, especially if it was a path of thorns. The fact that a circus something - what's a carny anyway? Bird trainer? - was ready to wade into a warzone should've put a lot of self-proclaimed righteous men into shame. Unfortunate that those people also tend to have the thickest skin.

...wait, wasn't he a mage? Eh, whatever. Not important at the moment.

"Well said!" Said the zealot with a giggle, slowly sipping her wine while her free hand roamed to pick a tiny bit of every dish. Moderation in all things after all. Well, beside faith that was. "We do holy work, Ludvig! If only there's more people like you out there."

The meeting continued, though it lost its last bit of formality with the departure of the Archbishop. Mirielle listened in to the following introductions, inwardly growing increasingly confused at the seemingly random quality of the group members, yet refused to show or voice any inkling of it. There must be a reason behind it all, she only lacked the perspective to see it yet. It surely shall be revealed in time. Eventually.

"Had it really been years? Time sure flies." Her attention returned to her old friend, who hadn't seems to age a day since their last meeting. Not like she had either, both of them still at the prime of their lives, but Carmen either found a less active duty or had improved immensely in that time. New scars wasn't a strange addition to an active inquisitor, and while Mirielle was relegated away from the forefront presumably her friend hadn't strayed from his path.

He wouldn't. Perhaps the Creator had plans for him. Even she recognize that not everything can be solved with brute force. This mission of theirs was a prime example, more than a blunt instrument was needed to find and rescue Sir Thomas. Hopefully Carmen was up to the task, Mirielle's many things but a strategist wasn't one of those.

"Never stepped into foreign land myself." She said with a shrug, mashing her piece of salmon into flakes before shoving it into her soup. "I've lost count how many times I applied to go, but it seems like a highly coveted duty. Never got through even once."

Absolved Will Be the Saviors

It had been an eventful few years for Mirielle. The sudden transfer away from the inquisitorial team was jarring and (in her brutally honest opinion) completely unwarranted, but apparently crucifying some heretics for everyone to see was quote "a bit too much" unquote. If the treatise of Head Inquisitor Viktor on combatting heresy from twelve-hundred years back was no longer valid someone should've amended it, which to be fair was almost immediately amended following the incident, but oh well. Fine, she admitted that some of the less faithfuls may had been a bit... horrified. Which was exactly the point of it all in the first place, but apparently that's no good anymore.

Didn't help that she's surrounded by cowards.

The following posting as Archbishop Saunière's personal guard had been something in need of adapting. Mirielle wasn't used to be reactive, but she was nothing if not alert at all times. Yet for all that it had been rather peaceful, at least on paper. Instead she discovered a newfound respect for the man, one who's willing to get things done instead of puffing in self-importance like so many others in the Order. So what if it's a bit clandestine?

Like the latest job. Paladin Thomas, the Thomas Sanders, disappeared when doing his best to do good for the world. By all rights there should've been personnel mobilizations weeks ago, instead the news was suppressed. Completely unacceptable. Thank the Creator that at least someone was doing the right thing, even if it meant she had to work with... unusual parties.

Piercing gaze scanned the people present, the supposed feast largely untouched in front of her. Mirielle hadn't had much appetite for the past few days, only her respect for Archbishop Saunière stayed her from marching out then and there. Orders be damned. None of the company she particularly recognized, though some she had heard of in passing. A mage of dubious origin, a supposed blacksmith of slightly less dubious origin, a sellsword and a foreign noble that got famous off an adventure a couple years back, and then there's a barely of age child and a strange woman with oversized hat that sets her senses off for some reason.

Some are concerning. But she had worked with worse.

She was spared unnecessary socialization with the arrival of the Archbishop, and - surprisingly - Friston! The man had went far since the first time they met, when he joined the inquisitors so many years ago. Surpassed her rank in no time at all, and likely only continuing upward since. Inquisitor news was always hard to come by. A grin flashed on Mirielle's visage, banishing the gloom from the last while.

