Open None to point

She stopped when the boy ran up. Stared down at him, one brow twitching in surprise. "Miss?" He said thank you. But before she could say anything back, the mother came barking, ripping him away like Etain was carrying the plague. She had taken a blade to her palm, an arrow to her leg, half a house to her shoulder... and hadn’t complained.

But this?
This fucking stung.

“Right..” she muttered hoarsely, to no one.
Better a monster that pulled children out of fire than a saint who watched them burn.

The field was scorched and the wheat trampled, blackened by hooves and fire. Crows had come down already, hopping between corpses like little kings. She spotted the horse from the ridge of churned earth. Standing alone in the field, foam dried at the mouth. Flanks streaked with ash and blood. One of its legs trembled, and a crude arrow jutted from its shoulder. Etain limped across the mushy ground, one hand pressed to her leg where the arrowhead gnawed. The horse turned when she approached, nostrils wide. Another arrow near the base of his neck, feathers slick with soot. Shallow shots, mercifully.

The knight gripped the first shaft close to the wound, yanked it free with a wet snap. The horse flinched, but didn’t bolt. “Still standing, good girl” she muttered. The horse whickered low and nudged her chest, a little too hard. Etain pulled the other arrow out as easy. The horse snorted and danced a step sideways, but didn’t kick. She tossed the bloodied arrows to the dirt.

Etain hissed through her teeth as she knelt in the dirt beside her horse. She pulled her dagger. With one hand, she pressed in tight around the broken arrowshaft, fingers shaking. The other worked the blade in short, brutal motions, slicing the skin around the entry. Not enough to flay, just enough to widen. Enough so the barbs wouldn’t tear through the muscle on the way out. Blood ran fast, thick, red, hot. It poured out in warm rivers.

She jammed two fingers in, pried the edges wide like a butcher gutting game. Her breath hitched, then caught, then stopped entirely as she gripped the shaft and pulled. It didn't come out clean. Barbs, the fucker had barbs. It tore. Each barb shredded its way loose, tugging nerves and meat with it. “Shit,” she panted, chest rising and falling like bellows. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The knight dropped the arrow, slick and red, into the grass and nearly followed it.

„Told ya I was gonna be a squire.“ Jessop's voice was full of dreams, keeping the trail from going quiet.
„Is that what we are Ma'am?“ Winry asked, more reserved.

What they both were was distracting. But beyond the background noise, Edwynna could see the trail, easy and obvious. The mud didn't care for secrets, and the Captain hadn't bothered. His prints dragged. Uneven.

Up ahead, a snapped branch. A boot scuff, low and heavy.

Fresh. He was slow.

„Careful.“ One of them said over Edwynna's shoulder. „Rabbits bite when cornered.“



Hector could no longer hear the whispers. He saw them instead – the stiff in the shoulders when he drew near, and the backs that turned before he got too close. When he spoke, no one answered. Except for Andy, bless him. The boy still radiated the same hope, loyal and nervous.

„He didn't mean nothin' by it.“ He didn't address anyone, but he made sure he talked enough for everyone to hear. „Skykiller is just a name. Doesn't mean he'd...you know... skykill us.“ A pause and a nod. Voice growing more certain. Eyes down the man in the mud. „Sides, he helped you, John. Real gentle with your wounded...ass“ He grinned at his own joke, just enough to check if anyone would call him out. No one did.

Tension cracked like an egg, but emotions stayed scrambled.



Etain was crouched by her horse still, blood drying at the wrists. The ripped arrow laid in the dirt, tossed. She tilted the world in rising. She overpowered it for the moment, but one side felt heavier.

She didn't notice the woman approach until the shadow passed over her.

It was one of the dozen familiar faces from before. Perhaps the one with the fire poker. She cradled a baby to her chest one handed. The little one cooed like a bird, hand tucked under chin

„You alright?“ the woman asked, voice barely above a whisper. No fear or flinch. Just a tone low enough to sleep through.

„I remember when they said the dragon of Sumu would come again.“ A faint smile. „Didn't think she'd ride a horse and swear like a soldier. But you came. You saved us. That other boy...he's mine.“

The mother reached out, shy of touch, making sure her hand was open and visible. „Thank you.“

„You need help getting to Skykiller? I hear he can help heal your wounds.“ The hand was still offered. The woman wasn't sure she could actually pull the knight along, but she could damn well try.

