It doesn’t even flinch when the spear strikes in. That monster but slips into the dark with nary a ripple. Just a parting twitch of the tall grasses, and then — nothing. There’s no way a creature like that could keep going without those blades betraying its movement, but Osytha knows they’ll find nothing there. It’s gone.

She kneels by poor Lutz. Fingers find the marks through blood-soaked hair on his neck, eyes note the ugly pallor of his dead flesh where his skin shows. He hadn’t even been given the chance to raise the alarm. For it to get so close without him noticing… and its shape before the wolf, that had been something human. But no living person moves the way it did towards Faramund.

Faramund — he’s stalking back toward the camp, after being reined in by Syr Evelyn’s level head. Osytha bounces to a stand and begins to follow, with a familiar dark shape back by her feet. All anxious whimper and worried squirm. Even against a monster like that, little Guffy hadn’t fled from her side.

What could she have possibly done to deserve such loyalty?

“You okay, kid?”​

Osytha lifts her gaze up to her dawnling. “Aye, fine ’ere, but—” spots the nasty slick down his arm, “—shit. Let’s get that cleaned up an’ bandaged.”

Goodness knows where Sveta has ended up, but the Knights keep well stocked with their own first-aid supplies. And Osytha would like to be thorough. Bites and scratches from mundane beasts can be horrendous enough; those from Blighted aberrations may fester all the worse. But no dusker is without their tools against such things, and there’s a vial or two of potent somethings with Faramund’s name on them in her kit.

“Esota’s wranglin’ us run-aways, but there was such a panic,” Osytha says, filling him in as they stride back to camp proper. “We ought to do a headcount, see who might yet be aht there.”

To think of Nan, or Everd, or Tonja and Martin, any of them wandering the night with that thing on the loose… she recalls those incisions on Lutz’ exsanguinated neck, and everything she saw of their maker besides. A name comes to mind, as much as she doesn’t want it to.

“That was a strigoaică,” Osytha says, horrified.

Striccan. Strigòi mort. The geswicen; forsaken dead. Something much, much more than the simple again-walkers which most corpses are destined to become. She’s never faced one before, and from what she’s learned of them, had hoped for things to remain that way.

Well, that hope had proven futile, and now Lutz lies dead in the dirt. Sturdy aurochs-kin, strength hammered into him by year after year of a farmer’s ceaseless toils. The man could have snapped most assailants in half with his bare hands. Against the stricce, though, it looked like there had barely been a struggle. Overpowered before he knew it, and then…

… the stricce had charged at Faramund from within the perimeter. Had Lutz been its real prey? Or was the poor man just in the way?

“She’s here now.”

Osytha freezes in her tracks. Wide-eyed dread upon her face.

“Lilia!” she yells in alarm. Snaps around to the little tent where Akke and his granddaughter had settled down to sleep. “No. No no no—”

“Good night. Lilia.”

She runs.

“Sweet. Dreams.”
 
'Yes, it was.' Strigòi mort. Cursed One. The kind of creature parents warned their children of to keep them from straying too far into the Untold. There be monsters here, so behave! Nobody ever imagined there was any truth to the stories passed from one generation to the next; the tales were meant to protect them from wolves, wylder beasts and ne'er-do-wells.

No one expected a vampire to come knocking at their door nor did they reason it would let itself in.

The truth died hardest, though rarely did it perish alone. Lutz had a been a big man in life, but death had made him small. Faramund recognised his sacrifice, even though he knew the beastkin had never truly stood a chance.

Just one more body amongst the foundations, thought the dawnling, stoic in the face of his burgeoning regrets and Osytha's fears.

The name that left the dusker's lips drew Faramund back down to earth. Blood trickled to dapple the leg of his breeches. He barely felt the pain anymore. "Good night. Lilia." He took off after Osytha, drawing past her as, together, they ran headlong towards Akke's tent. "Sweet dreams."

'Akke! Lilia!'

Drawing back the flap, Faramund readied himself to face whatever lay within, envisioning dark wounds and pallid flesh, cold hands and glazed over eyes. Please please please don't be true. 'Akke? Lilia?' Slowly, the dawnling lowered himself to peer inside.

'Saer... Mund? Saer... Osytha?' A weak voice reached out to them from the tent's shadows followed by a rasping cough.

At first glance, Faramund thought Akke dying. The grandfather had his shaving razor gripped tightly in one hand whilst the other held fast to Lilia's where she laid curled up beside him, fast asleep. Odd. 'Didnae you hear the alarm?' The dawnling asked gently, studying the old man's liver-spotted face.

'A-aye, lad, I... we did,' the old man trembled as Faramund reached out to him, palm upturned.

'And no one came to help you?'

Akke shook his head, a small sob racking his shoulders as Faramund folded the razor away. 'What of Lilia, Akke? Did she wake up when the alarm was raised?' Glancing to Osytha, the dawnling nodded. Check her. 'I... I tried shakin' her awake,' the words came slow as molasses. 'She jus' won't budge. 'S like she's gone away somewhere, inside. An' there be marks on her neck, fang marks, like. Only, t'aint no blood,' he sniffed. 'I-I tried gettin' up... Tried t' lift her up, but I...'

Taking a knee inside the tent, Faramund held Akke close as he started to weep.

'She just wouldn't budge,' he said again, confusion giving way to despair. 'Gods, have mercy! I've failed her! Oh, my poor, brave Matylda! I failed ye again!'

Faramund looked to Osytha, meeting her gaze.

Please please please say it ain't so.

'Well?'
 
Osytha doesn’t want to look. And yet, the thought of leaving it to someone else is too cruel. She’s surprised at how steady her hands are, as she brings the back of one up close to Lilia’s face. Waits a moment, then, feels it. Just barely, but it’s there.

“She’s breathin’,” the dusker says, already shifting to slip her arms under the little shape, “but I needs to get a look at ’er in t’light. Akke, you an’ all. Coud’st tha give ’im a hand there, syr?”