"Amen!" Mirielle joined in the prayer great enthusiasm, taking a hearthy swig of the provided wine. Somehow it taated better now than five minutes ago, the warmth bubbling through her veins like liquid fire. This was it. The time for waffling around was over, and it was finally time for action.

The short introduction continued, though apparently only for the two most dubious personnel. She had no idea why would they need the Archbishop's winer, or to bring Thomas' own niece into a literal warzone, but far from her to question his wisdom. The Archbishop had been farsighted in more than one occasions. It will all turn well in the end, like it always had been.

Mirielle was the third in the introduction, standing ramrod straight without much flourish, candlelight dancing within the polished brass stars of her uniform. She flashed a friendly grin to Carmen before nodding to the rest of the party, tapping her left fist to the center of her chest twice.

"Name's Mirielle, ex-inquisitor. On behalf of the faithful everywhere I thank you all for joining this righteous mission, as the Creator once decreed that we shall never abandon our fellow man into the darkness!"

Absolved Will Be the Saviors

Name: Mirielle

Species: Hooman

Age: Early 40s

Gender: Female

Appearance: A woman of above-average height with sturdy build and the confident poise of someone missing the slightest shred of doubt in whatever she does. Her hair was mostly bleached white with several locks of the original blonde remaining, kept relatively short likely on account that it looked wild enough to fight a comb and win. Between the spiky growth a pair of piercing yellow eyes peeked through, sharply angled much like the general shape of her face, altogether giving the impression of a prowling wildcat. The sheer intensity of her focused gaze may be unsettling to some people, always out to find signs of heresy. Can usually be found in either the Order's formal uniform, ironed, cleaned, and polished to perfection, a set of simple training outfit, or otherwise some mismatched and more often than not creased casual clothes that looked like it was randomly pulled out of a laundry bin.

Image Ref

Bio: Mirielle. Family name unknown. Exact age unknown. Once upon a time was an orphan wandering the street, with little memories of whatever circumstances led her to that point. Fire? Natural disaster? Murder? She hadn't got the slightest clue, only that the experience left most of her hair bleached. There's some vague recollection of golden strands curling around her fingers, faraway laughters, and the echo of a lullaby.

Found and taken in by the Order of Golden Sun, Mirielle was but one of the many children raised in one of the many orphanage scattered across the kingdom. Some of the children wasn't very receptive to the idea, and these ones tend to go their separate ways once they reached adulthood. Most accepted the faith in the Creator and joined the Order. As for a certain Mirielle, well. Let's just say she was a bit more receptive than most.

Perhaps something resonated within her soul, for from the very first moment little Mirielle was introduced to the faith she went straight into the deep end. The Creator, through His faithful servants, granted her a new lease in life. And she, in turn, should reflect that light to the world around her. As it was only proper.

But ah, what's this? All over Westernant, there's no lack of fellow faithfuls. Many were less devoted than she liked, but she could tolerate that much. Not everyone can be so dedicated after all. Instead, it's the unbelieving heathens that needed conversion. Spread the light, wouldn't that be a great way to spend her life? The misguided should be brought into the fold.

As for the heretical worshippers of false deities... the Creator will forgive them. It's just up to her to send them over, yes.

Several decades later and Mirielle's conviction had not once wavered. The inquisitors had the most opportunity for some high-impact preaching works, so naturally she gravitated that direction. Her days consist of prayers and services and smiting heretics, a simple lifestyle for a simple woman. Not a critically recognized position, nor a monetarily rewarding one, but as Mirielle herself would say - the dedication enriched her soul, that the work itself was its own reward. So when a letter arrived entailing the rescue of the most illustrious paladin still among the living, she didn't hesitate to join the effort.

