Darkness spat her out from its cloying pull and Farren gasped as she surfaced from unconsciousness, her body sluggish and unfamiliar in its pain. But she was human again.

For a moment, Farren did not know where she was. The cold stone beneath her, the scent of damp and dust, the ache blooming across every inch of her. She lifted a trembling hand to her face, fingers coming away wet and dark. Blood. Her blood. She touched her side next and hissed. Flesh torn, deep enough that each breath sent lances of fire through her ribs.

Farren exhaled through clenched teeth and pulled at the Shroud. The power answered sluggishly, curling around her like a fraying threadbare cloak. She placed a blood-dipped finger against her other palm and murmured the few words she knew from the Pursuit of Life, tracing runes in her own blood, over and over, voice barely above a whisper. A crude effort, but enough. Enough to still the worst of the bleeding, to dull the edges of her pain so she could move without the edges of her vision darkening and allowing her to take a deep breath of relief.

She shifted, forcing her hands beneath her, crawling onto her knees as a dizzy spell washed over her. She bowed her head, waited for the world to right itself—

Scrape.

The sound sent ice lancing through her veins. Bone against stone. She was not alone and suddenly, she remembered how she got there.

Farren stilled, breath tight in her chest. Through sweat-drenched fringe, she lifted her eyes.

Across the stone floor, the spirit loomed. Glowing embers burning into her from hollow sockets.

Between them stood a shroud crystal. Towering, it glowed with a soft waning light. Like it was tired, or drained.

This was the heart of Urbos’ lighthouse, the guiding light that brought home its sailors, powered by the sun and her moons. But Farren’s focus shifted beneath the glow, to the intricate runes carved into the stone at its base.

Binding runes.

Her stomach twisted. She knew these symbols well. The language of contracts. The scripts of her people, used to forge partnerships with spirits. And yet, these markings were wrong. Forced. Where one should have bound a singular entity, four were caged.

Davina’s spirits.

A shudder ran through the air as the creature before her unfurled from the dark, mist sloughing off its form in slow, curling wisps before reforming elsewhere on its shifting body. It did not breathe, but somehow, she felt its inhalation, as if tasting her presence in the air. Then, in a voice that raised the hairs along her nape, it spoke.

"You smell just like her."

Its tone was low, crawling into the marrow of her bones.

"The one who made us. Of this magic that binds us. That hurts, that tears us and puts us back together."

It prowled closer, but not past the binding circle, the dim crystal light catching on the edges of its skull in stark relief.

“You can fix us.” The words slithered through the air. “You will do this.” It raked jagged claws against the stone and screamed, “Help us!”

The raw agony in its voice struck like an aching blade, and Farren flinched.

Her resolve rattled in her chest. The glow of its eyes now felt desperate to Farren. There was still madness and hunger, yes. But her heart twisted for the sadness she now saw there, the pleading for a release in whatever form it may take.

She had seen spirits turned cruel, twisted by pain, by time, by the selfish desires of mortals. And she had seen them for what they were beneath it all, they were creatures of their own right. Unnatural, yes, but not undeserving of mercy.

This thing before her was no different.

It had not been born from gentleness. Its original nature forced into a shape it did not know.

With slow, deliberate movements, to stay their shaking, Farren rose to her feet, hands lifting open and placating. The spirit tracking her with an eerie tilt of its head, like it would strike if she moved too quickly.

She held its gaze, jaw tight, mind working over the runes. The binding was crude, unnatural. But, maybe, just maybe—she could unravel it.

She nodded once. The metal of the empty binding bell she had found earlier in Davina's letter, burning cold against her skin.

"Yes." Her voice was hoarse, steady. "Yes, I will try."


Figures emerged, some stumbling, others still frozen where they stood. Among them, there was an older man who was thin and weathered like seasoned leather, the scent of salt and fish still clinging to him even after the mist’s touch. He caught sight of the knights. His gaze flicked over their armor and his breath hitched.

The man moved with the hesitation of those still dazed from the fog, his voice thin but urgent. “Who are you?” he asked, half-demand, half-bewilderment. His eyes darted over them, sharp despite his age. “How did you get here?”

Then, his attention snapped to the one among them bloodied, wounded, and the wary edge in his voice cracked, replaced by something more human. “You’re hurt,” he said, stepping closer, his hands moving as if to steady, to help, but stopping short, uncertain in his depleted strength. “What happened? Gods, lad, you need a healer.”

His chapped mouth pressed into a thin line, years of habit making the offer before thought could catch up. “We had healers here,” he continued. “I can take you to one that I know yet lives. Davina. She’s good.” he paused, a doubtful glance at the darkness seeping from Faramund's side. "But I can't say if she's that good."

@Aarno @Faramund
 
Faramund huffed an amused laugh. 'Svala, eh? Well, at least I can have a half-decent conversation... with her.' He grinned, though even that hurt. Bloody spirits! Farren owed them both a drink for the shit her cousin had put them through. 'Fuckin' Urbos.' Staring up at the lighthouse, the dawnling let the darkness leak out of his thoughts. Blood flowed with it, weeping from the nasty-looking wound in his side.

'Go, then. Find a healer. And should you get the chance, check on Farren,' he smiled, bloody-toothed, and spiteful of the situation they found themselves in. 'I'd go myself... but I'm quite comfortable... here.'

A lie. But it amused him just saying it. A simple man, was Faramund, began his eulogy. He could see it now. Oh, how it hurt to smile. Wiping it away with a tilt of a vial, the knight held on as a new voice broke the silence. Frail, like its owner, it was the first they had heard since arriving in the seaside village. A sign of life. Proof Farren's plan might be working after all.

'That's the second time someone's- I need a healer, yes.' Glancing up at the old man, Faramund tried to stand, only for his aches and pains to sucker punch him the moment he found his feet. 'Eight above!' He cursed, invoking a pantheon he had never put much faith in. 'If I'd known bleeding to death would hurt this much, I wouldn't have both- wait.' Battling through the dizziness, Faramund turned to the old timer, his face the expression of shock.

'Did you say Davina?'