Gods, she’s such a light little thing. Yet Akke hadn’t been able to budge her. He’s an old man, sure, but not weak. Or at least, he’s not been so frail as he seems right now. It’s probably too much to hope the poor fellow’s been spared the strigoaică’s cruelties, in some form or another.

Strigoaică… yes, Osytha is fairly confident theirs had been a woman in life, if it had tried at acting like Lilia’s mother. Or, perhaps it genuinely thinks the girl to be a daughter she once had? Anyway, she tucks that thought away for now. Could be it’s but pointless postulation. Or could be there’s something useful in it.

The tent flap makes Osytha shudder as its canvas touch runs down the back of her neck. She cradles Lilia up to her chest, carrying her over toward one of the fires. Lays the girl down beside it on an abandoned bedroll, then starts to stoke up the embers again. Kindling catches quick, over which go some thicker branches. That’ll do for now. Time to see what she expects to see.

They’re surprisingly innocuous, those marks, like the fangs had gone in almost tenderly. How is it she lives — more or less — when Lutz had not?

The answer, as best Osytha can guess, is simple enough. Strigòi prefer to feed from their chosen victim over several nights. Lutz had just been an obstacle, so the creature had only wanted him dead. Lilia is its actual prey, and their strigoaică wants to kill her.

And there’s nowt as says they have to make it quick, she thinks bitterly, stroking Lilia’s mousey hair. It’s about more than just the blood. The blood’s but a means to an end. What a strigòi really feeds off, is pain. The pain of a slow, inevitable death. Of watching it happen to someone you care about. The way they had to suffer, perchance. Or is it because the Blight twists all things beyond recognition, even love?

Did’st thou choose Lilia because she reminded thee of someone? Regardless, thou hast marked her now…

“She’s alive,” Osytha says, checking the other signs of it: colour, pulse, warmth, circulation. All of it weaker than it ought be. “But we mun get ’er to Astenvale by next sundown. T’strigoaică has begun feedin’ on her, and et will seek to do so again if’n et’s able to. We can protect Lilia at t’monastery, though. We can hide ’er. An’ even if et learns where she is, a strigoaică shall find naught wi’in those walls bar et’s eternal rest.”

Her little body must be running so cold compared to theirs. Who knows how much blood she’s actually lost? Again, though; it’s about more than just the blood. A strigòi’s mark is a curse.

“We might be able to keep ’er stable, but… t’strigoaică took summat vital from Lilia.” Osytha tucks the blanket up to the bairn’s chin, then looks at Akke. “Ah’m sorry. She may well only recover if we can kill t’thing what did this to ’er.”

And if they can’t… no. No, that’s too much to lay on Akke just yet.

She stands up and approaches the old fellow. Tries to get a good look at him by the growing firelight.

“Akke… dost tha remember owt before t’alarm went off? Even if et seemed but a bad dream.” Osytha can only speak the words so softly; there’s nothing which can truly spare him the pain of any of this. “I’m sorry — but I need to ax while et’s fresh. In case there’s summat we can use, there.”
 
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Setting Akke down beside the fire, Faramund withdrew to tend his wound as Osytha saw to the girl. The sleeve of his shirt clung stubbornly to his arm as he peeled back the bloodied cloth, and the dawnling winced. 'What... was it?' Akke asked as the knight rifled through his kit for needle, stitch and spirits to cleanse the cut with. Something that burned going in, or on.

'Pardon?'

'What was it,' Akke coughed, 'that hurt my Lilia?' And you, thought Faramund, weighing his words a moment, before deciding that honesty may well be the best policy after all. 'A Strigoaică,' he said, gritting his teeth as he cleansed the wound. 'In layman's terms, I s'pose one might consider it a-' he hissed, 'a vampire of sorts. Spirit-leech. Nasty bastard.' Had done a number on poor Lutz. A part of Faramund wondered if the beastkin hadn't gotten off lightly by comparison.

'Don't know the details yet. Good news is Lilia's going to be just fine,' the dawnling smiled reassuringly, as he went about sewing up the rent in his flesh. 'She's getting an express ticket t' Astenvale proper, where she'll be kept safe an'... stable.' Osytha had been fairly clear that the only way to ensure she survived was to see it made so.

Faramund wasn't sure his conscience would tolerate any other outcome.

Just one more body, the knight grimaced, needle pricking his skin where it opened into a bloody gash. Fortune's favour had kept the Strigoaică from nicking anything vital; no arteries or tendons or joints. Probably would've bled out by now had that been the case, Faramund huffed, stitching his wound with the patience and finesse of someone who had done it before.

'I understand,' Akke's voice was thick with feeling. 'I remember wakin' t' find me daughter standin' by the entrance. It was dark, dark as sin, but it was 'er. She was smilin' down at me, at us, like I used to when she was but a wee thing,' he swallowed, hesitated.

'Then I realised it couldn't be her, couldn't be my Matylda... because she's dead... because I saw 'er... I was there when-'

Looking away, Faramund held his silence as Akke's anguish was renewed. He had suffered much in life, aye, but there were some wounds even he hadn't been forced to endure. To lose one's child, he shook his head. It was a pain beyond imagining.

'Can you recall anything else? Did it say anything to you? To Lilia?'

'N-no,' the old man shook, blinking back tears. 'Wait, no, yes, it did say somethin'... though I didnae understand it.'
'Do you remember the words it used, how they sounded?'
'I do, or I... I think I do,' he grimaced, 'it all seemed so...'
'Surreal?'

A nod. 'Like not a day had passed since I saw 'er last,' he sniffed, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his nightwear. 'Anyways, the words... What were they?' Smoke-stung eyes fixated on the flames, the way they danced and shimmered.