Passives:
-Fanaticism: Belief in the Creator is the bulwark to keep oneself stalwart in the face of darkness and temptations. As long as Mirielle acts in accordance to her (albeit possibly twisted) sense of justice, she gains an unerring hyperfocus as well as shrug off any cowardly attempts to cloud her mind. In reverse, should she doubt her own conviction her thought will turn sluggish and negative effects will have an easier time finding purchase in her weakened mental defense.
-Feel No Pain: Faith can carry a body through the most horrendous of wounds, as well as achieve feats beyond the natural limitations of the flesh. Once Mirielle embarks on a zealous warpath, the heavier her injuries the less she feels it and the stronger and faster she gets. This allows her to fight well past a point where most would've dropped dead, but should anything disrupt her rhythm all the damage immediately catches up and she could well ceases functioning then and there.

Spells:
-Righteous Flame: Mirielle emits a burning aura from her very being, cloaking her and spreading across a short distance. It reinvigorates those she recognizes as true faithful, sharing the effect of her passives with them. Lesser allies gets their morale bolstered instead, while the ones deemed as heretics burn in the phantom heat before quite literally combusting should they linger in the effect for long enough.
-Witch Hunt: Marks a heretic for smiting, allowing Mirielle to sense their location and the flow of their corrupted (in her view) essence until the mark fades away. At will she may triggers the mark, burning the remaining divine energy (definitely not just a manifestation of magic tempered by unwavering will) in it to disrupt the victim's rhythm. The mark must first find a way to latch onto the target, whether by direct touch or through one of her other spells.
-Divine Armor: Temporarily clads Mirielle in an ethereal suit of armor. It weights nothing and does not impede her mobility in any way, while being near-impervious to both blades and spells alike. Does not last long at all, and is very exhaustive to use.
-Holy Lance: Honoring the legacy of Areston Lydus himself, Mirielle shape and launch a chunk of her divine energy into the alleged depiction of the winged spear the hero once used to strike down the empress most dread. The manifested spear flies true despite the spear lacking any aerodynamic shape whatsoever, homing onto a target to strike and scorch the heresy out of their body and soul. Tend to be very effective, but also equally exhaustive to use.

Mundane Skills: Prodigiously good with the spear. Experienced with sword and shield, as well as unarmed combat. Somehow able to clean out all but the most persistent bloodstain out of white fabric. Similarly, highly skilled in weapon maintenance. Pretty good at carpentry. Can perfectly recite entire scriptures out of memory. (Self-proclaimed) expert at sniffing out and dealing with heretical worships. Able to survive with bare minimum food and water for a really long time.

Equipment:
-Clad in the Order's battle uniform, multiple cloth padding with steel lamellar in the middle and a snazzy uniform at the outermost layer.
-Standard-issue heater shield with the Order's sun emblazoned at the center, with a plain arming sword to match.
-A carefully wrapped masterwork spear, allegedly a 1:1 replica of the hero's weapon. Except that it had went through many centuries of embellishment, but Mirielle doesn't listen to wrong opinions. Excruciating amount of embellishment aside (the whole entire scripture etched on every surface was as historically inaccurate as it was unnecessary), it's still a well-made and functional piece.
-A binding consisting of a carpenter's mallet, a handsaw, and a rather excessive amount of large nails.
-Big backpack containing daily necessities such as preserved rations, change of clothes, cleaning supplies, etc.

Other:
-The divine is flawless, but people aren't. Mirielle doesn't hold a favorable opinion on most of the Order, seeing them as deluded fools too busy playing politics instead of getting things done.
-If it's not yet apparent enough, her worldview is a bit too simplistic for someone her age.
-Carries the vague scent of cleaning chemicals.
-Got a bit of racism issue. Or should it be called theicism?

We are the Good Guys [A fantasy RP]

Name: Mirielle

Species: Hooman

Age: Early 40s

Gender: Female

Appearance: A woman of above-average height with sturdy build and the confident poise of someone missing the slightest shred of doubt in whatever she does. Her hair was mostly bleached white with several locks of the original blonde remaining, kept relatively short likely on account that it looked wild enough to fight a comb and win. Between the spiky growth a pair of piercing yellow eyes peeked through, sharply angled much like the general shape of her face, altogether giving the impression of a prowling wildcat. The sheer intensity of her focused gaze may be unsettling to some people, always out to find signs of heresy. Can usually be found in either the Order's formal uniform, ironed, cleaned, and polished to perfection, a set of simple training outfit, or otherwise some mismatched and more often than not creased casual clothes that looked like it was randomly pulled out of a laundry bin.