@Aarno @Farren Lóthlindor
 
His eye was no longer in his company, the response that remained all prickly talk and little else, for someone had come shambling from the mist. Approach and a glare, the shade of it shifting from confusion to concern. Aarno kept post betwixt the horse and the grounded Dawn Knight, concentrating on every little jolt on the elder’s face.

Davina. Not that good? Doubt shone off him, in the twist of his brow and weary look, but he wasn’t of the mind to fight. Not such an off-hand, feeble remark, come from the one sign of life that should've offered help.

“ She’ll show the strength of her weave to us herself, hopefully. We aren’t choosy. “ He responded, alerted to Faramund’s struggle as the man cursed, loud. Disapproval mounting to rival his disappointment, the Dusk Knight stepped in to offer his support, pulling Svala closer by the reins. The mare nickered softly under the sudden tug, nostrils flaring at the stench of blood.

“ Easy now, girl. “ He hummed to it, palm landing to the pit of its neck to still its anxious stir.

“ Mount up. “ To Faramund in turn, head cocking at the saddle. “ I’ll help you. “

He’d negotiate on neither, tone assertive. It remained as such as his look regarded the mist-spawned stranger, appointing him guide.

“ Take us to Davina. Please. “
 
The old man glanced between the two knights, one bloodied and pale, biting through pain, and the other stoic, quiet in his contempt—and gave a reluctant nod.

His weathered hands flexed at his sides, “Aye,” he muttered. “This way, then. Before the mist took us, she ran an apothecary not far from here.”

He turned, limping into motion with the kind of gait meant for the sway of boats and of years bent over nets and hulls, his pace uneven but quick as he led them down a narrow path flanked by shuttered windows and warped doors. The village square came into view, less rimmed with silence now that a portion of the village was awakening.

They came to a simple stone building like all the rest, whitewashed by sun and sea salt, all but for a faded purple door.

The old man approached its door and cupped his hands to his mouth, voice crackling.

“Keeper Davina! You’ve got company, and not the kind we can turn away!”

A pause. No answer. Then, a flutter behind the glass.

The door creaked open.

A woman stepped out with a hand braced on the frame, and for a moment, the resemblance was unmistakable, though worn thin. The same pert chin and small nose. The same wolfish slant to the eyes. Although her hair, darker than Farren’s pale blonde, fell in a tangled braid down her shoulder, streaked with silver like fishbone. And where bright grey should have marked her eyes as that of a bell keeper, they were now the stormy blue of a tired and cold sea.

At her side, half-tucked behind, a small dirty face appeared and blinked up at them. Her son. His small hands clutching at the edges of her skirts, and when she moved— he moved with her like a tide that refused to retreat from shore. The wear of time spent trapped in the mist was apparent in the soft purple bruising beneath their eyes and the gaunt slant hollowing their cheeks.

Davina’s gaze swept the trio, but landed on Faramund. Her eyes tracking the dark streak where his blood dripped a steady staccato to the cobblestone, pooling just beside the restless hoof of his mare.

Her jaw tensed. Then, wordlessly, she turned her back, running fingers gently through her son’s hair as she pushed open the door behind her.

“Bring him in,” she said. “Clear the table.”

@Aarno @Faramund
 
'We aren't,' agreed Faramund, hand clamped tight to his side. In truth, he wasn't sure how well Davina's magic would serve him, he who shrugged off spells and cantrips like water off a duck's back. Still. Beat bleeding out. 'Alright, alright! Don't rush me,' he growled, half a hand away from rushing himself. Gods, I could use a drink.

Slipping his foot into the stirrup, Faramund took a moment to summon his strength before hauling himself up into the saddle. Svala whickered and danced as his weight settled across her back, clearly displeased with him. That makes two of us, he thought, gritting his teeth against the pain. It was then he felt Aarno's hands offering him support. True to his word. 'Okay- I'm up, I'm fine,' he said, meaning it, even if it did prove to be a godsdamned lie. He grimaced.

'Lead on, then, lest the two of yous be lookin' to cop another feel?'

Svala snorted, head rolling back as the old man with the sunken eyes led them away into the mists. Towards buildings that had not been there a second ago.

When the door thumped open, Faramund almost sighed in relief. It was almost jarring how much Davina resembled Farren. Closer to sisters than cousins, in the dawnling's fading mind. Haunted, though. Much like the rest of them. 'Bring him in. Clear the table.'

Looking to Aarno, Faramund swung a leg over and hopped down, his knees buckling the moment his feet touched solid ground. The wound in his side screamed in sympathy. Blood sipped through numb fingers to paint the stones red. 'Fuckin'... shit,' he laughed, damn near breathless as strong hands picked him up. His arm settled across the bridge of Aarno's shoulders, and together they made their way inside, his feet refusing to obey him the way they should. Faramund felt his vision starting to blur. He felt... woozy.

Then the darkness engulfed him.
 
A purple door with an empty nail. For protective seasonal wreaths, signs and, sometimes, just simple decorations. By the look of who opened, he tried to manifest some reason for why there was nothing there. Why she would’ve left it barren.

He’d seen the grief in the letter — had it yet, he realized. She’d not taken it back.

His arm instinctively shot out as Faramund dismounted, with that callousness of a man used to taking every step with swift confidence. It didn’t end well, as he hadn’t been fast enough. For all that roused movement, cursing, laughter and a fall, Svala beat its hooves in an anxious fidget. So pointed on the cobbles.

The broad rivulet of blood was dark and sticky on the dappled grey of its coat, red by the muted hues of a pond on a misty overcast day. His face twisted, hating the sight of it, almost as much as he hated leaving the horse out here. Or imposing anyone look after it, with all that they’d been through already. His hand released the reins.

“ Stay here, girl. “ He implored, grunting with the effort of hoisting Syr Faramund from the damn ground. The old man was already shuffling ahead to where the Keeper had disappeared, roused to her orders. Cutlery clattered as it hit the floor, chairs scraped in a wanton toss, candle flames fluttered with the draft, the man draped about the support of his shoulder grew heavier.