Reaching into his saddlebags, Faramund retrieved a small, unassuming object wrapped in velvet, and a flask of crystal clear water taken from the Sanctum of Operations whilst they waited for Akke to remember the dreamscape he had very nearly succumbed to. Grabbing a wooden bowl to act as the vessel, the dawnling twisted the stopper loose.

'Would you do the honours?' He asked Osytha, passing the flask and bowl over, then unfolding the moonstone from its velvety confines. 'I need t' bandage the cut.'
 
Hands move careful yet determinedly, examining Akke much as they’d done with Lilia; taking temperatures, shifting the collar at his neck, and fingers to the thrum of his pulse. But there are no bite marks. No loss of colour. His pulse is strong — too strong, if anything. The old man’s heart hasn’t been able to quite come down yet.

Whatever the strigoaică did to him, it sounds like a nightmare. Not merely a bad dream, but in its original sense of sleep paralysis; just awake enough to make all the awful things you’re watching seem real. Only this time, they truly were.

But he’s unharmed in body, at least, and in no immediate danger. Neither of them are. Osytha looks over to Faramund now that’s established, her hand still supporting Akke’s wrist, but the dawnling is already halfway through stitching up his own arm.

“Then I realised it couldn’t be her, couldn’t be my Matylda… because she’s dead… because I saw ’er… I was there when—”​

Slowly, she turns back to face the old man. She hadn’t known that part. That Akke had seen it with his own eyes. For all that she herself has lost and witnessed, Osytha still cannot imagine what it must be like for the old man to carry such a thing.

And now this.

“… the words... what were they?”​

Oh, how his voice shakes. Too far. They’re pushing him too hard and too soon. Mind still all a fog with with all he saw, and all he imagined he saw. Trying to make sense of the impossible, yet, a part of him must also be fighting against it. Refusing to accept a tomorrow without his Lilia.

“Then I realised it couldn’t be her, couldn’t be my Matylda… because she’s dead… I was there when—”

“Tell us abaht ’er, then,” she says, taking up that hand in both of hers. Looks into his eyes as they reflect the little fire. “The Matylda who lived. What was she like?”

Akke blinks, slowly, and turns to face her. “My Matylda?” And there, he starts to look through Osytha, back down the decades. “She loved my songs,” he goes on. Soft and even. “Especially those of far-aff places. Aetochi, Suldaza, Arshakan. Funny, that… I’d just settled doon tae start a family, an’ here cam this wee thing wha couldnae wait tae up sticks an’ gae around the wurld.”

The frantic thump-thump beneath Osytha’s fingers starts to steady out, to calm down. First, Akke’s expression turns tender. And then, unexpectedly, something almost like a smile reaches his face.

“She tried tae run aff with the Wagons of Elum, once, when they were passin’ through. Six years auld, she was. Can ye imagine?”

She can. Osytha’s fairly certain she’d been that six year old herself, back in the day. It brings out a sheepish little grin of her own.

Akke looks down at his granddaughter. “It’s how she met Rémy, whan she was aulder.” The man slips his hand free and reaches out, still a little shakily, to stroke a crooked finger along Lilia’s hair. “He was a mariner. Matylda chartered passage tae Naya Vapna, an’ just… kept goin’ with him. She got her wish. Gone a lang, lang time, felt leik.”

Something clicks into place, watching him talk about Matylda this way. Akke’s expression now is the same as he wears when singing Lilia to sleep. Osytha reaches for her own packs, though her eyes stay on the old fellow. Meanwhile, from the edges of her vision slinks a small dark lump, who nuzzles worriedly around Faramund’s legs. Even Osytha can smell his blood on the air, and Guffy pads back and forth between him and the girl, whining and staring worriedly at them both with big, sad eyes.

“Then, ane day, they were back,” Akke continues, watching that dog fret to and fro. “Had wedded at sea, but once they kenned Lilia was oan the way, they thought it’d be guid for Matylda tae come back for a spell. Safer for her an’ the bairn.

“He’s gone as weel, now, puir lad. Storm claimed the ship. Toils, how that devastated her. But she kept goin’ strang. For her Lilia. When did she grow up sae much? Aw that time awa, an’ I missed it. But… she had her ain life tae live…”

Reverie trails off, and Akke is left staring down upon his granddaughter. Seeing… what? What else is there for him look for, beyond Lilia?

Osytha breaks her gaze away as Faramund approaches her. She looks up at him, then to the items proffered out to her. Recognises what they are, and feels their present reality press back down cold and hard.

“Would you do the honours? I need t’ bandage the cut.”​

“Oh — reight…” she takes the flask and vessel, setting them down beside her before she rummages through her pack. Osytha quickly pulls out a roll of gauze, plus a little jar carved from whitebeam, its contents a pale, waxy teal salve; one of those ‘somethings’ she’d feel better for dolloping over that nasty scratch of his. The dusker holds them both out for Faramund in one hand, while she takes up the velvet bundle in the other.

“The words,” Akke repeats, softly. “What was it she— it, said?”

“Home. She wanted to— to take Lilia home.”

As one, Akke and Osytha turn their heads to see the little shape of William there, his soft dark hair all skew-whiffed. Sveta stands right behind the child, hands resting gently but protectively down on his shoulders. Esota must have fobbed him off on the cunning woman before she went after those who’d fled.

“The Laverock lass is just returning,” announces Sveta, eyes flicking worriedly to Lilia’s wan little face, and Akke’s grief-carved one. “She got Jill and some others to help direct folks. They’re afraid one or two might still be out there, but Syrs Evelyn and Conroy said not to go any further after them…”

Osytha doesn’t miss the question implied at the end there. What, Sveta carefully avoids saying, the bloody hell is going on?

Before she can respond to that, however, Akke’s voice cuts through.

“Hame. Aye, she said she’d take Lilia hame leik she’d promised.” He frowns. “That didnae sound richt, though. Matylda was always sayin’ she’d take Lilia tae see the wurld, just as she had done.

