1739072242424.webpThe Hex-Taker dredged out the red chains from the waters of Castor's memory.

What words, what voices, what rituals had helped him weave the shroud as such, plucked from him. So the runes across the pewter eye burned with that familiar vaporous red.

A crash of shadowed silence, and the Hex-Taker stumbled back from the force of the slam. Its false flesh punched in by hammer's spike, but steeled bone held together there beneath weeping mouth where hammer stuck. It thrashed, almost in pain. Violent as a wounded beast. Clicks and screeching grinds where howls and cries remained muted.

The construct lurched forward. Its many fingers lashed out. Those five still capable limbs dart and grasped and raked at the Midnight Sun. That Silent Sentinel. Each thrust of digit with the force of a ram behind them as the Hex-Taker stalked, stepped, and spread its wings wide, weight loaded unto its long and powerful legs.

From the darkness of the woods, the voices of pursuing cultists could be heard bouncing about the darkness.

"The Taker hunts them!"

"His eyes will guide it!"

"It's eyes will guide us!"

Set in a pool of his own blood. A mangled leg bent wrong beneath him. Bebin pant for breath as he searched for those same voices. Knocked the penultimate arrow from his quiver unto his bow. Breathed in long and full breath. Felt through the Loch.

Five souls beyond. Though the peweter eye shined there in the darkness before him.

A groan, agony clamped shut behind a vice of teeth. His eyes opened, and he remembered where in he saw his prey creep. Raised his bow, loosed clean his shot.

A cultist died.

"There!" another from the rabble cried out. Like a swarm, the Sightless faithful sprang toward the darkness.

The last arrow loosed from Bebin's string. Another life ended. The cultists laughed.

Mina, all seeing within her three eyed gaze, stared hollow eyed at the field before them. "I would like that very much," she echoed. Though her voice rang cold with the reality before them. ​
 
There was a lot more weight and height meeting him than he’d anticipated, but by some miracle the thing still staggered on impact, launched to a scurry belongst to neither animal nor insect, but a grotesque combination of both. Where the hammer had struck twice in quick sequence, piercing skin, came a dark ooze that speckled the ground as the monster reeled and retaliated.

Everything beyond the strikes was lost to him, bent somewhere to the edge of focus as immediately unimportant. Voices — some speaking, some mere echoes of shouts in the night air. Were there more yet, coming?

Fuckwitpiece-of-shitbastard.

He deflected one of the limbs with a sidewise blow of the hammer and instantly regretted it, the force behind the strike great enough to convince him on the defensive. His shoulder at the end of the arm so easily cast aside ached like he’d just been lashed, almost pulled out of the socket. Half in a scramble he stepped aside from the way of another strike, quick and deadly as a scorpion stinger.

It’s eyes will guide us. Damn them all.

Gaining another step of distance as the being spread it’s wings, he pulled out the Rokitech device from the holster at his belt, pointed it upwards at what yet shimmered a leeched-out crimson and flicked the switch.

Concentrated shroudlight burst forward, more brilliant out here in the dark of the wood than it had within the firelit Mount, beaming directly at the great guiding eye in the face that wasn’t a face.
 
There were more of them coming. Faramund heard them before he saw them. Caught up in their own insanity, they praised the construct as if it was of their God's own design. In reality, it was the Shaper's creature, and it bent to the Shaper's will. Not that those fools knew that, blinded by faith as they were.

Misplaced. Foolish. Just like me.

'On your feet now, Mina.' Rising to his feet, he placed his one shot at redemption aside, and drew his sword. 'What're you doing?' Three eyes blinked in unison, each as dark and distant as the next. 'Are you going to fight them?' She asked, true sight revealing the path to Faramund before he had chance to tread. 'Are you going to win?'

'Maybe, possibly. We shall see.'
'Can I go with you?'

Sighing, the dawnling nodded. His brothers would likely kick his arse once they saw her with him. But he'd be damned if he left her alone out here in the woods. Again. 'Come along, then, and keep close.' Pine needles crunched beneath his boot heel as he ghosted towards the cultists. Bloodhounds three, they were closing in on the form of a fourth, cackling like hyenas.

A cackle became a cough as Faramund swept his blade up to take a throat. Three became two. Faramund flashed his teeth.

'Gentlemen! Why the long faces?' Propping his sabre on his shoulder, he circled, putting himself between the enemy and Bebin. Mina let go of the hem of his mail to squat down beside the dusker, her small hands seeking one of his.