For the first time since the smoke had lifted, someone over the age of eight looked at Etain with eyes that didn't ask who she was – only who she'd saved.

Etain sat crouched, one arm braced against her thigh, the other still red from the knife work. The big horse huffed beside her, letting the knight know they would soon have company.

Her gaze flicked to the baby first, then the woman’s face. Wary, searching, like she wasn’t sure the moment was real. She didn’t take the hand.

“You’ve got little ones. Don’t waste time on me.”

She got one foot under her. Then the other.

She stood.
Shaking, sweating, her leg screamed — but she stood.

Etain braced her hand on the saddle. Pain flaired up from the arrow wound, hot enough to blur her vision. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ground together.

“I am no dragon” she muttered. “I did what had to be done. That’s all.”

She’d slumped against the mare’s flank, one hand gripping the saddle strap like a lifeline. The other fumbled with her knife again. Not for defense, but for the caparison. She sawed through the fabric in sharp jerks.

Skykiller could heal the pigs for all Etain cared. She got her strip.

“Skykiller’s done enough.” she muttered, tying it around her thigh over the wound. The pressure she tied it with made her vision flash white with pain. The knot was tight. She was not going to the godsdamned village of Sumu.

She tried to walk.

And failed.

Her good leg trembled under her. The bad one buckled. She hit the dirt on one knee, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Fuck.”

A pause. Another breath. She shoved herself upright. The bandage around her thigh was already going dark. She didn’t whimper. Just spat into the grass and leaned heavy against the horse, the beast turning its head to nudge her side.

"Not if ye keep running your gums, yer not," Edwynna cut, a finger raised for hush. A smirk curled there as the hand fell, and they went on through the mud. Eyes on the clear prints about where she had seen the slinker.

To the youths credit, they had both grown quiet. Awkward as their grip on the sword and hammer were. They seemed ready enough.

Seeing your home burn did that to you. Made you ready for most anything that came after. Cold as that was.

A click of teeth, smile like the curve of a good knife. "Good wits on you, Winry," she kept her bow out, bent low to look better through the rushes and reeds. A moment to gather what could be. Saw something moving there, through the leaves. Heard it next with the twitch of her long ears. Grinned sharp and plucked an arrow from quiver. Eased it. Sighted it.

Hamstring or hair, either wouldn't be bad. Knocked, pulled, loosed.

A yelp of pain. A splat in the wetness ahead. Groans and agonies spat and cursed.

Edwynna smirked. Looked to the two, quick. Waved them down. "You lot stay in my wake," she pointed to a distance at each side of her. Moved into the rushes. Happened upon the slinker, stripped down and hamstrung. "Well," she looked about. Kicked a boot over the goon, came to squat with a happy growl and a knife in her hand, now at his throat. Slinker smelled of ash and piss. "You seem in need of a healer," she grinned.

---

Come the scramble, and Hector worked in silence. Let them whisper. he thought. Cinched the bandage over the burns of a young farmhand's palms. Hector's hands careful and sure as the cloth came taught. "You'll need to rest them for at least a week." he set the boy's hand down. "Once the skin comes new, go to work slowly," he showed his own digits. Flexed his fingers out, and curled them in, with slow pulses. "Should this hurt sharply, then it may need more time," he explained. "But don't let them idle for too long, else the skin comes back stiff,"

The younger man stared wide eyed at his mitts. Fat with the wrap cloth, and strange with the scent of the blooded ointment.

Hector's face felt taught. Brow hard, lips stiff. He huffed. "You should be alright, so long as you rest them, and keep them clean," He turned, and pulled a small bundle from his pack. "Soap, and a good cotton cloth," he explained, and set them forward unto the young man's lap.

The farmhand's little sister picked them up quick. Eyes wide and afraid. "Lets go, Joda," she whispered tight.

Joda looked down to her, nod. And they shuffled off.

Andy smiled his big dumb smile at the two. Waved a noodly arm at them.

Hector's brow quirked. Lip almost curled up. Blessed by Sitha this one.

A twitch of ear. Someone new at the door.

"She's just marchin away, horse and all."

"Thank the Eight. One less for all this madness."

"Near fallen over she is, Poholi just marched on out to her, lil one there with her,"

"She have a death wish?"