“‘The pink hurt-sickle. I recall noo. She said she would ‘take Lilia hame when she returns in the summer, tae gather pink hurt-sickle together just leik they used tae’. But I don’t ken of any sic flower — naw in aw my travels, let alone oor village.” He turns to look at Faramund and Osytha. “That’s aw I can remember. I dinnae ken if that’s even any use tae ye—”

“It is.” Osytha doesn’t hesitate to say; doesn’t let a hint of question enter her voice. It’s a lead. It’s somewhere to start. “We can use that.”

Then, she looks down at the implements Faramund has handed her: bowl, flask, and moonstone.

“But first…”
 
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Trading off with Osytha, the dawnling went about putting himself back together, his focus divided between Akke's past and their present. The cut itself is of little consequence; too shallow to require packing, too sure to require a healer's aid. The salve, at least, serves some purpose. In the wylds, wounds fester, turn septic. It didn't matter how big or strong or mean you were.

In the end, death always had its way.

But not today, not for me. Lutz had paid the blood price on their behalf. Faramund hadn't known much about the beastkin prior to their journey. From whence he haled, or what he had been forced to leave behind. In truth, it was easier that way. The loss.

Someone somewhere would mourn him, miss him the way he deserved to be missed.

Looking down at his bandaged arm, Faramund drew the dressing taut before shedding the excess. 'I'll go round up our wayward flock,' he said, unable to look his companions in the eye. 'The creature won't be back tonight, though it pays to remain vigilant when facing the unknown.' Standing, the knight gathered up his weapons. 'Are you sure that's wise, syr?' Sveta watched him clench and unclench his hand. 'Don't you always stick together, like, in pairs?'

'Mostimes, yes,' replied Faramund, fastening his belt, 'but then I've never been a very good knight. Just ask Lutz.'

Bitterness seeped its way into the dawnling's voice, as anger gave way to self-hatred. Poisons the soul, thought Faramund, gaze alighting on Lilia's comatose form, like she's just another reminder of his myriad failings in life.

A smattering of footsteps bade the dawnling turn. Esota and a few of the other would-be braves, come to see where things stand.

'Won't be long,' says Faramund, departing before they can level any questions his way.
 
“Just ask Lutz.” It could be a bad joke the way it sounds, though, Osytha doesn’t believe he’s so tasteless as that. “… I’ve never been a very good knight.” But if the words aren’t jest, then, how else can he mean them but in earnest?

Osytha feels angry. She’s been angry at a growing number of things for some time; barons and their rampaging soldiers, this heatwave, strigòi, herself. And now, she’s angry at Faramund.

He slinks away before she can say anything about it. Off alone, to find any stragglers who’ve gone further afield. Does a part of Faramund hope something happens to him out there? Leaving Osytha here, meanwhile, to hold things together while Conroy and Evelyn continue their piquet. Well, that’s fine. What she means to say is better kept for the dawnling’s ears alone.

Her eyes linger on the man’s retreating back, until Esota and a few others draw close enough to demand her attention. She sees Jill, Everd, and Callum besides; four uncertain faces flickering in the weak firelight. Then Osytha spies even further afield, smaller, younger visages peering out around tents, behind mounds of packs, and from underneath carts. Curious bairns, wanting to know what’s going on, but afraid to intrude on Grown-Up Matters. Still — they’ll need to be told something, and soon.

She starts with their possible runaways. “How did’st tha go, Sotie?”

“We couldn’t find Heather,” Esota tells her. “Otto said he thought he saw her running back up the road? Tonja and Marten are missing, too. Also… Katie’s in a bad way. After what I did today, and now this—”

“Alright.” Osytha frowns up at the stars, before settling her gaze back on Esota. Gives her a nod. “Tha did’st well. Everd, go catch Syr Faramund an’ relay all that abaht Heather.”

“But Tonja and Marten—”

“—is hopin’ nobody finds ’em together in yon rations wagon,” Osytha declares, raising her voice loud enough that it carries to the conveyance in question. “We’ll jus’ give ’em a chance to put their kegs back on,” she continues, speaking over the backdrop of guilty rustling from within its awninged confines, “but you all did well. If tha wold’st, Everd. Now, Jill — please go check on our Katie again. She quite appreciates thy company, et seems like. An’ Callum, canst tha tek that blanket over yonder an’ cover up poor Lutz?”

Jill gets going without a second’s delay. Willowy Everd has a little more difficulty tearing himself away; his anxious gaze sweeps around as the boy takes a couple of steps backward, then spins on his heels and jogs after Faramund. Callum, though, can’t even move at first. His pale eyes stare off at that not-so-distant, slumped figure away in the gloom.

“He.. Lutz is…?” Callum blinks, and seems to rally some. “Someone needs to stay with him,” he states, then finally looks down at the discarded blanket. He stoops to pick it up. “Until it’s time to light the pyre. Someone needs to keep vigil.”

“Aye, lad,” Sveta agrees, speaking gently. She steps closer to the fire, parking William by its warmth while she kneels next to the old man and rests a work-worn hand on his shoulder. “He’d be grateful for that.”

So it goes. There must be a night-wake for Lutz; someone to sit beside the body while the soul moves on. Someone to keep them company through the dark. For who could be lonelier than the dead?

“Jus’ for a short spell while I sort things ’ere,” Osytha tells the lad. “Then I can tek ower from thee.”

Callum nods. As he slowly walks off toward the corpse, Sveta performs her own assessment on Lilia. Osytha doubts the wise woman might be able to do much against a strigói’s curse, but she’ll be grateful to be proven wrong. The young knight wipes a hand down her weary face, like it’ll dislodge the tiredness. When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself looking at the lingering figure of Esota.

“What was that thing?” asks the lass.

Osytha gives her a blank look, trying to decide how to explain.