'Bebs.' The dawnling greeted his brother. 'Thought you might be about. Please, don't get up on my account.' The cultists shared a look, decided then and there that he was no longer one of the faithful. That was okay.

It was about time someone faced the truth.

'Now, if you'll spare me a-' Whatever Faramund had been about to say died on his lips. The cultists charged as one, closing the distance faster than he expected. The dawnling went forth to meet them, parrying, dancing past one to throw aside another. Fatigue gripped him, slowing him down.

The Sightless struck again.

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
Castor watched the brutal duel between man and monster as his mind slowly reeled back to reality. He knew he couldn't sit here uselessly but there was no strength in his legs. Exhaustion had finally caught up, or the Hex-taker's gaze had sapped him. Didn't much matter when his brother was fighting for his life. Here he was, at the end of all things, a bloody wallflower.

The cries of approaching cultists did little to lighten his mood.

He took stock. What did he have? His wits, or enough of them. A grimoire, laden with all manner of things best avoided. And just enough shroud-reserve to go along with a lifetime of poor choices. So in summary, pretty fucking dire.

Desperately flipping through pages he finally arrived at his least-bad idea. He took the final remaining vial from his side and placed it before him. There he quickly began to draw ancient markings into the dirt around it. Castor muttered old words as the shroud left him and empowered the runes. Ritual finished, he clasped this small, fragile hope.

Now all he needed was an opening, which the Hex-taker was not one to give. Yet Oliver, wondrous Oliver, was seemingly a step ahead yet again. Blinded by brilliant light, Castor made his gambit. The vial shattered on the horror's 'face' as five shrouded fingers took form. They dug into the Hex-taker's eyes, black ichor seeping from the wounds. It flailed frantically in an attempt to rid itself of the spell but it was too late, Death's touch had delved too deep. Sickly dark veins webbed across the Taker's skin as the horror slowly began to shrivel.

There it lay, a husk of its monstrous self desperately clinging to the final vestiges of its pitiful existence.

"Do me a favor would you brother? Smash that fucking bastard's head in."
 
Death's touch had delved too deep.

For mortal eyes to see.

Spasm and bleed as the Hex-Taker did. The spell worked within the rivers of its motion. Five fingered hand The energies that pumped its magitech heart, pump-a-pump-pump. Hissed. Steamed. Out of its wounds. Through its limbs. Skin bulging and bubbling. Almost set to pop. As so much shroud coalesced within this thing, birthed from Umbral Mount.

The shroud grew thinner. Stank. Hurt to weave, as all the cold colors of blues and purples toned to greys and whites about them.

Those black veins which webbed across its skin, gathered at the joints of its own digits. Five fingers. Pop, pop, popped. The metal bones inside flung like boughs broken free by a winter storm. Set to crash and spin out in sharp shards that threatened to cut down Castor.

Rid of its sickness. Rid of its disease. The Hex-Taker popped and convulsed itself back onto its feet. Black bile, Blight turned ichor, spilled in gouts across the forest floor. Slick as it sloshed across the cold frozen earth. The construct, stalked upon the joints of its large and spiny wings. A silver eyed bat out of some horrid hell amidst a field of putrid rot.

The runes upon its eyes glowed red. Through all the colorless grey, Castor's same red chains burned out of the black ooze at Oliver's feet. Grasped and tried to shackle about his ankles. It, unlike mortal flesh, could wield the fetid Shroud that now soiled this place. The great single eye spun about its socket. The moons which orbited it glowed in turn. Purple, blue, black. A serpent swam across the mirrored surface of its eye.

Whatever Faramund was doing. Mina had fallen away from him. Taken refuge in the darkness. Her three eyes wide as she watched the world around her, so set to dance. Her wide moon stare glowed. Purple, blue, black.

A cultist got Faramund's back. Magicked knife scraped and rattled against chain. Only its curse. Purple runed and fueled by a malice that was shrieked from Sightless throat, its curse went through mail like butter. Cut. Wound. Scratched. Little lines that searched for that true and final stroke.

Bebin grit his teeth. Weight shifted onto his mangled leg as he sprang forward, knife drawn as flesh tore and bone popped. His broad hand slipped around one Cultist's throat, arm flexed and whole body twist the man away from Faramund as the Pursuant shout. Agony hot across his own throat. His knife plunged through ribs, through arteries. Through flesh. Again and again as they squabbled in the filth.

One more, stood before Faramund.
 