Hector turned, and rose up. "Mind the supplies, Andy," Hector cut, strode for his sword in its sheath. Snatched up and belted it as he made for the exit. Strides sure as he set out to find the knight and her horse.

Horse was the first one to hear him approach, ears flicking. Poholi was the next to notice. She shifted without thought. Not to reposition the baby, but herself. Behind the lady knight. A built in instinct. Because Skykiller was the one who smelled of ash. The one who burned things to help. And Andy could talk all he wanted – it didn't make it better.

Poholi's breath changed.

Perhaps they were monsters.

But these monsters had done what mother's prayed for.



Mud sucked at the boots, greedy. The trees made for poor cover, but the hush had been enough. The Captain lay half curled, half crusted. Hamstring bloody, arms loose at the back.

He didn't look at them when they stepped through. No struggle or flinch.

„Tapan's tits“ caught in his throat. Sharp and useless. His eyes were dry, already somewhere else.

„Go on, then.“ Like it didn't matter anymore. Like dying was just another thing to get done today. Like everything after Lemm was destined.

And that's when Edwynna heard it – a movement to her right.

Winry had dropped all attempts at stealth. And he moved towards the bandit, hammer in hand. Eyes locked onto the wounded man, like he already knew his future.

„No one's gonna know, Ma'am.“

Even the wind stopped. Found somewhere else to blow.

But not Winry.

One hand braced against the beast’s flank. Her breath came sharp. The sweat down her back had gone cold. The bandage around her leg was soaked and sticking. The wound pulsed with every step a hot throb deep in the muscle. She ignored it. Not well, not gracefully, but enough to move. Away from the smoldering remains of Sumu. Away from the gawking villagers. Away from the mother and her talk of dragons.

Dragon. Fucking dragon.

The knightess limped. Blood leaked in sluggish trails down her greave. One boot dragged just a little. Her weight favored the right, onto the unhurt leg. The mare followed slow behind, flank nicked and dusted in ash. They were a sorry pair, but moving. Etain’s mouth twitched when the woman shifted, moving behind her. It took a little restraint not to tell the woman to move the fuck away. Etain turned her head just enough to glance back over her shoulder, her shoulders tensed beneath the sweat-dark gambeson.

She saw him.
Skykiller.
The mage who had pulled flame from the gods’ arse and flung it down like judgment.
His silhouette was a smear against the smoke, ashen and dark. Etain’s gaze locked on him. Her free hand twitched, fingers curling around the hilt of her sword like a trap snapping shut.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Hector did not flinch away from the knight. Feet come to stop, outside of sword's reach, trail of his marched steps wedged in the mud behind him. Along with all the other mess that was Sumu. His eyes fixed unto hers. Whether he saw the blade held tight in her hand or not, who was to say.

"You are in no condition to make travel," his eyes shot across her, down to the wound at her leg, and the way she slant and leaned off balance. "Its a bloody miracle you are still standing, as you are," his eyes looked back up at hers, as he showed both palms open and low as he shook his head.

No armor, sword sheathed.

"If bandits don't get you, maybe an infection will," he took a step forward. Slow, cautious. "Stay, and I can tend to the wound, clean and bandage it up properly," he took her eyes off her a moment. Spied the warhorse. Then to the mother and her child. Poholi, who coward closer to the Lord Sworn. He stepped onward. Well within a lunge if she wanted to take his head. He was close enough he saw the blear in her eyes. The wobble of how she stood. The destrier tromped its feet. Blustered its warning with hot breath.

Maybe her legs failed. Maybe the adrenaline had worn out. but there was a shift in the weight. Or maybe just a shift in him. He moved quick, put his weight there under hers with a practiced efficiency, and hoisted up with his own strained grunt. He had strength left to carry her back.

If the horse didn't bite off his head first.

---

Edwynna's eyes cut to the youth. "If you want to keep your fingers, Winry, you don't take another god's damned step," words as sharp as arrowheads. The fingers about her knife's hilt flexed, and the whole of her wound and coiled in that way of wild-cats. Shifting weight for all the better to pounce, and dig in with claw. A knee pressed down hard on the slinker's chest, whilst the other foot aimed its toes toward Winry and their hammer.

Knife's blade pressed soft against man's collarbone, point kissed the jugular.