“Strigoiacă,” she says, simply. Then, having found a starting point: “She were human, once. Then she died. Strigòi, they… well, theory is they’re t’souls of those abandoned by their kin, or suchlike. What they come back as, et’s more’n a mere walkin’ corpse. Tha hast already seen they can tek on t’form of beasts. They’re also able to move unseen, though t’sleepin’ may perceive them as some nightmare.”

Flashes of her warped dream resurge across her mind’s eye. Osytha rubs her forehead to try and clear the memories. How close had the thing actually come to her? Those foggy snippets of hers are bad enough. She can only imagine how much worse had it been for Akke.

“Will it be back?” Esota asks.

“I…” Osytha sighs, and lowers her hand. “I’m fair certain et’ll be too focused tryin’ to follow Lilia to bother t’caravan again. Once they pick a victim, they don’t like leavin’ things unfinished. Plus, et’ll be wary to try wi’ Syrs Evelyn an’ Conroy still ’ere wi’ you lot. But I can’t promise et won’t return, nay.”

Esota turns her roiling gaze to Lilia. Her hands ball up into trembling fists at her sides.

“It did that to her, didn’t it?” Her voice is low, even, and drenched in anger. “I’m coming with you. To the monastery.”

“What?” Osytha blinks at her. “Nay, tha canst ne do that—”

“Why not?” Esota snaps her head around to glare at Osytha. “I want to help you track this, this strigoiacă down. I want to help you kill it. But I… need to learn how to do it right. Your order can teach me that — or I can figure it out on my own. Because I know when the time comes again, I’ll choose to fight, again. Whether I know how to or not.”

Osytha stares at the lass for a couple of seconds. Esota, at the monastery? Girl would probably be the oldest prospect she’s ever encountered, if so. Years behind everyone else her age there. And that anger of hers… that gives Osytha pause as well. She remembers the look on Sotie’s face as that spear plunged in over and over again. What kind of Knight would they be training up?

But then, Osytha herself had come to the Monastery a few years later than was ideal, hadn’t she? And holding some very misguided notions of her own, at that. Looking at Esota now, the knight doesn’t doubt she means every word. If she’s going to learn this stuff one way or another, there are far more dubious teachers than the Knights of Anathaeum.

Tension visibly ebbs from the Knight; shoulders relax, face softens, even, gives Esota a weak smile. “I jus’ means we can’t ride double wi’ thee,” Osytha tells her, “given ’ow ’ard we’ll be pushin’ us ’orses to reach Astenvale in time. But, shold’st tha accompany Syr Evelyn an’ Syr Conroy when they return to t’monastery… alreight, then. Let’s see if’n tha hast what et teks.”

She glances over Esota’s shoulder, then, to that smattering of tiny faces peering back from their not-so-subtle hiding spots. Some duck behind full cover when they see her looking, but the suddenness of the motions only betrays them further.

“For now, though,” Osytha says, “I need thee to wrangle them bairns…”


* * *​


It’s a short while later, by the count of a clock. A long time by how it feels, though. Directives have been handed out, reports taken, forces consolidated. Little busybodies ushered back to bed after being told as much as seemed appropriate. Things are more or less taking care of themselves at this point. And Sveta’s there in case they don’t, still sitting up with Akke and Lilia by the fire.

Osytha loops her belt around her waist and slips into her shoes, eyes on the figures of Callum and Lutz off by the perimeter. She glances up at the weak moons above, briefly, and wonders. The aurochs-kin has not lain dead for long, but you never really know when, nor how, it’s going to happen. Callum’s a good lad for keeping vigil, and his nerve, as long as he’s done. Time to relieve the boy of that particular duty.

She finds a candle in amidst the camp supplies. Lights it from a taper set to one of the fires, and moving carefully with hand cupped around the tiny flame, walks out into the feeble moonlight.

Callum glances up as she arrives, her face flickering in amber. “Thank’ee, lad,” Osytha tells him. “I’ll tek et from ’ere. When Syr Faramund returns, let ’im know where I’m at, aye?”

He nods, and slowly clambers to his feet. When he shuffles off, Osytha takes his place down beside the blanket-draped form. It’s not the best as shrouds go. Thing doesn’t even cover all of the bulky farmer’s form — she can see his fur-backed fingers peeking out from under the edges, and his mighty horns aren’t contained by it at all. Behind her, Guffy whines faintly. Perhaps he can sense some trace of the strigoiacă left behind, for that dog is loathe to approach the corpse.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Lutz. Finds herself staring at those sturdy hands. Her own reaches out and twines its fingers in amidst his. It’s… wrong, for this flesh to feel so cold. He’s not a cut of meat. Those stout digits should be full of warmth, and twitching with life.

“I’m so sorry, Lutz.”

Then Osytha sets the candle down, and begins to do something that might appear strange to any onlookers.

“Let’s jus’ mek sure tha canst be on thy way,” she continues, as her hands go down to the fellow’s feet. She begins to untie his bootlaces. “Reckon these’ll fit Faramund, though I wonders if ’e’ll tak ’em… Jill, though — there’s a sturdy lass. An’ I’m sure she could do wi’ fresh brogues.”

As she eases Lutz’ shoes off, and then his hosen underneath, Osytha begins to sing.

“This ae neet, this ae neet,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
Fire an’ fleet and candle-leet,
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

When tha from hence away art past,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
To Whinny-Muir tha comest at last;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

If ivver tha gavest hosen an’ shoon,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
Sit thee down an’ put them on;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

If hosen an’ shoon tha nivver gavest nane
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
T’whinnes sall prick thee to t’bare bane;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.”

Shoes and nether-stocks are laid carefully aside, the latter folded atop the former. Osytha shifts the blanket at Lutz’s side, next, and pats him down for pockets. Pinches the hems and cuffs of his clothes, too, in case he’d been the wary type in life with his coin. On she sings through all of this, in her slow, mournful refrain.