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To the great luminance slipped a spell that’d bind the many-eyed monster to a world of agony. Heaving for breath within so much silent armour, he barely kept from stumbling in his hurry to back away from the thrashing, of limbs and a gaze that once saw everything and now saw nothing. Metal ejected from flesh like javelins, the very fabric of air was bent and torn, an iridescent haze about where the thing collapsed. Something like tendrils of fog came from the device in his hand, making the light flicker and bounce like it were a candle teased by draft, until it finally went out. And so came the dark again, so much darker than he’d remembered it.

And in there, someone would yet speak.

“ Castor. “ His voice echoed out from the helm, steady if a little breathless. “ I thought you’d gone and died. “ You bastard, he may have added, had he been able to afford the emotion of it. His body protested even the simple act of stopping, let alone the concept of relief that’d quickly bring a weight in his throat, arm in motion as he swallowed it down and holstered the dead contraption.

“ Your shoulder. “ He merely remarked for want of something more to say, anything against the unbidden sinking in his chest, his body starting nigh mechanically back to motion in latent heeding of the Dusker’s request. But there was no going far for him.

Something snagged, stealing momentum from his step, then pulled. The sticky, unsettlingly animate sludge about the ground splattered as he staggered, force to a knee. " Fuck! " Came wanton betwixt his teeth, loud, as chain wrapped about metal, tighter. A grub of panic spawned in his gut, crawling, expanding to a swarm as tremors gave away the monster's new rising.

A yell erupted in the woods, just audible to his notice. He didn’t dare watch ahead, not behind, not around, not at Castor. We’ll all die. He swung the hammer wildly, forcing his leg free. As another chain lashed out for his wrist, seizing it, he slipped his hand out of the gauntlet and scrambled away along the ground, kicking another fragment of the spell away.

We’ll all fucking die here, right now. None will find us.

He couldn’t breathe. The air felt thick and toxic, fragmented Shroud making it swim from colour to colourless, little pale bursts like afterimages of a sun floating on the edges of vision. Shape and magnetism about the Hex-Taker were bending as if tossed by waves at Sea and when he spied the ground he saw pebbles softly levitating. Inches off the dirt. The thing of corrupt flesh gave an insectoid rattle, then a hiss, a blue glow in its eye as spells danced within the abused frame, renewed. From where its limbs once were, the oozing wounds, came that blue light of another spell. Of Loch, stolen.

His bare hand went for the knife at his belt.
 
It was going to end soon, one way or another. Faramund could feel it in his bones. Death creeping up on him, hovering just over his shoulder, waiting for him to slip up and so end this sorry affair for good. Only it wouldn't end, not the way he wanted it to.

The Shaper would never let him go. He could be cold and rotting in the ground and still it would find a way to bring him back. To torment him further, break him so that he could be rebuilt, better and stronger than before.

Faramund could not say what scared him most: the thought of dying, and leaving so much unsaid, or the knowledge that he would not be gone for long.

It didn't matter. Why fear what had not yet come to pass? Why fear at all?

Parrying, turning blows aside, the dawnling focused on the cultist left standing. Shortsword met sabre in a clash of sparks. A dagger came underhand and Faramund slapped it aside with the flat of his palm. He could see the rune-glow clearly in the half-light. Magic-imbued steel. Nasty, but less of a threat to him. His armour, on the other hand, may as well have been made from wet parchment, the good it did him.

Blood darkened the mail covering his back, soaked the gambeson beneath. He felt no pain, saw no reason to amuse screaming nerves. Swords clashed, the blade-dance not yet done. He knew to fall would be to condemn his brothers to death, those three brave men whose love and faith inspired him to be a better person.

No doubt that would change after tonight. But why fear what had not yet come to pass?

Ducking, getting in behind his opponent, Faramund brought his sabre down on the back of his neck, chopping through the rusted aventail to half-sever his head. It was not a clean blow, the death-stroke delivered poorly. Faramund could not find it in himself to self-criticise.

Falling down, the cultist landed in the dirt with a heavy thud. Leaf litter scattered to settle around him in a loose circle. Wiping his blade clean, Faramund crossed to where Bebin lay motionless in the dusk.

"Still... alive?" He asked Mina, grabbing the second cultist's corpse and dragging it off of Bebin.

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
"Not sure my shoulder's the worry," grated the knight, glancing down to his abdomen. There was Castor's grimoire seemingly pinioned to his own body by a metallic shard. He'd brought the tome up just in time and it had blunted much of the projectile's deadly force. Hadn't stopped the damn thing from lodging itself in his stomach. Couldn't have been that deep otherwise he'd be conversing with the worms instead. He figured he could see it through if treated in the proper order.