“ Will some spirit into your legs, won’t you. “ Aarno grabbed him a little tighter, trying to rouse him with a clap on the chest, mail chiming. “ Stay with me. “

The inside of the house was no less gloomy than the outside, but the smell of a damp night gave way to something more complex. He recognized the scent of herbs, the goods and the ills, the ones where preparation mattered on which it would be. The table was just about broad enough for someone as Faramund, were they to lay him down on it. The last of the things were being picked off it in the light of a candelabra.

“ Magic doesn’t take well to him. “ He announced betwixt a strained breath, matter-of-fact despite how distraught it made him. “ If at all. And I can’t— “ I can’t read his wound, where it goes— what’s in it. Splinter, dust, something to poison the blood.

“ And our— Farren, your cousin— “ Continued on, unable to stop bumbling, struggling for how speaking her name brought that white hot panic back to him. This is a detour, if only we hadn’t— Time is slipping away.

“ I saw your letter, Davina. Keeper. That thing in the lighthouse has her. “ Said it was right, she did, but he couldn’t help the forsaken doubt that shone in his stare. As it rowed the Keeper for answers, his figure bending down as himself and the old fisherman laid Syr Faramund down.

“ Is there anything to be done? “
 
Davina wasted no time in gathering her dusted equipment from the open shelves. Stripping leaves from hanging herbs into a wooden bowl. And pulling long strips of clean linen from a basket, her son juggling it all in his hands behind her, determined to help.

"Well, it's a good thing what I'm going to do to him does not require magic, Syr Latva." She noted Aarno's pause with a sidelong glance and continued as she scrubbed harshly up to her forearms in the stale water basin, it was better than nothing. "Yes, I know who you are. My cousin has gone into no short length about you in our letters. Which means this must be Faramund on my table. I take it he tried to fight the Urbos?" A short, incredulous huff. "Foolish man. Etan, place those here and grind those herbs for me." She directed to her son as he placed the items on the small side table she’d dragged beside the one now slick with Faramund’s blood. The sound of grinding stone began as her son's little hands gripped mortar and pestle at her hip.

But Aarno's words had stilled her, and the first real emotion crumpled her face, what blood there was in her cheeks draining from her face. "It has her already?" She recovered with a thick swallow, "That would explain why only some of us are even out of the mist then. My husband… is still missing."

Davina turned back to Faramund, wiping the sweat-slick locks from his brow, forcing his jaw open with her thumb, before placing a thick strap of leather between his teeth and patted his cheek. "Bite down, this will hurt." She snapped her fingers at the men left standing in the room, "Hold him down, if he kicks me, I will not be happy."

She then worked at the padded gambeson beneath Faramund's mail with a knife, glancing at Aarno as she tore at it with her blade. "He will not die from this. Urbos wounds bespell their victims and drags their souls into the mist like all the rest. But I still need to stop the bleeding. Etan, darling, paste."

Etan lifted on tip-toes and pushed the mortar with pulverized green poultice next to his mother. Davina scooped handfuls of it out and began slathering it along the strips of linen, working until there was a small pile. "And if you have that letter, then you know I failed. I wasn't strong enough. I botched the ritual and created a damned shroudfiend. And now... now it has Farren—" A choke that shook the hands that held linen to the weeping gash at Faramund's side. But only for a breath. She drew in air through her nose, deep and anchoring, and let it out in a slow, shaking exhale.

The calm shuttered back over her face.

"Okay, here we go." And she began digging her fingers into the wound, feeding herb-soaked cloth into his body, stuffing it, one fold after the other into his hot flesh, trying to fill up the damaged space and staunch the bleeding that was trying to rob him of life.

@Aarno @Faramund
 
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'It already hurts.' Faramund mumbled, eyes roving the rafters as Davina bade him bite down on the leather she thrust between his teeth. His body tensed as she set to work with the blade, slicing through his gambeson to get at the wound beneath. Damned thing was ruined anyway. Blood-soaked. Rent by tusk and claw. No good for nothing.

Just like me. Useless, foolish fuckin-

Faramund grunted in pain as Davina's fingers pressed into him. Fire arched through his side, searing his senses and muddling his thoughts. His hands clenched into fists. Muscles bunched as he fought back against the frailty of his own flesh.

Doubt and anger consumed his mind as he thrashed about, fighting to keep his limbs in check, even as they continued to disobey him. Davina's words barely registered to him now. His eyes glazed over as they studied the smoke-blacked ceiling, seeking something to focus on. A point of no particular interest. A space where fear and pain were but distant memories.

Somehow, he managed to hold onto consciousness. His vision swam, ears ringing as the walls closed in on him from all sides. He had to stay awake, to keep on keeping on. Failure was not a luxury he would allow himself. Could not.

The seepage from his wounds lessened as Davina packed his wounds. Blood dripped from table's edge to pool upon the stone beneath. Faramund's eyelids felt heavy, his spirit heavier. He did not notice when hands pulled his mail higher. Nor did he notice the fresh linens being wound about his body, to keep the packing in place. Not cotton. Cloth. Good enough.

'Good... enough.' Turning, Faramund spat the gag from his mouth, drool and spittle adhering to his parched lips. 'That'll do me... doc, I'm sure.' Forcing a pained smile, the dawnling sighed in relief as a cold towel touched his brow. Despite his weakness, and the web of lethargy he found himself snared in, he still possessed enough sense of self to nod, grateful, if only for the momentary respite.

'Urbos,' he growled. 'Soul-eater. Poor bastard's like as not to starve, should he end up claiming me.' The irony was not lost on Faramund. For the first time in his mockery of a life, his greatest curse had proven itself to be a blessing in disguise. No soul here, he thought, just emptiness and deceit. Just a fool out of his depth and floundering. Sinking. No less than I deserve.

'So...' Faramund cursed, chest heaving as pain sent him into spasms. They subsided shortly after. He sighed. 'What now?'
 
Only as he’d stilled, arms slack at his sides and face blank, had it begun to sink in how dry his mouth felt. How a part of him had gone numb, with something like fright, thought naught but a buzz in his ears. Hands worked in a fidget, the leather of his gloves creaking softly as it grew taut at the knuckles with every tight curl of fingers.