“From Whinny-Muir whence tha may’st pass,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
To Brig o’ Dread tha comest at last;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

If ivver tha gavest silver an’ gold,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
At t’Brig o’ Dread tha’lt find foothold,
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

But if silver and gold tha nivver gavest nane,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
Down tha tumblest to Hell flame,
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.”

A small pouch comes to rest atop the hosen with a light clink. Doubtful any gold in there, but a few silver pence won’t go awry in helping the new settlement find its feet. Whatever helps get them the supplies they need to make it through their first winter. Like as not, that one’s going to be their hardest.

“From Brig o’ Dread whence tha may’st pass,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
To Purgatory fire tha comest at last;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

If ivver tha gavest meat or drink,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
T’fire sall nivver mak thee shrink;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.

If meat or drink tha nivver gavest nane,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
T’fire will burn thee to t’bare bane;
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.”

A waterskin proves easier to find, though, a sniff of the leather suggests it had once been used to hold something a bit stronger. Lutz mustn’t have done too badly as a farmer if he’d been getting his hands on wine, Osytha figures. She tips the vessel his way, in a grateful sort of gesture, then takes a good swig of the stuff. There’s even a hint of old vino leeched into the water from the inside of the skin. Tastes a little vinegary, truth be told. But there’s some ghost of sweet, heady must there as well.

“This ae neet, this ae neet,
Ivvery neet an’ alle,
Fire an’ fleet and candle-leet,
An’ Aucht receive thy saule.”

That skin, the last piece, is laid to rest against his shoes. Osytha tucks the makeshift shroud over him as best she can, then leans back. Her hand finds his once more, and gives it a little pat.

“There we are, me owd duck,” she says, finally settling into stillness knelt beside him. “Tha’lt ’ave nay trouble along t’road now. Nay rush, though. We’ll keep thee company through t’night, an’ ’appen tha canst be bahn come sunrise — same as Faramund an’ missen.”

There in that guttering candlelight, with Guffy by her side just as she keeps watch at Lutz’s, Osytha waits for Dawn to come find her.


The song Osytha sings is an adaptation of the Lyke-Wake Dirge.
 
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Dawn arrived in silence, though the world around him spoke still. In whispers and rustles, crackles and coughs. The camp didn't settle down so much as settle in; the children slept fitfully whilst the adults merely pretended to. In between the creaking of weathered sentinels, Faramund could discern the hushed voices of their charges, pitched low so as to avoid disturbing the others.

Lilia lay nearby, as if sleeping. So close, and yet so far beyond the reach of those gathered around her. Akke. Sveta. The old man had aged a dozen years since Faramund has last set eyes on him. Diminished. Forlorn, despite the promises made. Poor Sveta appeared much the same, her gift for healing no doubt seeming a curse just then.

'I found Heather.'

Realising he was staring, Faramund turned to approach Osytha, bowl in hand, expression neutral as his gaze went to the shroud-covered corpse keeping his dusker company. Hands, horns and feet protruded from beneath the covering, too small by half.

Aye, thought the dawnling, taking a seat beside Osytha, you shouldn't be there.

But what could they do? What could any of them do besides mourn and move on? Life goes slow and death comes fast. Before you knew it, it was through with you. Fair had nothing to do with it. Even so. 'Came across her half a mile down the road. Ankle sprained. Screamed like a banshee when she caught a glimpse of me,' he huffed a laugh, though it petered out quick. 'Did what I could before carryin' her back.'

Blinking, he set the bowl down in the space betwixt. Dried fruits and berries. A small pick-me-up. Weren't much else to hand at such short notice. 'Talked to Katie some. Jillian, Everd,' he plucked a slice of apple from the bowl, shrugged. 'Surprising, what a little calm can do in the midst of crisis.'

A gentle breeze ruffled his hair as he ate. Faramund helped himself to seconds. The shroud shivered. Stilled.

'I did what I could...' Why, then, did it sound so much like a lie?
 
“Sounds like plenty to me.” Osytha doesn’t look away from the blanket. Guffy, though — he greets Faramund with low-wagging tail and front paws up on the man’s legs. “Thank’ee. Truth be told, I was goin’ aht of my mind wonderin’ what might’ve ’appened to Heather. After all that lot’ve gone through, only to start losin’ folk jus’ when we’ve got to Astenvale’s doorstep…”

She’d watched that blanket change. It started as a darker shape against the low grass, bar a corner flickering by candlelight. A vague, repeating sett as just a colourless suggestion in the moonlight, but hints of crimson warp and weft showing clearer by the flame. Then, the sky had slowly greyed in from the east. Blades of grass around her sharpened, turned distinct from one another. The black cloth took up colour. Now, before the sun has quite broken past horizon, it reveals itself in deep, dark green. Lightened by bands of half-tone red, going full scarlet squares as they intersect.

A twa-twa twill weave, Osytha notices. That’s a little industry titbit Katie had shared with her somewhere along the road. A balanced weave from alternating twa threads of warp with twa threads of weft, which creates a diagonal pattern. Isn’t that what thou told’st me?

Just hang in there a little while longer, Katie Donovan. Thou hast almost made it. Soon, thy worst hardship shall be sewing me a silly hat. With bells on.

“I reckon they’ll be alreight,” she states, quietly. “They’re ommust there, already.”

Eyes, like mirrors to the grey above, follow a ripple in the fabric as it’s pushed along by a rising breeze. It runs down between Lutz’s horns, across his chest, to those cold fingers of his. Osytha blinks, and glances further along at the bowl now by her side. She picks up a sun-withered strawberry, and regards it in the growing light.

“Din’t even need to tell ’em ’ow to do what need be done,” she informs the rosy little shape between her fingers. “They figured that bit aht for theirsen quick enow. An’ once they realise they don’t need us to give ’em orders… aye, they’ll manage alreight.” The berry disappears past Osytha’s lips, and the woman gives it a couple contemplative chews before she continues, “’Appen with a little ’elp ’ere an’ there, still, but they’ll only get surer of theirsen. We only needed to give ’em a chance. Jus’ like tha told’st me.