But the nightmare was not over, it had only gotten worse.

Blight and bile. Corrupted shroud. No options.

Time in the Mount had adjusted his eyes to the eerie darkness which shadowed the mountain. He saw Oliver's desperate bid to free himself of what was once Castor's own spell. The sworn looked around for anything that could be of use. Vials spent, shroud depleted, and dagger long since thrown. His blade lay uselessly at his side. He couldn't stand let alone close the distance in time.

One final poor decision was still in the cards. He took a deep, ragged, breath as his good hand clasped the shard lodged in his stomach. The knight gave an almighty heave as he pulled it from his body. Castor would've screamed bloody murder if he'd the energy left to do so. The sworn leveled his gaze and threw the thrice-fucked thing right back where it came.

He managed place his hands on the open wound as he began to slip from consciousness. A futile gesture if there ever was one.

Castor knew miracles didn't happen twice.
 
​

Fallen. Steel drawn. Dragging. Alive.

With three eyes open, Mina saw all there was to see. The stolen serpents that slithered through the blighted mire. Coiled within a body, not unlike her own. So full of secrets. So full of magicks woven from the shroud. Taken from these brothers.

She heard not Faramund's question. She felt not the cold of the night, nor the darkness it bore. She saw the coiling snakes, fanged and hissing as they wound their way through streams of foulness. Alight with the cold blue of Loch. Like stars painted across mirror lakes. She reached out a hand, through that inky darkness of the night, and curled her fingers tight.

To pull on the threads of Shroud, despoiled as they might be.

A screech and a thrash from the Hex-Taker, its wings spanned out, in something like pain as it thrashed. Its wounds oozed the more. The light, stolen, glowed the brighter. Burned like the stars and went out.

The knife, strong held, sank, and sank. Slashed. Stabbed. Tore apart reshapen flesh. Clanged against bones, made of stronger steel. The Hex-Taker's eyes, swiveled and swerved as its mouthless visage clicked. It bat at the Sunless Sentinel with its wings. Slammed spine and spike against the Monastery's best. Slower. Weaker. As pungent steam hissed from its wounds.

From the darkness, a shard of blightsteel flew. Plinked against a pewter eye that cracked, and set the creature to stumble step. It caught itself with the hooks of its wings. Struggled to stay standing. Hobbled a stride away. All convulsion and twitch, almost like agony.

The blight it bled. The blight that pooled. Bubbled and hissed. Boiled.

Mina's eyes misted red. Both hands splayed forward, she flexed her fingers toward the beast. Chain after red chain shot out from the black pool of blight. Shackled and chained the creature down. Hooked it down. Pulled it to the ground where it struggled to set itself free. Eyes spinning inside and out.

tools1-AV.webpBeneath the cultist, Bebin huffed. Panted. Blood drenched. Leg mangled, and knife still in hand. "Always taking your sweet time," he said through pained grin. "My leg is..." he grit his teeth to keep from losing his waking mind. "Compromised, I'm no good to move, go on with the others, I'll make do,"
 
Though he was much too weary and terrified, he opened up the visor to the cold air and breathed in, lingering an additional second. Truly unsure whether he ought to have just staid down here, laid to rest for these last little moments. The dirt shook, sinking beneath a step as Death approached. He could see more of it now, just as it could see more of him, and he didn’t particularly enjoy the sight.

You’d let that thing kill you? Already?

The knife came out in a flash. He rolled over from way of a stomp, slashing at an enormous calf as he scrambled away betwixt the tall legs. It didn’t like it, wheeling around with those large wings snapping, stirring the ground at his wake. There wasn’t but to keep moving, locked in some grotesque dance, to sting at it at any opportune moment. Ligaments of the knee, a turned
back, wings that grew torn with little slashes. It leaped, breaking the spell and he stumbled aside, spinning on knee to bury the knife deep in its foot. That earned him a kick and he flew a whole of three yards, landing on his back and breathless for it. He rolled to his stomach, gasping.

But the kill didn’t come, didn’t descend upon his prone form. Instead, a sound like metal on metal and a wild reeling, like that of a disoriented, aghast animal. He hazarded a glance at it, confused, until the sight of Castor evaporated such small feeling. The man seemed to sway, holding onto his middle, eyes unfocused.