No short length. His look hovered upon Davina as she moved around, sure and steady in her task, all the while explaining and relaying. He sidled to the opposite side of the table from her as a vary animal might, if with the earnest and attentive stare of one willing to help, as called. Weight upon his fellow sworn, by the arm and shoulder.

And just as fast as the healer assured, she would speak on what yet lay dire ahead. Drags their souls— In wake of it all, Farren’s name fell heavy. At the sound of cracking composure upon her cousin, his look averted to row down the bloodstained links of mail beneath his grip. And he said nothing.

The healer’s work didn’t go down easy. He didn’t know at what point he’d gripped Syr Faramund’s hand into his, wrist to wrist, but somewhere betwixt all the wild thrashing he had. Holding on as a vice, glare coloured with sympathy and yet firm enough like he meant to nail the man down with it. No such luck, but the shared effort betwixt himself and the old man, who he had to assume had stayed only for leaving would’ve been more awkward, did manage to keep Syr Faramund from swinging or kicking anyone senseless.

For want of something to do, face having grown hard with effort, he did the little he could therein. Inclined a man for bandaging, fetched the mop for the floor, splashed water in his hurry.

Time was a wasting. And yet he hadn’t half an idea for what they ought even begin with. Splat went the damp rag, landing into the blood. And he left the old man to it, not staying to watch as he squat down.

He wrenched the front door open, breathing in the mist. Remained in the pale of it, staring at the distant lighthouse like he meant to siege it. Measured, but with none less fury in the ember of his look.

Faramund asked what he couldn’t. And he shifted on heel, settling to watch Davina with the twist of grief about his brow.

Tell me.
 
"You," A single finger pressed against Faramund's chest, stopping him from attempting to rise, "will not be doing anything. If anything, you will be a liability and I doubt your fellow Knights will be pleased dragging your corpse home." Davina retreated back to her workbench, rifling through dust-covered glass jars filled with dry herbs to combine for a tonic. "So you will sit here, and not complain, and I'm going to feed you what antidote I can to stop the rest of that poison from taking you. Just in case she fails.."

Davina felt a light tug at her skirts.

She glanced down to find Etan back beside her, his eyes wide and solemn. She leaned down so he could whisper something small into her ear. Her gaze flicked once to Faramund, and a strange unreadable look crossed her face.

She nodded and her hand swept the ash from her son’s cheek before pressing a kiss to it, soft and quick. “Go outside for a moment, love,” she murmured, and though he lingered with reluctance, Etan obeyed. He slinked from the room, pausing only to peer over the edge of the table. His small fingers brushed feather-light across Faramund’s bloodied hand, innocent, curious, unafraid, before he slipped away, the old fisherman patting his head in passing.

Davina exhaled and patted down her skirts with both hands, steadying herself. Her throat cleared softly.

Only then did she stop avoiding Aarno’s gaze.

“But you,” she said quietly, “you still have work to do.”

Without waiting for a reply, she dropped to her knees in the middle of the apothecary and pried up an old, warped floorboard. The wood groaned, giving way to reveal a hidden pit no deeper than her wrist.

“I was afraid to use this when I first attempted the ritual,” she said, reaching inside. “I should’ve known better than to think I was strong enough to combine four spirits on my own.”

From the space beneath the floor, she pulled a small wooden chest, no bigger than her two hands. She replaced the board, then carried the chest to the workbench and set it down with a heavy thud that hunched her shoulders.

“But you didn’t see what came from the sea.” Her voice was quiet. “Monsters. Monsters for the horror they wrought on our shores. And we had nothing— no one was strong enough to stop them.”

Pausing with hunched shoulders, she didn't look at any of them, lost in her moment, whether it be the shame of failure or the guilt of hubris— yet despite it all, time marched forward, and she opened the chest and moved with it.

“But I think,” she said, lifting something wrapped in faded cloth, “with this in hand, Farren has a chance.”

She turned toward Aarno and unfolded the item with care, a pearlescent glass whistle, the surface glimmered with veins of moonlit energy.

“It’s an armonium whistle,” she explained, placing it in his hands. “Crafted for spirit shroudwork. Our grandmother had it made for me as a wedding gift.”

A breath of a smile curved her lips, fleeting. “Maybe she knew I’d need it someday. So I could give it to you.”

Her hands folded over his, fingers squeezing briefly, perhaps trying to imbue whatever strength she had left.

“To pass through the lighthouse door, you must give an offering of blood freely given.”

Davina held his gaze, imploring. Her mouth twisted in the same way that Farren’s did when she was worried.

“Bring her back to us,” Davina said, her voice breaking, just slightly.

“Please.”


Farren stood still long enough for her pounding pulse to begin fading from between her ears.

Now that the pain had dulled to something distant and thudding, she could take fuller stock of her surroundings. The room was wider than she'd realized— what she'd first assumed to be dark walls were, in fact, windows. Massive, curved panes that wrapped the entire tower like a cage of glass. But the world outside was blacked out in swirling mist, thick as tar. No light could pierce it, not even the glow of the great crystal looming at the heart of the lighthouse. It bled pale illumination across the stone, but it had nowhere to go. The room felt suffocated by it, like light made blind.

Near one of the walls, half lost in gloom, she could just make out the suggestion of stairs curling downward, back to the entrance of the lighthouse.

Farren swallowed and forced her battered body to move.

She stepped toward the binding circle scri[ted onto the stone, her skin prickling with anxiety. The spirit didn’t stop her, but its gaze pinned her with the weight of it.

Bone scraped against the floor and though she resisted the urge to flinch, the hairs rose on her arms.

"We were not always this." Came its voice, startling Farren to look at it with confusion—watching its form sloughing and reforming, shadows constantly slipping from one edge of its being to another.

"We were born from the breath of seabound men. From their prayers. Their songs. Their sweat. Their salt. We were the wind in the sails they shouted to, the lullaby of rigging, the lull of tide beneath their battered hulls. Their callouses and sunburnt brows. And their dead lost to storms."

Farren's chest paned in empathy for this lost thing, made a weapon by fear.

“They made you.”

The spirit’s head twisted unnaturally. Its sockets burned low, dim coals flickering in the black.

And we unmade them."