Image Ref

Bio: Mirielle. Family name unknown. Exact age unknown. Once upon a time was an orphan wandering the street, with little memories of whatever circumstances led her to that point. Fire? Natural disaster? Murder? She hadn't got the slightest clue, only that the experience left most of her hair bleached. There's some vague recollection of golden strands curling around her fingers, faraway laughters, and the echo of a lullaby.

Found and taken in by the Order of Golden Sun, Mirielle was but one of the many children raised in one of the many orphanage scattered across the kingdom. Some of the children wasn't very receptive to the idea, and these ones tend to go their separate ways once they reached adulthood. Most accepted the faith in the Creator and joined the Order. As for a certain Mirielle, well. Let's just say she was a bit more receptive than most.

Perhaps something resonated within her soul, for from the very first moment little Mirielle was introduced to the faith she went straight into the deep end. The Creator, through His faithful servants, granted her a new lease in life. And she, in turn, should reflect that light to the world around her. As it was only proper.

But ah, what's this? All over Westernant, there's no lack of fellow faithfuls. Many were less devoted than she liked, but she could tolerate that much. Not everyone can be so dedicated after all. Instead, it's the unbelieving heathens that needed conversion. Spread the light, wouldn't that be a great way to spend her life? The misguided should be brought into the fold.

As for the heretical worshippers of false deities... the Creator will forgive them. It's just up to her to send them over, yes.

Several decades later and Mirielle's conviction had not once wavered. The inquisitors had the most opportunity for some high-impact preaching works, so naturally she gravitated that direction. Her days consist of prayers and services and smiting heretics, a simple lifestyle for a simple woman. Not a critically recognized position, nor a monetarily rewarding one, but as Mirielle herself would say - the dedication enriched her soul, that the work itself was its own reward. So when a letter arrived entailing the rescue of the most illustrious paladin still among the living, she didn't hesitate to join the effort.

Passives:
-Fanaticism: Belief in the Creator is the bulwark to keep oneself stalwart in the face of darkness and temptations. As long as Mirielle acts in accordance to her (albeit possibly twisted) sense of justice, she gains an unerring hyperfocus as well as shrug off any cowardly attempts to cloud her mind. In reverse, should she doubt her own conviction her thought will turn sluggish and negative effects will have an easier time finding purchase in her weakened mental defense.
-Feel No Pain: Faith can carry a body through the most horrendous of wounds, as well as achieve feats beyond the natural limitations of the flesh. Once Mirielle embarks on a zealous warpath, the heavier her injuries the less she feels it and the stronger and faster she gets. This allows her to fight well past a point where most would've dropped dead, but should anything disrupt her rhythm all the damage immediately catches up and she could well ceases functioning then and there.

Spells:
-Righteous Flame: Mirielle emits a burning aura from her very being, cloaking her and spreading across a short distance. It reinvigorates those she recognizes as true faithful, sharing the effect of her passives with them. Lesser allies gets their morale bolstered instead, while the ones deemed as heretics burn in the phantom heat before quite literally combusting should they linger in the effect for long enough.
-Witch Hunt: Marks a heretic for smiting, allowing Mirielle to sense their location and the flow of their corrupted (in her view) essence until the mark fades away. At will she may triggers the mark, burning the remaining divine energy (definitely not just a manifestation of magic tempered by unwavering will) in it to disrupt the victim's rhythm. The mark must first find a way to latch onto the target, whether by direct touch or through one of her other spells.
-Divine Armor: Temporarily clads Mirielle in an ethereal suit of armor. It weights nothing and does not impede her mobility in any way, while being near-impervious to both blades and spells alike. Does not last long at all, and is very exhaustive to use.
-Holy Lance: Honoring the legacy of Areston Lydus himself, Mirielle shape and launch a chunk of her divine energy into the alleged depiction of the winged spear the hero once used to strike down the empress most dread. The manifested spear flies true despite the spear lacking any aerodynamic shape whatsoever, homing onto a target to strike and scorch the heresy out of their body and soul. Tend to be very effective, but also equally exhaustive to use.