His mind rung empty, hollowed out, managing not even a curse. Teeth clenched, he forced himself up and struggled over, catching hold of the Sworn before his knees buckled. Unable to hold both himself and the man up, he sank to a knee and sat him down, one hand on the man’s shoulder.

“ Don’t slip now. “ He ordered, naked hand closing around his fellow knight’s gloved one, squeezing it. Just beyond it all, the monster scrambled like a stung pig. His dark eyes reflected the brilliant hues of Castor’s magic as it sprouted from the ground, resurrected for the second time. All too opportune — what the fuck was happening?

“ Hold on and don’t you dare go anywhere, Syr Vega. “ He said, kissing the back of his brother’s hand before letting go and, without asking, pulling the man’s sword from it’s sheath. To the motion he rose and went for the beast again, despite all the appearances of a trap and a bad idea to boot. It had happened once already.

Too easy?

Divine intervention or no, there were eyes need putting out and he wouldn't hesitate. The ungauntleted hand felt the leather of the grip against its palm, warm, curling tigher. The steel flashed red.
 
Squatting down beside the dusk-bound Pursuant, Faramund examined his injured leg, none too pleased by what he saw. 'You'll make do, eh?' He chuckled quietly. 'Got a spare leg tucked away 'neath that turban of yours, friend Bebin? Or do you plan on hopping back to Astenvale on just the one?'

Bleeding, and woozy from all the excitement, it took the dawnling several seconds to assess the severity of the injury. Several more to notice the ringing in his ears, and how his limbs trembled. Weakened as they were. The mirth fled.

Fuck, do I need to sit down.

With a heavy thud, Faramund plopped himself down in the dirt next to Bebin. The world span and righted itself, the crash and clatter sounding a million miles away all of a sudden. His eyelids drooped, and the ground reached up to catch him as he fell back, away from the light.

Hands caught him, kept him from coming adrift, and succumbing to the darkness entire.

'Faramund?' Opening his eyes, the knight stifled a curse as the hands probed the wounds to his back. 'You're bleeding,' the voice spoke again, sounding a lot like Mina's. Loch-light blitzed his vision, overcoming senses stretched thin, pulled taut like the shroud his brethren were so quick to abuse. 'Should I pack it with something? Faramund?!' Again, Mina spoke up, her delicate fingers scooping up handfuls of mud. Faramund blinked.

'I'll... do it.'

Forcing himself to sit up, the dawnling fumbled for the pouches on his belt. Pain knifed through him as he found his canteen, wadding to pack the wound with. 'Say, brother,' he said, arms angling with great difficulty. 'We should probably... do something about that leg,' he nodded, old lessons returning to him through the muddled soup of his memories. 'Can't... set the damned thing. Was always better at breaking bones than fixin' them. That said... I can at least make a splint, straighten it some.' Faramund smiled, grimaced.

'I know, I know, you'll make do. But what kind of asshole would I be, to leave you in this accursed place?'

@Mina @Castor @Oliver
 

1740117795146.webpIt hurt Bebin to laugh. It hurt Bebin to breath. To carry on. Past the point of exhaustion. Past the point of any mortal reason. As the horrible clicks and clangs, rattles and pangs sounded through the dark.

To have taken so much life.

Cultists. Sightless. The enemy. Arrows spent.

For what? Not a question he needed answered. Simply because those were his orders. He obeyed, because he had always known what lurked there, in the darkness of moonless nights and starless skies. In the Kingdom of Mud. Where Castor swam now. Where half Bebin's mind lay, as his eyes struggled to hold on to the light of the waking world.

"No worse than the one who got us here," the pursuant of Dusk said, his voice dark as the night that carried them. Pained breath sucked through teeth at the dawnling's clumsy ministrations.

The last pull of tired arms saw the makeshift splint come tight, and a choked groan escaped from Bebin's throat as he rocked back, eyes near rolled up into his skull. Cold sweat bead down the sides of his face, liked fingers come wipe away the warm and sticky filth of so much work.

He hung on.

A hand offered, a hand taken. Tired as each was, there was strength there for the other. A shift of weight onto Faramund. A hop, as the mangled leg burned cold. Ruined muscle and bone but dangled and shook the more with each stumbled hop.

Thrash as the creature did. Mina held the chains tight. Pulled them tighter, her fingers curled into fists. Her eyes, red as the Sworn Knight's mists. The shroud woven chains. The blight formed magicks, pulled the Hex-Taker down, and down against the ground.