The flare was instant— eyes igniting red-hot. In a flash of motion, the creature lunged forward, jaws snapping just before her face. Its breath hit her like spoiled brine, sharp and rotted. Farren didn’t move despite her quickened breath, for she was in the circle, and the Urbos came no further.

The spirit’s claws raked across the stone just shy of her feet, and it shuddered with a rasping growl.

“Just as you will unmake us now. Pull these fetid layers from us—they rot on our bones, twisting, twisting, twisting the marrow—”

It paced the edge of the circle like a beast locked too long in a cage. The tower creaked with its weight, and the crystal flickered uneasily behind it, unease boiling in the space.

Farren sank to her knees at the edge of the runes.

Her fingers traced the lines in the stone. Familiar forms, a familiar tongue. The binding runes were Bell Keeper script. She could see where Davina’s hand had slipped, where desperation had led to recklessness. A ritual made for a single Keeper and their new spirit, morphed to accomodate the spirit of Urbos and all of Davina's unbound ones.

But Farren kept her true worry to herself. That she wasn't even sure if she could undo what was done. Spirits like the ones that bell keepers bonded with, did so because they wanted to. Which meant Davina's spirits were apart of Urbos of their own will. It was actually the parts that Davina had created to bind them all in the first place that were corrupted. Those tendrils of shroud that pulsed with twisted magic, forcing them into one shape. So it would be up to Farren now to find those places of sickness and cure them of their madness.

With steadier hands than she felt, she pulled Davina's empty silver bell from her pocket and placed it carefully in the circle before her. Its surface glinted faintly, picking up the light of the failing crystal. The metal felt cold as ice, but her hand lingered on it a moment longer.

She glanced once more at the spirit, Urbos, if that name even still meant anything to what it had become. Light at the edge.

Beneath the grotesque twist of its form, beneath the fury, she marked the deep agony.

This rot had started at the root. And she would find it.

Determination settled the last of her nerves, there was no room for the errors they could make.

Farren inhaled slow, her abused ribs screaming, and finally closed her eyes.

On her exhale, every line of the circle burst in bright columns of cold silver flames.

@Aarno @Faramund
 
It sounded like a threat. "Do what I say or I'll finish the job Urbos started." It was enough to make Faramund smile. 'Yes, mamzel, I'll behave,' he nodded, though even that set his head to spinning. Not like I'm going anywhere. Pain still probed at his sides, poking at the wound that had been packed and bound. Numerous smaller cuts marred his skin; superficial things, he paid them little mind.

Blood continued to drip from the table as Davina turned her attentions to Aarno. Faramund was loosely aware of movement. Fingers brushed his palm, so light as to be a figment of his imagination. Twisted up, tortured, it reflected his current state well.

Damned fool! Again, he cursed himself, the light in the room strobing, ears ringing as he tried once more to sit up. Couldn't have just stuck with the group. Had to play the hero. Thanks to you, Farren's gone, likely dead, and you're here bleeding like a stuck pi- 'Fuck me!' A sharp, stinging pain dragged the words from Faramund's lips before he could think to bite down on them. Silence followed, heavy with emotion.

He may have been the one sat on the table, but the other two people in the room were hurting just as much. He could see it on their faces, and in the way their eyes seemed to see through him, like he was nothing more than a ghost. An apparition.

'Blood freely given, huh?' His gorge rose. Fighting it down, Faramund pressed a hand to his side, where the bandages clumped slightly. 'Take... mine. I see you've already got some... on you.' Blinking, the Dawn Knight gripped the tables edge. For balance, and to keep from reaching for his sword where it had been left beside the door. 'Take my sword, too. I won't be... needing it. Couldn't fuckin' do anything, anyhow.' Air whistled through gritted teeth. He closed his eyes, chasing focus, even as a hand steadied his shoulder. Davina's or the old timer's; he was grateful all the same.

'Bring her back to us,' he repeated the words, lending his strength to their shared hopes. Slowly, Faramund's eyes opened. 'And be careful,' he grinned. 'I may be about as much use as a chocolate fireguard... but that won't stop me from dragging my arse up to that lighthouse... after you.'
 
The boy left the room, slipping past him like a ghost. And he tore himself back from the mist at once, turning in the pale pane of night to the woman who’d spoken. She instructed and he listened, step a slow meander, the lightest huff on the floor that’d stop to hover at a distance of three half-paces. A witch’s circle, caution and respect.

He hated the ache of finality about it all. Monsters, instruments, ritual, blood. A strange buzzing like static was in his ears when he looked into the armonium, the tingle of shroud reaching past the worn leather of his gloves when he not as much took it, as stood beneath the offering that was landed upon him. And he was thankful he’d not yet bared his skin to it.

This was not his magic, but he would learn it. Play it by ear.

He lingered there with her, mouth set, squeezing her hands in kind as that accursed plea set into him. Powerful as any binding circle, seizing him by the strings. When he spoke it was quiet and rough in the throat, but steady with conviction. Knight’s honour, warlock’s pact, lover’s promise.

“ I will. “ And he would hold on to it, tighter, as they released one another. His look squared in on Faramund therein as the man took the opportunity to be generous, even smiling in that manner of his. Through all the pain. With an assuring touch on Davina’s shoulder, he left her and approached the table. Bit into the index of his glove and slipped it off, brushing the tips of two fingers over the blood on the table. Tasted it, jaw working like he meant to make out the intricacies of a good jam.

“ No. “ Expressionless, absolute, but not grim. “ The blood only remembers the heart as it was, not how it is. “ Not freely given. The damn beast had to rip this out of you by force.

If only his brother hadn’t been so earnest. He tugged the whistle into the taut of his belt and took the man’s shoulder in a firm grip, despite the urgency that wanted him to rush out and never look back.

“ It will be alright. “ And he believed it. Had to. “ This isn’t work for a sword, not as we know it. But, even if it was— “ He glanced at the door and the saber. “ How am I to trust my Dawn Brother to come after me if I leave him without his steel? “

Enchanted as it is. Extension to the daring and power of a stag, beantlered and hot of blood, when the work calls for the scorpion. And he smiled, something brittle but meant all the same. Lay his palm on the man’s heart in a gentle press and let him go, burning for the door at vigour that rattled the floorboards. One more glance at Davina, before he was out.