"We need him alive, so he might answer questions," her eyes shift down to the slinker. "And you'll do just that, won't you slinker? Less I let Winry here get to work on you with that hammer," she grinned. Bright malice there in the darkness of her eyes.

He raised his hands, palms open, fingers spread. Like that meant something. Like it made him safe. A gesture meant to signal peace. Steel was honest. You saw the glint of it coming, felt the weight of the threat in the air. But a shroudweaver didn’t need a blade, they did not need a weapon when the weapon was them. One blink, and half a field of screaming bastards was ash. Etain had seen fire leap from empty fingers before. So no, she didn’t give a fuck about his open hands.

The horse beside her snorted, half-stepped back, the whites of its eyes flashing as Hector neared.

“Don’t...!” she began to protest as Hector moved in. Some of her auburn hair had slipped its bindings, stuck in strands across her soot-streaked face and neck. Sweat ran in small rivers down her temple, carving pale lines through the grime. The stink of her was thick with battle: smoke, scorched fabric, old oil, and steel. Her breath was rough beside Hector, rasping from lungs lined with soot. Her mouth parted like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Etain let out a grunt as the Skykiller steadied her, jaw tightening from the insult of needing help. She didn’t need help!

Except she did.

Her grip eased off the sword. A long, burning exhale through her nose. She watched him with a glare that could have stripped bark from a tree. Pride howled inside her, but her body, the same one that had torn an arrowhead out of its own flesh, drawn smoke through breaths, rammed a door and shoved her hand into a man’s blade to spare a boy’s throat. That body was done arguing. It wanted out. Out of the pain. One arm slung heavy across his shoulder. She let Hector take some of her weight as she took a staggering step, as her foot slid in the mud.

The walk back to Sumu was slow, every felt like step a punishment. She walked like a wounded ox, her boot dragged more than it stepped. Every step like a mile and a lesson in pain. And the whole time, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. His steps were steady. The Skykiller bastard knew what he was doing.

Why in all hells was he helping her?

Just moments ago, she’d been ready to rip out his tongue for setting the village alight. Now this one, this spark-flinger was carrying her back to a village that glared daggers through every shutter. How solid he felt, but he could be dragging her back to let the mob finish what they were too scared to start. Fear had a short memory. Or maybe he wanted to feel like some kind of hero.

"Better not be a damn welcome party..." The villagers parted for them, barely.

"Wish I could tell you otherwise," Hector replied as they trudged through the square. Something like amusement there on his voice. Commiseration.

Shroudlash, wore you down in different ways. Mind frayed, with a feeling of unreality. Like he could catch fire at any moment. Become a distant star, far from the mortal weight and trudge. And maybe one day he would. But her weight pulled on him. Helped him stay grounded. Take care of her. Take care of the villagers. Busy meant you didn't have to think. Busy gave you time to figure out some way to atone.

It did not matter if the villagers still looked at them with disgust in their eyes. Distrust was plain as the lines that wrinkled their faces. The twist of brows, and the grim press of lips. Hard looks away as people gathered the dead. Worked at piecing things back together. Kept busy.

But it all stank.

He stank. She stank. The dead and the burned stank. Battle always stank. Shit. Piss. Blood. Flesh burning. All despoiled the world around it in a vile parade. And there he was. A fool lighting fireworks that happily ate a soul entire, and always asked for more.

The thought twist through his stomach as he came to stop at the door of old Murta's, and kicked it open with the bottom of his boot. Andy and a few of the others still resting inside, snapped their attention to the entrance. "Andy, grab up the kit," he worked her over to a clear spot on the floor, where good woolen blankets had been laid down.

Andy hurried fast to snatch up the things as Hector eased the lady knight unto the floor. "Alright, now, try and stay awake," his eyes flit to the dark rivers that streamed down her leg. The way the bandage dipped into the wound. A click of his teeth. "Nasty work,"

The kit came by, and Hector stripped off what armor still encased the knight, careful as he worked. Sliced up the trouser leg above the wound, "And if you are going to curse my name," grabbed leather strap and tied on a tourniquet high above the knee. Cinched it tight against her thigh. "It's Hector," grabbed up the water skin as Andy lathered up soap in a bowl. Hector looked her over. "Here," spilled fresh water over the rag, wiped down her brow, moved dark tresses up and back from where they stuck to her skin. Cleaned smoke grime off about her neck. Set the rag aside, and took hold of the water skin with both hands. Offered the mouth of the water skin to her lip. "Drink before the next bit," he warned her.