Its wounded legs gave out. Its wings tried to flap. Its eyes. Swivvled. Scanned. Found the Sunless Sentinel with blade in hand. A screech errupted from its mouthless form. The sound wailed from the many mouths that were the wounds across its pallid flesh.

A trumpet call? A warning?

Fear.
 
The closer he was the tighter became the chains. Shrill sound erupted from what they forced to the ground, restrained to nigh immobility despite the struggle yet in those great limbs. Was it fear or was he just imagining it? Could something made to cause terror actually feel it?

What sort of a creator was sick enough to give it capacity for that?

His last couple steps fell heavier, longer as he grabbed the hilt with both arms, brought it up and stabbed into the largest eye. The sound was indescribable, but he pushed it further, muscles straining against Gods knew what. Blue light came from what crackled in its socket like glazed porcelain and a serpent coiled, fangs bared as it circled the blade, upwards. He recoiled and pulled the sword out, its point drooling that dark ooze that wasn’t blood as he sidestepped and took stance like an executioner before the block. Steel up.

And down. All the remaining force, all his anger and grief and regret, went to the downward slice. It took out the front of its face, slicing through woven flesh and halving its remaining eyes until he felt it hit the ground. A colourless glow was in the oily substance it’d bleed while he stepped back, watching the thing grow still. Not even a whimper, just a— fading out? Shutting down.

That was Death, wasn’t it. Everything to nothing.

The chains faded, like they knew. Was something watching? He glanced up at the sky, the stars and the darkness. Then the tops of trees and the forest around them, quiet. Should he have believed in something, after all, like he’d been taught to? He let the sword fall and drew in a breath, suddenly weak at the knees. His empty hand reached up, shakey as it fumbled with the buckle beneath his chin.

He threw his helm down, seemed to instantly regret it and kicked it for good measure, face twisting. With what, he wasn’t entirely sure. His eyes stung, every instinct willing the mortal body to lay down and weep. It’d be cozy here, in the dirt. Trust.

No one would see. Surely that wasn’t true.

He pinched the heat from his eyes and turned, eyeing Castor. Where he’d been left in the ground, with his myriad wounds and fading awareness. Despite himself he returned to his spot in the dirt beside him, hovering as he eyed the slashes and the cuts and the blood. Red. His hand slipped beneath the glove to try the inside of the man’s wrist.

Least one could do was tie up his damn wounds. Leaning against one armoured knee, he rummaged in the satchel about his belt.

There was nothing to say, so he didn’t.
 
Another fight over and done with, another foe vanquished. Why, then, do I feel like I am the one who has lost? Small steps carried Faramund into the clearing. Careful steps. Bebin limped along by his side, one leg mangled, the other barely supporting his weight. Drained, battle-worn, the pair of them probably made for a hell of a sight. The thought made Faramund chuckle.

Syr Oliver was tending to Castor's wounds when they found him. Both men appeared diminished by the experience, the latter holding on by a thread. As sorry as he felt, the dusker was no doubt worse off.

But he was alive. That had to count for something, right?

'Well, syrs, not to speak too soon... but I'd say it looks like we're in the clear.' Shuffle-stepping, the dawnling kept his brother afoot as best he could, his energy all but spent. 'That said, I'd rather we did not linger here.' He did not dare risk saying it aloud, for fear that he might speak it into existence, but he was afraid of what the Shaper would do next.

Madness knew no melody, and the Shaper's song was one he hoped never to hear again.

'How about it, Castor? Are you fit to move, or do you feel like lazing around in the dirt all night?' Faramund smiled, reaching for humour in a situation where there was little to be found. 'What of you, Oliver? It is a bad job indeed when I start to sound like the voice of reason.'

A light rustling befell Faramund's ears as Mina moved up beside him, dry leaf litter crunching beneath bare feet. She took his hand, reminding him that though the battle was done, they were not yet out of the woods.

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
Castor didn't go anywhere and yet found himself entirely somewhere else.

He was walk-no trudging endlessly without purpose. Each step mired in the muck of some unknown burden. The rattle of chains turned his attention backwards to the simple wagon which was seemingly affixed to his very soul.

On and on, step by step in this sludged bleakness.

"...do you feel like lazing around in the dirt all night?"
Instinct more than anything prompted his response. "I've got a bloody mind to, what's it to you?" the knight rasped with a half-grin. Pain seized every follicle of his being as his vision swam. He saw the Sunless Sentinel and knew the man was the reason he still drew breath. Gratitude would come but only after he didn't have a fucking hole in his stomach.

"And the child?" was all his mind could manage at this point.
 
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