The black saber remain by the door, leaned against the frame in it's begrudging peace. And he wheeled Svala around for the mist.


*​

Outside the lighthouse was but the sea and her quiessence. A line lay in the ground where he’d drawn it with his heel, a barrier past which Svala would not follow. A witch’s horizon, enforced with a dash of salt. Wind in his hair and brine in his lungs, he stood at the door and laid a bare palm on it. Felt nothing. Not a rattle, no struggle, not the resonance of a scream.

She is here and somewhere else. Had to be.

" You have something I want, Spirit. “ More than ever. The words were soft, as cooed to a beloved as he drew the knife. Pressed the blade to the soft of his thumb, until red bloomed past the edge.

“ And I will claim. “ His arm rose, measured, cool against the warm of the blood he laid on the door. And he drew, jaw taut — one motion, the closed symbol of a four-looped square, and the parched grey plank drank it up, draining it from red to a dull black. The little leather sheath snapped as he put the knife away and withdrew in backward step, but not far. His glare didn’t leave the door, holding on like he meant to rip it off the frame with a thought. Prey.

Claw locked, stinger poised.

Blood dotted the ground by him, bead upon bead off the tip of his finger as his arm lay slack. He drew breath. Brought out the whistle that felt as frozen metal in the grip. Pulled on the skin with a will. Don’t let go. And he wouldn’t.

“ Wolf. Stag. “ He brought the mouthpiece to his lips. In the distance behind his shoulder, Svala flattened its ears and nickered. His eyes drifted shut and he imagined the door open, splintered with the flame and the fury.

" Scorpion. "

And he blew into the armonium.
 
Davina watched the door long after Aarno had vanished into the mist, she stayed there, unmoving, until the old fisherman cleared his throat softly beside her.

“Thank you for staying to help, Mo'fta.” Her voice was distracted, barely above the wind. Her fingers squeezed his arm, brief and tight. “There’ll be more soon. If you can, bring them here. I can’t leave him while I work on the antidote.”

The old man nodded and limped off into the dark, the outline of his frame swallowed quickly by the thick air. She watched him go. Counted to five.

Then turned back inside.

Davina glanced to the side yard—Etan was still there, sitting on the stoop, poking at a beetle with a stick. Good. She shut the door behind her, sliding the latch until it caught with a quiet click.

"You know, Etan pointed out something very interesting to me." Davina crossed the room slowly, methodically checking the unused linen wrappings, the poultice jars, the mortar on the bench still wet with crushed herbs.

“That you’re holding up better than expected,” she murmured, not looking at him. “See, the poison that the spirit uses? It's designed to creep up on you. It pulls you under softly and takes your soul with it and into the mist under the Urbos' spell." The clinking of glass jars, paused. "But it should’ve hit your lungs by now, slowed your breath while I rushed to make you an antidote. Or your spine, bent in half while your body fought to keep all of you together.”

She went back to cleaning. A rag swiped idly across her workbench, picking up powdered herbs and wiping up the great smudges of blood. She collected one of her smaller knives and wiped it clean too— just a simple herb-cutter, short-bladed, a fish bone-handle.

“I’ve seen enough men now lost to Urbos to know the signs,” she went on, voice even. “Confusion. Lethargy. A fever behind the eyes. But you don’t have any of them.”

The knife gleamed, and she tested its edge with the pad of her thumb. Then she turned to Faramund lying on her table.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Her tone was light, almost conversational now as she walked back toward him. “How you're still awake. Still so... coherent.”

She reached him, crouched slightly at the edge of the table where he lay, and without ceremony, slid the knife’s edge up beneath his jaw, resting it lightly against the pulse point of his throat.

“I don’t need the whole truth, whatever that means to you. In the end, I don’t care what you are, as long as you keep her safe. But you should know—” her smile didn’t reach her eyes, “—I’ve kept worse secrets. And I’ve buried worse things.”

Her eyes searched his, the same slant as Farren’s, but colder, older. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

“So tell me, Syr Faramund,” she said quietly, “Who are you?”

A pause. Then, softer still as she searched his face, “Or rather, what are you?”



The armonium whistle sang.

But it was no sound born of breath and glass.

The tone that poured from it was without a shrill note, instead, it was a deep roar that bloomed behind the ribs like fire stoked in a furnace. Like bees swarming beneath skin. Like thunder rolling through bone.

It thrummed, thrummed, thrummed, shaking mettle loose from spine. Reflecting the shroud from inside one's flesh, channeling the machinations of their magicked design and focusing it into a corporeal thing.

This whistle was made for spirit things, and so it was from the mouth of this whistle that the light of shroud-spirits formed. A molten orange-red light poured, viscous as sap, radiant as flame. It spilled into the mist around Aarno’s feet, catching against the saltline barrier, hungry and alive.

The lighthouse groaned in protest.

Then the light rose and shaped. Took on the motion of beasts.

First came the wolf— the relentless hunter. Teeth bared and eager for a tenacious pursuit.

Then the stag— the noble king of the woods. Antlers crowned in fire, hooves pounding.

And last, coiled tight and still, the large shape of a scorpion— its tail arched high, precise and deadly, gleaming with a sting quick enough to strike between the beat of a heart.

The old stones of the lighthouse creaked in a rage, the ground beneath trembled. A thing meant to keep intruders out, now straining at its seams. The Urbos fought against Aarno's entry.

But the tithe of blood had been freely given.

And even spirits bowed under that weight.

There came an inhuman shriek on the wind, torn from nothingness, and the dark line of Aarno’s blood flared a searing white before the warding shattered.

And the door gave one last groan, splintering and buckling under the symbol.

The whistle fell quiet. And the air turned still.

The entryway gaped like a mouth, all shadow and dead breath, swallowing what little light remained. The spilled blood at Aarno's feet smoked gently. The saltline hissed.

The door was gone, thrown wide by an unseen force.

And the darkness beckoned.


Inside the circle, Farren was adrift.