“An’ tha hast done that, syr. All those times tha madest Lilia smile. Them other bairns, too. Keepin’ us all together, not abandonin’ a soul. Whether that means givin’ up Tribe to owd timers like Akke, or goin’ aht there wi’ a bung arm, alone in t’dark while that thing’s on t’loose, to bring our Heather back. Riskin’ thy neck to keep ’em all safe against ’eavy bloody cavalry, outnumbered ommust twa-to-ane. Keepin’ thy damn-fool dusker alive through et, an’ all. Findin’ ways to keep us bellies full t’whole while. Allus mekkin time for others. Lendin’ Katie a bit of thy strength when et feels like she’s none of ’er own. Tha shoulder’st all that an’ more, so they might ’ave chance after chance. An’ tha nivver ax’st for nowt in return.”

“Mostimes, yes, but then I’ve never been a very good knight.” Osytha turns her head to him, and gazes hard at the burly knight. At those deep, dark eyes beneath a heavy brow. At a sturdy nose, moreso even than her own, and hair which might look auburn in some light, now like walnut in the watery dawn. Battle-scarred from every angle. Big, brunet, sturdy; Osytha feels dwarfed in every way against him. It’s so easy to see the monster. But now she can see his sadness, she can’t imagine how she ever missed it to begin with.

“’Appen tha dostn’t reckon tha wert a very good Knight yesterday,” she tells him, over her merciless stare. “Fine. We en’t livin’ in ‘yesterday’, though. But t’Faramund of today, he— tha’rt…”

The anger in that glare falters. Her eyes lower, and she rubs her forehead with agitated hand. Inarticulate fury, it seems, does not override the lag of sleeplessness.

“… sorry,” Osytha goes on, brow still cradled along thumb to forefinger. “I don’t ken… et’s like, tha durstn’t let thissen see all t’good tha hast wrought today. Feels as though tha canst only ivver see that Faramund of owd an’ ’is mistakes. Is that… is that ’ow tha look’st at thissen, syr? Tell me, truly.”
 
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"Tell me, truly," said Osytha, as if she did not already know the answer. Need I? Colour returned to the world a heartbeat at a time. Sunlight straddled the horizon like a slow bleed, red and purple, black where the land refused to bow. It was a sight Faramund had borne witness to a thousand times before. And yet there he sat, enraptured by the sheer beauty of it all.

Would that Lutz was sitting here with us, thought the dawnling, dwelling in the past, unsure of how to move on, or whether he should. Would that I had stood watch instead of him, he shook his head. Too late now.

'There is much I regret, Osytha. More, still, that I wish I could make amends for.' A father's sins heaped upon his unruly son; deceptions reinforced by ignorance; deeds committed in the name of a would-be deity. Unwittingly. Unwilling. Yet where else should the blame lie except with me? Try as he might, there was no denying the guilt weighing upon his soul. A cancer of the mind that refused to be excised, it made its home amidst his doubts and fears, as if it belonged there. Perhaps it did.

'For all the good I've s'posedly wrought, it ain't never amounted to much.' Every life he had taken, every Sightless he had slain. None of it seemed to make any difference. 'We put down one problem only for two more rise in its place,' Faramund spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the sanctity of the moment. Lutz' final vigil. 'Fightin' fire with fire, and gettin' burnt in the process.'

Dead friends, dead foes. Progress measured in wasted lives.

'For every Lilia, there're a dozen Matyldas. Sometimes, I fear we're just as blind as the Sightless. Goin' round and round in circles, wearin' ourselves down in a struggle without end.' Guffers laid his head down atop Faramund's knee, big black eyes staring up at the knight like he was the centerpiece of the entire world. The dawnling scritched the mutt twixt his floppy ears. A reward, well-earned.

'I was nobody before I joined the Order. I am... afraid... of becoming that man again.'

A puppet without reason. A tool to be used and discarded. By the Cult. By the Order sworn to oppose them. 'I don't sleep much these days,' he admitted, then, meeting the dawn with his gaze. 'And when I do, I don't dream. Worse than that, I fear that when I awaken... I will no longer be the person you believe me to be.' Good ole Faramund. Hero of the people. Joker. The dawnling with a deathwish, vaulting into action ahead of his brothers and sisters.

'You're no fool, Osytha. But I most certainly am.'
 
He speaks, and first, Osytha’s hand drops. Then her eyes lift back up to him. She watches Faramund stare at the coming dawn, her own face blank where his fills with something honest, for her, yet again.

“You’re no fool, Osytha. But I most certainly am.”​

She turns her head to try and see what Faramund sees. Where the cold ashen sky begins to drown beneath a scarlet ember, warm colour whelming up until it spills over the land. A new dawn and fresh day ahead. That’s the promise folk see in that light, isn’t it? “Goin’ round and round in circles, wearin’ ourselves down in a struggle without end.” Or has one sunrise turned same as all the others, to his eyes?

“Aye. Aye, tha’rt a bloody fool, reight enow. Regret, amends… keepin’ score. That stuff en’t what I mean. Not really.” Osytha brings her gaze down, to the strip of woods. “Tha ken’st ’ow to navigate t’Wylds, syr. You don’t orient yoursen once at t’start of your journey an’ ’ope for t’best. You keep tekkin’ your bearin’s as you go. Correctin’ course.

“But tha hast put this big owd lodestone next to thy compass. ’Ow canst tha find thy way when ivvery direction feels wrong? That’s why tha mun’st look as much at thy good deeds as thy ill. So tha canst tell thy current course from t’others an’ decide for thissen, day after day, if et’s t’reight ane.”

Footsteps. Distant treads through the camp. Sparks striking cooking fires back to life, scratching over low voices. Osytha looks behind at figures making for the trees. Now it is light enough, they go to build one more pyre. It’s no small task ahead of them. Nor the one for a dawnling and his dusker.