He would clean and stitch the wound next.

She didn’t like being laid down or being out of her armor and out of reach of her blade.

Etain flinched as the blade sliced clean through the fabric of her trousers. Her hand shot down on instinct. “Oi! Hey..!” She tried to sit up. Too late! The cloth was peeled back like old bark, and the wound glistened in the firelight. All muscle and ruin, a jagged canyon carved into her thigh, a hand above the knee. The wound glistened wet and red, blood that had pooled and clotted where it could. Rivulets of blood seeped and had been seeping down her leg, winding past the bruises blooming across her shins and knees.

Her thigh was muscular, the leg of someone who’d worn greaves since she was a girl. The leather strap dug into her skin, and her thigh bulged faintly beneath it. The blood slowed, and the wound just wept slowly. A flash of pain answered, lightning up her leg. Her fingers curled in the blanket beneath her, digging in as the pressure mounted.

Then came the water. Cold at first, a shock, sharp as steel to the skin. A hiss escaped through her teeth before she could stop it. While Hector wiped a fresh rag with water and leaned in, her eyes tracked every movement like it was blade. The cloth dragged over her brow in slow strokes, scraping dried blood, soot, and whatever filth clung to her. Then the cloth found her throat. Reluctantly, she shivered and her skin prickled. "I am Etain d'Aramond."

The wet rag passed slow over the side of her neck, drawing a line through the grime there. She felt the warmth of breath on her skin, or maybe she imagined it? He wiped at the hollow where her collarbone met the base of her neck. The touch wasn’t crude ... it was worse. Careful. Like she was something fragile.

Etain tensed. Her jaw locked. She’d rather be kicked in the ribs by her warhorse.

Her eyes followed the motion of his hands as Hector began to prep the stitching kit. Her hand snapped out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength for someone who looked ready to pass out. “No.” Her voice was raw, the same grit that had carried her through battlefields with worse than this festering in her limbs. “That won’t hold.” she said, nodding toward the wound. “It’s too deep. You stitch that and it’ll rot from the inside.” She drew in a breath through her nose and forced it out, steady. “You need to burn it... Skykiller."

A grip like a vice clamped down on Hector's wrist. His eyes flit to see pale skin press hard into deep bronze.

Etain's fingers squeezed enough to hurt. Enough to rattle the tools in their tray, and spill some of the lathered water there against the tended works of steel. Long clean hooks, gut wires, forceps, a bright surgeon's knife.

Hector's eyes worked up the sweat damp sleeve, and set unto the hard eyes that bore into him. Brown as soft earth beneath the cold glass that shielded them. Glazed with all the fire and death they had seen.

Today. Some yesterday before the morning's fire. All the screams and smoke.

You need to burn it... Skykiller...

He huffed out a hot breath. His brow gathering and his lip set hard.

His wrist did not give. His hands stayed sure against hers.

"Etain D'Aramond," he said the name with a voice full of calm certainty. His brown eyes unfaltering. Every bit as stubborn and proud as those that stared back up at him. "If I need help, I will ask for it," he gave his wrist a roll, his arm a shift, and slipped out of that bear trap she had held him. Set the tray down, away from her reach, "If you cannot be still while I work, however, I will bind you," his head keeled toward Andy. He nod toward the pack.

The boy looked there, wide eyed and unsure. Back to Hector.

"The ropes, Andy," Hector voiced.

Andy nod twice and fucked off to get the ropes in a hurry.

Hector's eyes fell back to the Maid of Toulonne. "Now," Fingers took up the forceps. Tested their action with a click click. "Let me work,"

Carefully, he set to pick ruined fibers of cloth and grit from the area about the jagged and torn mess. Stray bits that had gotten into the gash, others that were starting to crust onto her skin. The blood, constant in its spill. Required gentle attentions to clean, and continue the work. Water turned red, and even with the scent of lavender and pine mixed into the suds of the water, the tang of copper and iron blinded the nose to much else.

Andy came back with the ropes. Set them down without a word. Eyes huge on the red mouth that Hector patted dry. He looked to Etain. "Easy," he said, picking up hooks and setting the gut into them. "If you tense up, it will only make it worse," set the hooks down. He reached back and grabbed a bit of the rope. "Bite down on this," he set it to her mouth. Little room for question. "Could help," he almost laughed.