The bell rested cold in her lap, silver flames surrounding her in rising columns. Her mind stretching into the weave, her soul, reaching beyond and into Urbos. Down, in, and through. Grabbing onto threads.

She found it fast. The corruption.

It knotted like something alive beneath the surface of the shroud, like a mass of coiling snakes. Rage pulsing at the center of Davina’s binding. Black and slick, twisted with threads of too many spirits forced to move in unison. She barely brushed it and the entirety of its emotions nearly split her open. So vast was this sorrow, that a scream built in her chest. Begging to find solace from this hungry grief, so primal and aching.

It felt like someone had dropped her into the middle of an ocean with a single fishing line, and a small boat was the only thing keeping her afloat while the sea raged. There was no sky, no stars, only the swell of grief, rolling and endless. Trying to pull her under, again, and again. It promised stillness. It promised quiet. There would be no pain under the weight of its waves.

But Farren held on.

Her line in the water was the tether she needed to start unraveling what had been done, and she followed it.

There the dim light of familiar threads called to her. Threads of spirits she knew. The cords wound deeper into the sea and Farren touched them.

Her breath hitched as memory flashed through her— the dual sound of paws pounding the woods, as Farren raced beside Davina, wild with youth and laughter and the carefree skin of wolves in spring. Davina's spirits remembered her.

Farren plucked each of Davina's spirits, gentle and true, like a musician returning to the strings of an old beloved instrument. Her fingers moved with memory. This one was Lethil, a faster falcon she did not know. That one was Brann, a warm and bounding bear. Kastin, a cunning winter viper. And Lyka, Davina's wolf, the form all Bell Keepers had. Names had power, and it was why no one but bell keepers knew the names of the spirits they bound. With those names, Farren called to them, her fingers stinging nettle-burned from the darkness that clung to them. But still, she pulled at their threads, untying their knots. She played their tones, one by one, drawing them toward her, toward the bell. Rebinding them without fear, without desperation, only peace, only partnership.

But the weight of binding spirits was mighty, let alone rebinding five fractious ones at once. In her body, sweat chilled against her brow. Her limbs trembled. The circle's light wavered.

She realized her mistake too late. Red eyes flared in her mind at her lapse of focus, and Farren felt those waves capsize her boat, waves crashing over her head, water filling her mouth, coldness wrapping her in its embrace, but all the while, her hand refused to let go of that tether. Without it, she would be lost, consumed by the very thing she was trying to unmake.

Somewhere, beyond her mind's eye, her body felt a great shuddering of stone and the Urbos paused its pacing.

Its monstrous shape froze in place just beyond the silver flames. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. Bone scraped stone, like roots cracking through the earth. The mist at the windows slowed.

The crystal flickered just the once, before the Urbos roared, clawing at its own skull. The sharp snapping of its teeth echoed loud.

"The gate has broken. The threshold bleeds. The one who sees too much has returned to take you from us. Us. Us. Us. You are ours. OURS!"

Farren knew who had broken the gate, she knew who bled at the threshold. And fear struck a cold iron deep in her belly.

She reached deeper. One by one, she continued to pull the spirits’ threads loose from the poisoned tangle. Her hands shook, but she guided them to the bell. So close, she was so close. She just needed a little more time, a little more strength to finally bind Urbos itself.

“You are not this,” she whispered, opening her eyes to stare at it defiantly, her voice hoarse with strain. “You were whole. And then you were many. And it wasn't fair what was asked of you. For you to protect them all as you did.”

Urbos' attention whipped to her with a low growl.

“You are not this sickness that binds all of you together.”

The silver flames of her circle flared as the Urbos spat a snarl at her.

“I see you,” she said, louder now. “I see the parts of you that are still the breaths of seabound men. Their prayers. Their songs. Their sweat. Their salt. I still feel you in the winds of their sails, and the lullaby of their rigging. The tide beneath their battered hulls. Their callouses. Their sunburnt brows. And I see you still in their dead lost to storms.”

Silence.

The creature went still, utterly still.

Then the stone beneath her groaned again. The circle trembled. The flames guttered sideways. A mournful keening began. And Farren had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out as her body contorted in pain. That part of her that held onto the Urbos, surged under waves of despair, over and over, spinning together in a spiral that drowned her sanity. Her sense of self began to blur and for a moment, she saw herself through the eyes of Urbos:

Just a girl kneeling in a cage of light, trying to save people from something bigger than herself.

Blood ran in soft trails from her nose, her brow, her chin, pooling at her knees. Her hands gripping that damned bell. Her mouth moved, but no sound escaped.

Panic swallowed her.

And then—she was Farren again.

And yet still, she was drowning.

The bell pulsed.

The last threads tangled in her hands. She wasn’t done. The weave had to be finished. The bell had to be whole.

Her ribs spasmed again, the pain on top of everything else, sharp and unbearable.

And before she even realized she was doing it, her voice cracked the room, crying out Aarno's name.

@Faramund @Aarno
 
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Despite the pain, in spite of the despair darkening his thoughts, Faramund grinned at Aarno's question, every bit the warrior he had once known himself to be. 'With tooth and bloody claw, if needs be,' he replied, piling on the faux bravado til it soured on his tongue. He nodded, then, throat tightening as the orkin departed.

Go with grace, Aarno Latva. Bring our girl home.

Watching his Knight-Brother head out, Faramund sat for awhile in silence, his eyes on the door and the swirling mist beyond. Muffling sound, robbing the world of light, it swallowed everything and everyone, like a hungry predator, teeth bared in gleeful grin. Mocking. Daring him to ignore Davina's warning, to pick up his sabre and go after his brother, his... friend. Why the Hel did I allow that to happen? He wondered with a grimace, wound twinging as he laid back down upon his driftwood bed.

Time passed, though he couldn't be sure of how long. Exhausted, lost in the fog of his own mind, he slipped into a restless slumber. Racked by dreams and visions of death, he woke with a start to find himself in an unfamiliar room.

Clarity returned swiftly. With it, came a sense of foreboding that Faramund couldn't quite shake.

