The man looked feral. Wild in the eyes, uncharacteristically skittish and disoriented, clutching both bloodied sabre and the body he’d brought along. That the child, then? Trinemorro.

His gaze traced the response and gesture, brief and unhelpful as they were. Back there — Wherein a fight of some sort had transpired. Had they split up on purpose, to disorient possible pursuers? Or on some sort of depraved heroics?

This had been the worst idea. A non-plan.

The armour flickered softly as it’s silent staring was prompted to new attention, to questions asked in turn and with escalating urgency. Where is Bebin, hmh. He wanted to laugh, something dark and mirthless, but one had to figure it would’ve been the worst he could’ve possibly done. He let the oppressive beam of light fall away at their feet, the hand holding the hammer brought up to flip up his visor. To see eye to eye.

His had no humour as it fell upon Faramund like a lead weight — heavy and wholly bereft of feeling. What the fuck am I doing here, indeed.

“ Your guess is as good as mine, for I am here for the same reason you are. Because Syr Theros told me to. “ And with about as much instruction. A grand pack of fools, all of them, ready to be carted about the town square. Fucking—

“ Where himself is at present, eludes me. I don’t exactly know where we are, even. “ He tried to keep the anger from his voice, but felt it twisting something ugly upon his face. Serpents beneath the skin, desperate to crawl out in so many words neither of them had the time for.

“ Is that her? “ He merely glanced at the child about Syr Faramund’s neck, noting none of the whispering. “ Because if it is— “ The torchlight about the edge of vision had begun distancing, the knights' preoccupation with one another taken advantage of by the youth that’d fled. In the halls about them, footfalls thundered, voices called. So much wasted time.

“ I suggest we get the fuck out of here already. “
 
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Faramund did not relax. Could not, in truth. His worst nightmare stalked the passageways before and behind. Always close, always just out of sight. The Shaper. 'I... This is her, yes.' The dawnling fidgeted, uncomfortably hot beneath the folds of his stolen robes.

How well they seemed to fit.

'I... t-think that might be the wisest decision we'll ever make.' Yes. Escape. Mina buried her face against his shoulder, mewing softly as the cultists grew nearer. Faramund could hear them now. The chanting, the footsteps, the threat their faith presented to the unworthy.

Putting Mina down for a moment, the dawnling took off his robes, and fed them to the nearest flame.

'No, no, don't let him take me. Don't, don't...'

'Hush, now,' whispered Faramund, taking hold of her hand. 'He's a friend, he's here to rescue you.' Mocking laughter filled Faramund's mind as he looked to Oliver, a plea hidden behind eyes, brown-gold in the black of a lightless place.

No hope, no freedom. I will never be free...

'Lead on, Syr. I... I trust you'll do what needs done, come what may.' The girl's safety mattered most. She was living proof that not all lives were of equal worth. Especially where he was concerned.

Drawing a clay sphere from a pouch on his belt, Faramund affixed a fuse before tossing it onto the flaming pile of robes behind them. 'Something to remember us by,' he grinned, finding in the expression a mote of his former self. 'Now, what was that about fucking off?'

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
The knight gathered desperate momentum with each subsequent step, every footfall seeking to rob him of precarious balance. Jagged rock clawed his heels as sturdy branch raked his face. New wounds opened before others had time to heal. Ever the burden of a knight. A truth all too real.

He could hear the drums echo through the Mount and it spurred him forward. No doubt the entirety of the cult descended upon his companions. An irony, for it reassured Castor. This cacophony could only mean that they still lived, even if being hunted without abandon. He wondered at Faramund and the child. He wondered at that soulless gaze. He wondered at steeled determination. He wondered which was real.

Castor stopped, the time for wondering had passed and with conviction renewed he set off once more.

Then, a pressure, of which the magnitude he could barely comprehend. The forest ahead seemed to groan under the weight of some unknown iniquity.

Shaky but not cowed, the sworn drew his blade. Castor'd not survived the belly of the beast to be consumed now.
 
The sound of rock sheared from rock. As the woods broke, and the earth did shake. A silver eye gleams through the dark. Singular and large. A dull silver moon, all its own, there betwixt the darkness. There between the black boughs of the old leafless maples and firs.