Mundane Skills: Prodigiously good with the spear. Experienced with sword and shield, as well as unarmed combat. Somehow able to clean out all but the most persistent bloodstain out of white fabric. Similarly, highly skilled in weapon maintenance. Pretty good at carpentry. Can perfectly recite entire scriptures out of memory. (Self-proclaimed) expert at sniffing out and dealing with heretical worships. Able to survive with bare minimum food and water for a really long time.

Equipment:
-Clad in the Order's battle uniform, multiple cloth padding with steel lamellar in the middle and a snazzy uniform at the outermost layer.
-Standard-issue heater shield with the Order's sun emblazoned at the center, with a plain arming sword to match.
-A carefully wrapped masterwork spear, allegedly a 1:1 replica of the hero's weapon. Except that it had went through many centuries of embellishment, but Mirielle doesn't listen to wrong opinions. Excruciating amount of embellishment aside (the whole entire scripture etched on every surface was as historically inaccurate as it was unnecessary), it's still a well-made and functional piece.
-A binding consisting of a carpenter's mallet, a handsaw, and a rather excessive amount of large nails.
-Big backpack containing daily necessities such as preserved rations, change of clothes, cleaning supplies, etc.

Other:
-The divine is flawless, but people aren't. Mirielle doesn't hold a favorable opinion on most of the Order, seeing them as deluded fools too busy playing politics instead of getting things done.
-If it's not yet apparent enough, her worldview is a bit too simplistic for someone her age.
-Carries the vague scent of cleaning chemicals.
-Got a bit of racism issue. Or should it be called theicism?

Into the Land of Twilight

Back at the camp, Engelbert laid down the wounded porter by the fire before tossing a few pieces of wood in to ensure the blaze lasted longer. That done, and alongside the rising sun, he could more easily assert the wounded man... though it didn't really stray much further than the initial impression. Still bluish and pale and kinda stiff, with no blood coming out of the ripped limb. Even with the haphazard tourniquet it shouldn't stem blood from that kind of wound so quickly, and if not for a quick check for the lifeforce he would've written the man off as dead. But the amount of vitality coursing in the frail body was quite a bit higher than the physical appearance would suggest, so it's probably the spider poison doing the thing.

"I'm afraid it's up to our healer if we could find antidote for you, my friend." He said, disregarding whether the man can hear him or not. "I'm no medic, so this is as much as I can do. I must go attend to the others, but fear not. No monster will reach you here."

Rising to his full height, the knight glanced at the bits of crusted gore on the surface of his armor. His sight moved over to the rest of the camp as he hopped in place with the subtlety of a sack full of pots and pans falling down a flight of stairs, the automatic maintenance enchantment rejecting the dirty residue so severely it only take a small shake to get rid of them. Rest after such long adventure was in order. Rest entailed food and sleep... he happen to be good at covering for both.

"I'll keep watch, lady Carnatia. Everyone can take a one-person rotation to ensure full coverage." Bravado or not, Engelbert's voice sounded just as fresh as the day he first met the party. Whether that's true or not was up to each person's interpretation, of course. "In the meantime..."

Jogging to the supply cart, which was almost miraculously unscuffed through the night, he went through the supplies with one thought in mind - something sufficiently quick so that the party can get some snooze as soon as possible. Tossing he found his way back to the fire and began his preparations.

Bunch of hardtack, crushed and mixed with water to create some chunky batter. Some lard onto a pan, then ladle generously to fry the batter. Flip once, continue to cook, then crumble some cheese on top and lay a slice of salted ham and pickles before folding the makeshift pancake. That done, take out and start piling it onto the plates.

He'd repeat this as many times as necessary.