“If tha dostn’t,” she continues, taking a wedge of apple from the bowl, “if tha wakest up ane mornin’ an’ can’t tell thy choices apart, if tha truly believest t’path tha’rt tryin’ to walk now is nay diff’rent than what t’Sightless tread… aye. I wouldn’t recognise that Faramund at all. T’Faramund I ken, ’e’s far too bloody-minded to give up like that.”
 
Bloody-minded? Faramund smiled his killer's smile, teeth bared, gaze hardening in the time it took him to meet Osytha's. 'Aye,' he agreed, 'I'm nothin' if not stubborn.' Maybe she was right; perhaps he was being obtuse on purpose. But then she didn't know what he knew.

A part of him wanted to lay it all out, so there were no longer any secrets between them. And yet an oath was an oath, and he was sworn to hold his tongue, if not for his own good, then for those whose lives he was now a part of.

'You can make all the right choices and still lose,' he said then, the tension draining from his features. 'Don't much matter what direction I go when all paths lead t' the same place.' Taking another slice of apple, the dawnling broke it in twain, offering half to Guffers whilst the other bought him time to think. He had been doing a lot of that, lately, though it never seemed to lead anywhere.

'Heavy is the head laden with a thousand thoughts,' he huffed, turning once more to regard Lutz. 'I wish I had the words to articulate what's eating me up inside... but I don't. S'pose that's why I hope for the best, as you put it,' he glanced at Osytha. 'Survival for the sake of survivin' just ain't worth it. What's life without a lil' hope, eh?'

Running his hand through Guffers' fur, the dawnling shook his head, before making to stand.

'One o' these days I hope t' give you the explanation you deserve,' he shrugged. 'Until then, you'll just have t' put up with me an' my... bloody-mindedness,' he grinned, offering Osytha his hand.
 
“In thy own time.” Osytha rubs her weary face, then glances up at Faramund’s hand. When she takes it, the dusker finds herself hauled easily up to her feet. “A body’s entitled to keep a few secrets. I don’t matter thee any less for et.”

I only ax because I want to do right by thee, going forward. I don’t want to make the same mistake again… ne with thee, nor anyone else.

She stoops to pick up the bowl, and her eyes linger upon Lutz after she straightens back up. Candle, not long since burned out next to his head. The sight only growing more surreal under the light of day; refusing to be banished along with the night in which it belongs. For all the corpses Osytha has seen, death still has the power to unsettle her some.

“Does they?” she wonders, vaguely. “I kens that ivvery road comes to an end, but t’same one? I dursn’t believe that.” Her eyes rove back to the camp. “Know what I owerheard Tonja an’ Marten talkin’ abaht? What their ’ouse is goin’ to look like, where they’s ’eaded. An’ Katie, she en’t sure what materials they’ll ’ave available, so she’s been tellin’ me abaht all t’different things a body can make fabrics from. Tree bark, even. Then Jill’s brother, Nev — ’e’s that rarin’ to go ’elp ’er plant an orchard. Peaches an’ pears, if’n I recalls.

“What I means is… they ’ave a future, in nay middlin’ part thanks to thee. We lost Lutz, ommust lost Lilia, aye. But we’d ’ave lost a damn sight more wi’aht thee ’ere, Faramund. If thy road ’ad takken thee elsewhere, or ended sooner, I reckon t’world would be a very diff’rent place. Emptier.”

Thou ought’st have more than hope, syr. Hope is for the unknown. But I need only look around to see how thou hast made so many hopes a reality.

Does he believe her? Maybe, maybe not; something of a double-edged sword, that pig-headedness of his. Either way, there’s little to gain from Osytha belabouring her point further. And the more she buries them in her own words, the more deaf she grows to Faramund’s. That was the old Osytha — quick to see what she wanted to see, and so sure she had the right of it. This time, she’s determined to truly listen.

“… If I’m wrong, tell me.” She turns her head to Faramund. “There’s a little time yet to ’ear thee aht.”
 
Not these kinds of secrets, thought the dawnling, holding his tongue as the sky lightened, bidding farewell to silver and shadow. Brushing himself down, the knight made to turn, brown eyes flitting to where the troubled sat still, heads bowed, woe writ in the way they watched Lilia toss and turn, as if trapped in a nightmare locked away behind fluttering eyelids.

'You're not wrong, about them.'

The Jills and Katies, Callums and Hoyts. Humans, half-elves, devahni. The 'kins and kiths. A mixed bunch, drawn together by fate -if you believed in such a thing- and necessity, to seek a future as yet unmade. Born into the world, rather than brought into it. Raised by loving parents, rather than reared like chattel. Their hopes and dreams were honest, pure as the intentions behind them.

Faramund didn't see much tailorwork in his future; his hands were not made to plant crops or drive a ploughshare.

Built to destroy, everything. Even now, he could see the blood on them, smell the copper in the air. He had watched, he had listened. He had killed without ever drawing his blade, though he knew not the details or depth of his betrayal. Ignorance wasn't bliss. To him, it felt the opposite.

'Time... aye,' he blinked, 'time we were on our way.' Words could wait. A life still hang in the balance, and none of them were out of the woods yet. Not really. 'I'll get our bags packed and t' horses saddled,' he said, eyeing the rising dawn. 'See if'n you can't link up with Eve and Roy, explain t' them the plan.' They would have to make haste, if they hoped to reach the monastery before nightfall. Like as not, the Sanctum had already dispatched two riders to replace them.

Grass crunched underfoot as the Dawnling wandered back to camp, all too aware of the corvids and carrion eaters circling high above. 'Oh, and Osytha?' he paused a moment to regard the dusker.

'Thank you.'

Fin​
 
Still is the night that holds no respite
As the hours turn to years

Photo-07-07-2026-20-54-42.png

This story is continued in Hush, O Babe


 
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