It bleeds the feint and familiar blue. 1737184228392.webp

A pulse that ripples out until it pings against four stones. Cardinal in their fixed orbit about the largest oculus. Silver, just as the first.

The five eyes of pewter transfixed their sightless gaze upon Castor. The bulk behind them shift, many knuckled digits twitch and spread like the fingers of terrible hands, cloaked by wings that rustle and snap as they fold back, and the thing stands to its height.

A construct. A thing stitched together and reinforced. Born from that same womb that still held so many souls. That same place that had spat Castor out, and other horrors with him.

It's mal-shaped head twitched and ticked mechanical, this way and that, as it stalked towards the Knight Sworn with long probing steps. All the while its horrible fingers fiddled and plucked at strings unseen about it.

Threads of shroud pulled tight. Thrummed and stilled.

The Knight would feel it. The air about him thinning. The magick in his veins, waning. Twitch by multi limbed twitch.

Streaks of blue flame struck from the darkness. The construct spun round, bat a great wing about them. The bolts of loch-laden arrows were struck aside, like so many annoying gnats. They spun and clattered against dirt and stone. The construct's head clicked and twitched. It's pewter-sphere eyes twist and spun. Searched. Found.

The thing, near twice the size of any man, bolt through the darkness of the woods with frightening speed.

Whimper as she did. Clutch as the child did. She trust the man she knew, and held tighter to him stull, against the black armored terror that lay within the dark walls of their silence. The organge-gold of fire cracked to life, and painted a duller red against that bleak tower of a man, who held so strong a hammer in his hand.
 
A yes.

All that he could’ve wanted in such a simple thing — one word to open the world, to allow exit from the forsaken dark. And yet— How they would linger, for so many precious seconds, but not out of temerity. He found himself moored almost against his will, caught up in the sight of it all, the gravity of how exactly he’d been met and was continuing to be met within these walls. By Kin, the man he’d both seen and heard much of and if asked, he may have claimed to know.

This was not in line. The man appeared almost sick, letting the girl down and hassling out of his robes, all nerves and that strange look about his face. More profoundly aghast — upon such a verbose man, that he’d struggle with his words was concerning enough. Doubt wormed into every fiber like a disease, consumptive, nothing but the silence and flicker of fire upon him as he observed. A fidget, a stutter, a tale —the truth even— and a long look. And the most foreboding thing he’d ever heard in his entire life.

“ What needs be done. “ He repeated deadpan, not questioning as he was beyond asking and neither accepting as the hour for requests had long passed. Acknowledgement was all that his steady tone would deal, left in the air. Aloof and discontented.

What was your solitary confinement in the past year for, Faramund?

The robe caught flame, illuminating wherein they stood. I heard of it, but there was so little detail— Perhaps I was compromised, in my own way. Had he asked, then?

Come what may. Since when had faith left them all so profoundly, even Syr Faramund would submit to uncertainty and cluelessness. To be lead, a ranger, him of perpetual vanguard, always with a plan and a way out.

Was this the plan? Does he know something — would himself know what needs be done when he saw it?

The rivets on the black gauntlet shifted as his grip grew tighter about the hammer haft.

“ I’d rather they didn’t remember us, truth be told. “

A fuse sparked to life, as did Syr Faramund’s personality, marking their leave settled and himself bold enough to turn his back. He counted down the length of the fuse in his mind as they ran, to have some other sound than just their footfalls and the echoes of all manner of agony come reaching from the halls. Drums?

Don’t let him take me — What had they done to her? Was he the suspicious one, somehow changed. He knew he was, had been, but he damn well was also himself. Right now. Syr Faramund had recognized him, had he not?

Had he?

He put down the visor. Detonation rippled the tunnels, loosed dust from the ceiling and sent things skittering, a huff of draft at their backs. Trust. Against instinct he wouldn’t look past his shoulder, stare fixed to the end of whichever corridor as he kept tally of the lefts and the rights and what the floor sounded like and the little quirks about the walls he’d seen before. Where he’d come from.

There were souls, shambling, scratching at the walls, lost. After a turn, some would seem to stand in their way, perfectly lucid and with whole lot of sightless nonsense about their lips, the fresh night air looming behind them. Something rumbled in the Mount, urging none to slow down. As he swung the hammer, it was with nothing but merciless anger.

Castor had better be alive, somewhere. For if he wasn’t, Oliver himself would have no choice but to resign, effective immediately, and with more words attached than he’d ever intended.