Into the Land of Twilight

A pair of ghostly glow lit up as they approached the spider's lair, telltale sign of Engelbert's scan on the immediate area. There's nothing with more than two legs in the immediate vicinity, or at least none that's larger than a regular bug. Not even any critter abound, but suppose the owner of the cave had spooked or eaten away all the larger animals... if there's any in the first place.

The coccoons were cut open, and the taken caravan hands rescued. They're afflicted by some sort of poison, the knight vaguely recalled how spiders tend to keep their prey fresh for longer period. The question was, did the poison ended up killing the victims? He couldn't remember that part.

Shrugging, Engelbert unclasped his cloak and took another look at it. It's dirty in the way that getting dragged across untamed woods would do to a fabric, though the make was sturdy enough not to rip at errant branches. The bottom end were singed and burnt at places thanks to the golem from earlier, and though he was spared the worst of the spider-guts spray there's still enough of the sludgy ooze stuck that it'll probably smell horrible in a few hours.

"A bit more stain wouldn't make any difference at this point." He laid the cloak on the ground before carfully lifting and placing the wounded porter in the center, before rummaging to relieve the man's belt and tying it into a tight tourniquet around the limb. Then the man was wrapped like an oversized luggage, the spider silk sticking to the cloak securely enough that there's no chance of slipping off.

"There's no head injury, this should be fine." He tried to reassure the rest of the party as he lifted the latest "baggage" by the cloak, the wounded porter barely swaying in the iron grip. On his other hand he casually grabbed the last porter, carrying him over the shoulder with ease. "Lead the way, sir Vesemir."

Into the Land of Twilight

"That one definitely didn't mind munching its prey." Engelbert reminded, not-so-subtly gesturing the severed leg nearby. "Who knows what else is different to regular spiders? If we are moving, we should not accept assumption as facts." The blue glow slowly faded out of the knight's helmet, leaving it as dark as it usually were. He's... withholding his opinion at the moment. Rescue attempt was good and all, but when survival prospect was slim and the party was exhausted they'd go well past valor and into the realm of stupidity. Not to mention that finding the creature's lair wasn't exactly easy in this woods. None of them were expert tracker.

Leaving the decision making to Vesemir, Engelbert turned his attention to something he could more reasonably deal with. Armored gauntlets reached for his belt, pawing the leather slots before taking out a slightly dented silver flask barely larger than a finger.

"You did well, lady Roxas. I have just the thing to tilt the odds in his favor." One could almost imagine the amiable smile from his tone as he strolled back to the camp and administered the potion into Dimitri's wound. There's some slightly disturbing squelching noise as well as the caravan hand's pained grunt as the knight-errant made his way back, carefully storing back the now empty flask in its slot. "He should live, though he'd be famished when he wakes up. Small blessing that he's unconscious, it's not a pleasant experience. Moving on - I have five more of the potions if necessary, but I hope we can reserve it for emergency only."

Into the Land of Twilight

Thankfully the conundrum of pursue wasn't one that needed a decision just yet. Through the gaping yawn in the treeline that was the wake of the arachne's passing came two figures, ghastly blue glows from within Engelbert's helmet painting Rezello's mask in an eerie afterglow in their purposeful trudge through toppled trunks and overturned stumps. The former raised a hand as he walked within the sphere of Vesemir's lantern, waving a jagged and twisted object the length of a man's leg that soon enough was revealed to be one of the beast's slavering mandible.

"The beast is slain." He proclaimed with undisguised grim satisfaction, dropping the macabre trophy for everyone to see. It's a shelled segment covered in thick, bristling hair, with a single hook-shaped fang extending from the tip. Perhaps an enterprising sort can finagle a weapon or a decoration out of the whole thing, but for now it's a representation of vengeful justice dealt in the name of the arachne's countless victims over the ages. "No sign of the people nearby though."

Well, no sign save for a single severed leg that was discarded in haste when Carnatia stabbed the beast. As for where the rest of the person was... well, considering the state of the spider's abdomen, it's probably scattered all over the immediate area. And speaking of that-

"...I've got to say, you all could use a shower or three."