Would save me from hearing Skykiller again. he thought as he fixed it proper against her teeth, a little more care in the adjustment. Picked up the hooks and gut, and... got to sewing best he could.

Stitching a wound that deep was risky. Etain knew it. If it festered now, they’d just have to open her back up and carve the rot out. Or worse, the leg would go black and come off altogether. Etain had seen it happen. Heard the screams. Smelt the decay of flesh.

He was talking about ropes, like she was about to foam from her mouth like some rabid animal. "Bind me." Her voice dry as a forge trench. "And I will kick you so hard your spine'll whistle when you breathe." Gods, if she had the strength, she would drive a boot into his chest and plant him to the wall.

She didn’t stop him again. Not this time. Her gaze pinned him. Her fingers flexed open and closed. One hand balled into a fist, nails biting into the meat of her palm. She glanced once at the forceps in his hand. Then the hooks. Then his face. Fine. Let him try his stitches. If it opened later, she’d bleed out on the road or cauterize it herself with a hot blade.

The torn mess above her knee pulsed with a fresh surge of blood, soaking through the makeshift cloth tourniquet that already looked three days old.

He held the rope out to her mouth. "Bite down on this." She heard the flicker of something that might have been humor. "Could help." Etain turned her head like a stubborn child refusing a spoonful of something green and slimy. Chin tilted away, jaw tight, lips pressed together in flat refusal. She was not cracking her godsdamn teeth for his peace of mind.

"Just fucking do it.” she muttered. Etain had been stabbed, burned, broken. Once walked three leagues with an arrow in her gut and didn’t drop until she saw the walls.

No fucking way she was biting rope now.

Steel passed through her flesh in slow, patient tugs. She grunted. That was all. One tightly strangled exhale from her nose. Sweat dripped down her jaw. Each pull of the gut-thread flared the pain, each tie lit her nerves up like a forge fire. Her thigh muscle spasmed when he sew it, the nerves screamed. All muscle reflexes, nothing more. Then her body gave out. She sank back into the bed with a soft grunt, limbs loose. She just breathed. Hard and fast. Trying to will her body to be still.

She focused on the beams above, on the low rafter from which a rusted horseshoe hung.

Lucky charm.

Useless thing.

She couldn’t count stitches. Her mind tried, stupidly, one, two, fuck you, three, godsdammit! The loss of blood had settled over adrenaline now. A slow, drowning fatigue, she felt her own body betray her and she hated it. Hated the thought of slipping under, hated the way the world tilted sideways every few breaths.

She floated.

That’s what it felt like, like something had untethered her bones from her body. Heat pulsed beneath her skin, deep in the muscle where the gut-string pulled her back together.

Pain anchored her to the bed.

It came in waves, each one sharp and mean, yanking her awake just as her mind began to slip sideways. Her skin was crawling. Too hot and too cold in turns. The sting of thread through flesh, the clamp of forceps digging, the salt-bitter slide of sweat down her temple, they pulled her back. Over and over. Just when the black edges crept close enough to offer mercy, something jolted her again. A nerve. A twitch. Her body jerking.

"You aren't falling asleep are you, Syr Dragon?"

A half-drag of air.
Then, cold water. It kissed her skin like a slap. She flinched, barely, and a violent shiver ran down her spine. “Oh Shi-!”

His fingers found the hollow beneath her jaw, measuring the beat that stuttered there. “You got your stitches in,” Her hand moved, sluggish, but she still managed to lift it. Found the edge of his shoulder. Gave a push, more symbolic than forceful. “Call it a day, Skykiller.”
That name. Toulonne.
Everything in her chest tightened. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers.

No gate. No banner. Just a broken tower and smoke so thick she couldn’t see her hands. She'd been just sixteen. She’d dug her sword into corpses just to stop the next wave from climbing over them. Her ears rang for days after, the sound of men dying, horses shrieking, wood breaking. There were bodies underfoot, too many to count. The reinforcements almost trampled her when they finally arrived. They found her covered in black mud, face blank, standing in a pool of her own piss with a broken spear in her hand.

“Held it just long enough.”
Toulonne.
That name was like Gravewater Taint. Poisoned everything.