After which he’d find a way to bring Castor back, in short order, so the man would get to suffer on his foolish life. Just as the rest of them would have to.
 
Taking Mina in his arms, Faramund followed after Oliver, like a hound might its master. Sounds travelled far and wide, disturbing the senses, and throwing off what little remained of the dawnling's own. We need to hurry, he thought, repeating the words like a mantra, over and over and over again in the vain hope that they might help him to focus.

He knew it was over, that they were going to die here, their mission a failure. Sightless swarmed the tunnels behind them, drawn from the deepest reaches of the Mount, where no light could reach. Fanatics, blinded by their faith.

How pointless it all seemed in that moment. Hopeless. The Order had warred with the Cult before, a long time ago in the distant past. They had believed their foe vanquished, His champions slain, armies scattered to the winds. Complete victory. An evil expunged, body and soul.

If that were true, then why are we here? It was a good question. But perhaps not the right one. Not then, not now.

'I'm... cold.' Looking down at the bundle in his arms, Faramund felt himself slip further and further into the darkness. Mina, he had to remind himself, legs pumping, beating at the ground that would be their tomb. Mina. And he is Oliver, my friend, my comrade. How dishonest it felt, to consider him such.

For a second, Faramund was unsure of what he was doing: following... or pursuing?

The question passed from his mind as he felt cold air on his skin. 'The way out!' He exclaimed, a hopeful smile blooming on his face. There were figures ahead of them. Were they fleeing, too? Some were. Others were running the wrong way, shouting obscenities and waving objects that glistened in the light of the moons beyond.

Friends. Faramund smiled. Brothers and sisters, here to help us.

One, a woman in black, ran directly at him. She had a barbed whip in her hand, a strange weapon that danced wildly with each step she took. She was smiling too, though Faramund wasn't sure he liked the look in her eyes. He wasn't sure he liked anything about her.

The whip came down, blindingly fast.

Faramund's sabre came up to meet it, taking a hand in the process. Screams filled the tunnel. Angry shouts. Oliver led, swiping left and right with his hammer, clearing a path. Mina seemed oblivious to it all, her own terror taking the form of silence as Faramund battled his way through, fear inspiring him to new heights. Sightless circled and fell, sliced or battered or bled dry. Their bodies became obstacles for those next in line to die.

Stars swam across the knight's vision as he staggered, turning his back to Oliver. Chests heaved from exertion. Blood dripped from weapons and wounds suffered. Cold air, like that which awaited them outside, pulled at the dawnling's dark clothing. He looked up.

Stars. So many stars.

'We made it,' he breathed, arm falling numbly by his side. Fatigue dragged him to his knees. Mina clung to him still, fair hair matted with blood that wasn't hers. 'Did we?' She asked, gazing up at him. Her pale face was devoid of any joy or hope. 'I'm cold,' she said again, trembling as another gust of wind overcame them.

Footsteps made Faramund look up sharply. His eyes went wide.

In the shadows of the Mount, a red mask hovered. Watching.

@Oliver @Bebin @Castor
 
It crashed before him like the Mother shards of old but what emerged was far from wondrous.

"What in the unholy fuck-" words failed as the monstrosity strung a shrouded tune. He could feel what little will remained being puppet from his very soul.

A flash of familiar blue and the grip released, saving him from whatever nightmarish end this thing had in store.

Castor had only a moment to regain his wits, instinctively reaching for the vial at his side. Glass shattered at the five-eyed horror's feet as it sprang into motion. Yet a faint wisp of the vial's vapor latched onto the creatures leg before it disappeared into the night. The sworn had already begun running in pursuit as his eyes misted red, giving him a faint trail to follow.

Here he was desperately pursuing an overgrown flea after escaping the blighted pits themselves. He'd have laughed if he had the breath to spare.

Hopefully his brother was better prepared for the dread that rapidly descended upon him.
 
Stride after long stride, the thing with all its knobby limbs, and its malformed wings, broke through the forest. Clawed feet ripped through the earth with talons like steel. Red vapors woven by Castor about an ankle like broken chain.

Another plink of blue came shot through the dark of the woods. Stuck in to the greyed flesh of the creature. It did nothing to stop it from leaping into the air, fingers splayed. It gave a strong beat of its wings that lifted it up the higher into darkness. A slip of mirrored woods fluttered from the treetops. Limbs from no where moved to action.