A voice drew his gaze across the room to where a figure stood, back turned to him as they busied themselves tidying the place up. It took him a moment to recognise Davina. She appeared tense. Too rigid by half. She tried to hide it, but Faramund didn't miss the glimmer of a blade being pulled. Her words reeked of accusation and vested anger. As if she had the right.

'You would know,' he growled, forcing himself to sit, feeling like a corpse masquerading as a human. 'You brought it here, did you not?'

His fingers curled against the table's edge as Farren- Davina approached. The knife was a small thing, blade about the length of his index. Still, it was sharp enough to do the job; Faramund found that out when she pressed it to the base of his chin, nicking him in the process. He smiled as his eyes met hers, unfazed. When she spoke of secrets and burials, his smile widened, a feral edge to the expression that had Davina's brow furrowing.

Buried worse things than I? He chuckled. Doubt it.

'I am what I've always been,' he answered her, tired, and sick to death of her stubborn scowls. 'Unfortunately for us both, I happen to care a great deal about your coz. I'd like to say she's safe with me, but that would be a lie.'

His hand came up in a flash, seizing the knife before Davina could drive it home. Leather creaked as his fist tightened about the blade, pulling it aside with an ease that belied his diminished strength. He barely noticed how it cut through the glove. His blood was up, pulse pounding in his ears as he held Davina in his gaze. Brown-gold...

And black.

'Honestly, I'm not sure which of us is the bigger monster.' Feeling the knife slip from betwixt Davina's fingers, Faramund picked it up, only to bury it in the wood by his side. 'Me, the knight with no past and no future, whose very existence puts the Order in jeopardy? Or you. Shapechanger, spirit-binder, a woman so arrogant she takes shortcuts where there are none?' Grinning, he leaned in, nausea pressing against his temples as the room span and span some more.

'Granted, that's a bit rich coming from one such as I. But then I've never taken the lives of those I consider my brethren. Alas, the same cannot be said for your neighbours.' Or your husband, wherever he may be, thought the Pretender, biting his tongue.

'It was your fuck-up that drew Farren into this mess,' he accused her, with a touch of vitriol. Shame followed, and he sighed, pulling back, his anger spent on the very person that had helped save his life, undeserving as he was. 'I don't much care what happens to me, Davina,' he said, pressing a palm into his eye. 'But the others? Eight guide me, if something were to happen to them...' He let the thought go unfinished.

Wrenching the knife from the wood, he held it out to the healer, hilt-first, arm trembling slightly.

'I am what I've always been,' he repeated the words, tone hoarse. His expression softened. 'And some things I'm not.'
 
To steel his own nerve against the thunder of sound and the shifts in the ground beneath his feet, he’d kept his look upon the door with singular purpose until the brilliance of a shattering ward had finally forced him to press his lids shut. The metal of blood and old plaster dust mingled with the smell of rotten wood, splinters giving way to an interior that offered a palette no less dingy. Like a cavern it yawned, dark and dank and humming with a promise.

I am vast. I have an appetite. Dare.

The whistle he let fall from where it’d hovered before his mouth, closing it to a grip within a bare palm. He couldn’t have let go of it even if he’d wanted to, for all its knowing and the purpose it yearned to fill. We are so close now. Go.

Like the hand of a friend before two should jump, as per a promise made with ardent love, he clutched the armonium harder than he should’ve had the right to and stepped forth. One, two, three, faster, lest any inch of hesitation betray him. Didn’t look past his shoulder to see how anything beyond the lighthouse fared, sundered or intact, whether Svala had stayed or bolted.

Sorry, girl.

*​

The blackness within had given no resistance, but touched all the same as liquid did, unpleasant. There was no sound, no light, no nothing. The definition of a void. More than doubt the spell, he extended the courtesy to himself and his senses. Fallible, unsharpened.

He tried to breathe, calm and steady. You have everything you need. Did he? His own exhale left him loud as a gust, asteam and humming in the ears, the soles of his shoes scraping as he shifted in place. There is a floor. He glanced down at it, seeing nothing, but at least he could feel it. That was something.

Blind, he squat down to try it with his palm. Cool as stone was, but without it’s silence. This one spoke, spun a tale about itself, and had blood which it could bleed. That bright, warm light, somewhere deep and forgotten as a centuries old promise. He strained to hear, armonium chiming as he clicked a tune on the floor with the butt of the whistle. Wrong end against the wrong side, a tune without playing.

Speak louder, damn you.

Beneath the metallic echo that looped, there were more voices. They grew clearer, too clear, materializing into the swimming empty. They rung all around at first, then focused to a point. And he was on his feet at once, going for it, keeping just about upright against the tectonic lurch of the ground beneath.

Something was happening.

“ Farren? “ He called out, not daring to shout for how desperate his voice sounded. Silver rippled to view, faint at first, until it grew to a flame that ripped the void apart. From it that familiar voice he’d wanted to hear keened out, shrill with agony and no other syllable but those of his name.

The fluid in the air burned away to dry heat and the static of thunder. A great light and the sight of her within it, twisted and bent beneath what was pain well past overmuch. And yet she toiled, holding on, surrounded by that cold fire.

But hark, an eclipse. A shadow greater than it had been on the outside when he’d first seen it hovered with jealousy and possessive malice. It yearned, it wanted, it craved — life, death, a liminality betwixt, an end and a new beginning, wholeness at expense of oneness — and it felt it was owed. None of those things he could give.

The whistle in his grip flickered and the thing snapped to attention. A jolt of horror clawed at his gut as it begun to move, but somehow— wrong. Like it didn’t see him entire, but knew by some other instinct. We are here, but not here. Run.

It heard him as he launched to a sprint. Swiped claws as he passed it just so, missing as he held his breath and ducked. He braved the binding circle therein, leaping through the chill of shroudflame to whom he’d come so far to seek.

“ I’m here. “ He said, watching the meaning ripple in the inches of air as he took a knee by her, perching a hand on a tense shoulder. Felt it weak and waning and for that alone dared not feel further, but looked past her at what strayed the edge of the little haven, pacing with the scrape of claws and all too many shifting red pinpricks for eyes.

“ She is not for you to keep. “

For the second time, would the whistle sing. For all the breath he’d left.
 
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