A crash. A break through the branches and a storm of debris as all those terrible knuckles and joints snapped pointed ends at prey the pewter eyes did see. Ripped the mirror silk fabric to ribbons. Followed the warm flesh there behind it. Followed those strings of shroud that glittered and shone in the light of its false eyes.

Struck with the last points of its segmented limbs.

Blood spilled across the forest floor, and the soil so near to Umbral Mount, drank it deep.
There it hung. In Faramund's eye.

1737862585675.webpThat red mask. How it hung there in the darkness. Amidst the crowd of Sightless that spilled out. White robed, blood stained. Knotted hands wound tight about daggers and clubs. The faces of so many dead men. Slain. Here and afield.

Still, that red mask loomed.

As it had then whence first his son's eyes had come open. Perfect. Loyal. Child of that red masked maker. Of all those siblings that had come before. Come still. Cut down by the very blade held in hand.

His child. His home. His kin. Amongst so many stars.

Mina let her eyes come close, and she rest her head against Faramund. Her thin arms squeezed about him. "We are almost free," she whispered to him.

In the woods, the sound of boughs breaking, branches snapping, earth shaking.
 
Something was and remained hideously off. They may have broken outside, surfaced from a dream — a nightmare — to where the trees promised shelter and the realm opened again as far as the eye could see, but nothing had changed. Not the exhaustion about them, not the sobs of little more than corpses abandoned within the Mount, not the pressure of knowing too much. The shadows and the cold, though different out here, didn’t feel that way.

He put his shoulder to it, ramming another poor, crazed person with a knife off himself. They stumbled and he followed, planting a boot on their chest as the hammer swung to snuff out the lights. The force extended by his arm made sure it’d be for good, each time. There’d be no playing around, anymore.

Had there ever been, really? It’d not been difficult for so long, to forego mercy or even doubt the justification of it, that he barely entertained it having been any other way. What despair does— Why did it sound like an excuse?

The helm echoed with an angry huff as he pulled the hammer free to stillness that’d descended to the path like an assassin. He wanted to curse but refrained, as if the very calm about them was somehow fragile, just waiting to shatter at the smallest opportunity. Lifting the visor ajar, he took a deeper breath of the fresh air and settled to hover, fighting the fatigue that threatened every cooling muscle. Beyond it were voices, familiar, bidding him to turn at the man and the child about his arms. Had they made it, truly?

Wearily, betraying not a thought nor feeling, he watched the two of them. Nothing about the flinch upon Syr Faramund’s dejected figure was lost to him, how those dark eyes looked at whence the three of them had come mere minutes prior. He traced that haunted stare and looked too, but saw nothing. Approaching, coming all the way to Syr Faramund’s side, changed naught of the fact.

He wanted to ask what preoccupied him so, but chose against it. Not so much for fear what he’d have to hear of and therein open his imagination to, but for the simple fact it didn’t matter. Another day, another horror — it was all the same to him now.

“ We have to go, Faramund. “ He stated, more in means of order than mere remark. And I need you to stand up, right this damn instant. Looping the hammer, he took a knee. “ I’ll carry her the rest of the way out of here. “

Despite the fact he might have to fight her for it, he reached out.
 
'I wish... I could believe you.' Shivering in the cold mountain air, Faramund hugged the girl tight to his chest, protecting her from a threat only he could perceive. Dead men and women regarded him from the Mount's open maw. Unmoving. Unblinking. Am I to blame for their suffering? He wondered, recognising many among their number, people he had slain personally.

They were no different to him. He knew that. Empty canvases painted upon by an impure mind. Tools to be used and discarded as soon as they were no longer of any value to their creator. The Shaper. How "Faramund" despised that title.

Why didn't he destroy me when he had the chance? The dawnling asked himself, feeling more like the man he had believed himself to be, once upon a time. I am flawed, defective. If I am truly of his progeny, why didn't he replace me when he had the chance? Faramund flinched suddenly, an unseen hand alighting upon his shoulder, like that of an old friend seeking to console him.

'We have to go, Faramund.'

Turning his face towards the voice, the knight considered its owner a moment. 'I know,' he said, comforting Mina as best he could given the circumstances. He glanced up sharply as something collapsed in the woods beyond the orkin's armoured bulk. Though he felt like curling up into a ball and sleeping for a thousand years, the dawnling managed to find his feet, rescuing the blade he had dropped in the process.

'No need, syr, I can carry her.' Order or no, he wasn't about to hand his charge over. I've carried her this far, he mused, adjusting his grip on his weapon, fully prepared to run until he dropped. If that's what it takes to escape this nightmare. Shroud-light glimmered in the near distance, flowing over root, weaving between boughs. They could not see the source of the noise, but they could determine its passage by sound alone.

'Still got enough strength in you to swing that hammer?' Faramund asked Oliver, strolling past the Pursuant and away from the Mount. The dead watched him leave. 'I've a feeling we're going to be needing it.'

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
Castor was struck by an eerie calmness as he continued his pursuit. His senses seemed to have fled him entirely. He couldn't heard the blood pumping in his ears nor the sound of his own ragged breaths. The scraping branches nothing more than a dull caress. A luxury which he currently had no capacity to appreciate.

His focus was entirely singular.

Head snapped upward as his mark took to the sky before dragging his vision violently level.

The sworn broke the copse of trees and into the clearing. What he saw there spurred him into action. He spoke words of power and blinked away his crimson-misted gaze. However instead of dissipating as usual, it suffused the wispy tether bound to the monstrosity's leg. Then for a brief instance, the aether found permanence in the real.

He yanked the chain hard and the horror stumbled.

Limbs flailed in indifferent irritation at the interruption. Castor'd brought the thing to its damned knees if only for a moment. More importantly, drawing its attention elsewhere; on him, to be exact.

Five-times blinded stalked towards the sworn in earnest this time.
 

Rattle and shake, the many-eyed-thing did. Step after taloned step. It measured. Its pewter eyes shift and slid, and turned ever-so-just. As limb after limb, like great and horrible fingers, plucked and pushed, and felt through the air. Grabbed and stroked at the chords of red.

Misted Shroud. Of stars of Old. Dwarven hearts set upon the black sea above.

Words most ancient whispered and rasped against Castor's ear. Inside. There behind the eyes. Just below the ears. Beneath the bone. They slipped. They sank and spilled. Utterance by utterance. The red mists dissipated from the mind.

The voices who first sang those verses, further and further away between the beat and pump of red heart. It dawns upon the darkness of a Dusker's mind. If the voices are lost. They will never come back. Their secrets. Their power. Gone. If the voices are lost.

A serpent of blue lake's glow, struck across the darkness. Slams fang into false flesh. Whole body whips and wraps round one limb, slips about two. The thing with wings stalls mid step. Eyes of pewter scan about with jerks and twists of stitched muscle under too-thick skin.

The Sentinel thrashes a beat of its wings, a gust pushes it back with the force of gales. It spreads wide its many fingers, and claws toward its own flesh, desperate to pry apart the serpent that bites and wraps and tries to break fingers at their knuckles, at their joints.

Words, old as the stars, whose light ripples across black lakes on moonless nights. So far between those days came last. A break. A splash. As life comes through that surface. A serpent, blue as loch's cool waves, bleeds into being, across rust scented line, pained along broad headed arrow. The serpent coils, the serpent hisses. Out from fingers dipped in red.

Iron stings Bebin's eye as he looks through cold grime, and warm blood. Heavy breath held strong full in broad chest. He lets loose. The bow arms snap. Forward flies the arrow, through new gust of wind. Its head sinks into the construct, as the first snake is ripped away, a new one finds its way. Around new fingers, where two are left clumsy and slow. Knuckles broken, joints popped.

The second snake dies twice as fast.
 
He took the denial like a brickwall, unimpressed and expressionless for it. By some miracle there was strength yet in the weary, newfound, like his very offer should’ve been an insult.

Maybe it had been.

In tune they stood and he relented his watch upon the pair, rotating on heel to see what rustled ahead. Shroud danced betwixt the trees and the rocks, faint light revealing the edges of fast moving shapes. He didn’t like how it sounded, whatever it was.

Scrambling about in the dark. Was Syr Theros in pursuit?

His mind snapped back to where they were, yet so many paces away. Syr Faramund seemed unsettlingly himself again, having strolled right on past with his usual swagger and banalities. They inspired in him a fair little, his heart so empty it may have as well have gone from his chest entire. No words manifested so he allowed silence reign, merely planting gauntlet to hammer, visor on visage and step after step, onwards.

Plain determination and residual anger willed haste upon him as they first marched, then jogged into the rumbling woodland. And finally, at the shimmer of spells and tremors of escalating struggle underfoot, he accelerated to a sprint. Branches gave way, scraping and scratching at the enchanted metal as he practically flew through the thicket.

Castor. The whistle of Death in the air. And— something. His world had grown too narrow for him to tell, but even the little he could make out was plenty. Too much. He didn’t slow down, didn’t think, didn’t breathe. His grip adjusted about the hammer, brandishing the pointy end as he swung and rammed into the monster all at once.
 
The dawnling could sense Oliver's disquiet, see the suspicion souring his thoughts. The hammer dangling from the orkin's fist was rock solid, Faramund noted, ready to use. At least it'll be over quick, he mused, fighting down a rising sense of guilt. The falsehoods he had told over the years, the lies he had lived had finally caught up to him, it seemed. Faramund had no doubts as to what he deserved.

But at least I managed to do one good thing in this life, he grimaced, arms locked tight around the one ember of hope he had left.

'What is that sound?' Mira asked him, her face burrowing into his shoulder as she tried to block out the noises issuing from the woods ahead. Watching the path, Faramund decided then and there that one more lie wouldn't hurt. 'Just the trees creaking in the wind,' he spoke softly, a gloved hand cupping the side of her head, blocking out the sound of growing violence, the hurts that resulted.

'Bit late in the eve for birdsong,' he continued, spotting the construct through the trees, Oliver moving ahead of him in order to engage fully.

Turning on his heel, he took an alternative route, stayed well away from the danger. He could not say for certain whether or not the construct could sense him. The pewter eye swivelled and spun, chasing the forms of his brothers about the clearing. When it passed over where he walked, it did not stop, or pause to consider the emptiness.

'Let's rest a moment, catch our breath.'

Taking a seat on a moss-covered rock, Faramund observed the fight unfolding in the clearing. He could not make out Bebin in the half-light, the canopy above serving only to deepen the shadows beneath. Castor, likewise, was nowhere to be seen, though the use of shroud-magic led him to question just how the dusker had made it out of the Mount ahead of them.

'He has his ways,' whispered Faramund, feeling that a little faith wouldn't go amiss right now.
'Who does?' Mira asked tiredly.
'My brother, Castor. He's a magini, a... shroudweaver. His magic is a sight to behold.'

'Is it?' Sitting up, the trinemorro child looked at Faramund, a strange glow in her eyes. 'Yes,' Faramund replied honestly, glad nobody was nearby to hear him say that. 'He'll be along shortly, I'm sure. You can ask him all about it then.'

'Can I?' Mira smiled, childish excitement joining the newfound hope they both felt after escaping the Mount. 'I would like that, very much.'

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
Bloodied and bruised, but just another day. Or so the knight tried to convince himself. Probably a wasted effort considering he stood not five meters from a horror not seen even in his worst nightmares. He struggled with sure grip, hands shaking with either fear or exhaustion, he wasn't sure. Castor'd likely been torn to shreds had Bebin not bought him a critical moment to collect himself.

This time the knight would not give the monstrosity a chance to change targets again. He pressed the attack, though it seemingly did little good as his blade was batted aside. Castor only got one more swing off before he was put on the defensive, parrying and blocking powerful swipes and thrusts. Yet he sensed that the creature was tiring. Possibly from pulling so heavily on the shroud to this point. There in that revelation did he find opportunity.

He side-stepped a haphazard strike as he channeled shroud through his blade. Death-coated steel flashed down, separating limb from body. Castor's satisfaction was short-lived as a remaining joint crashed into his side. The knight struggled to keep his footing as air was forcefully expelled from his lungs. He looked up, expecting another attack but instead found all five eyes transfixed upon him. Castor could not tear his gaze away neither could he move. This time he was well and truly fucked.

A blur caught Castor's periphery as Oliver crashed into the horror like a rampaging 'Lusian bull.

It was the most wonderful sight the dusker had ever seen. "About bloody time," he called out, unsure if the other knight could even hear him in his single-mindedness.
 
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