Mina watched as the four brothers gathered close. Like the fingers of a hand, come closed together.

Did that make her the thumb? What an odd thought, she found that to be. Amidst all the blighted bile seeped into the earth. Poisoned the roots. Its scent, so familiar, so inside her, full in each breath she took.

What a strange thumb she would be, to this strange hand.

Her own hand had come tight about Faramaund's. When? She was not certain. But she could see that one there.

Castor. Amidst the endless night that was the Loch. Dredging. Step after tired step across an inky mirror that swirled and turned to clouds with the press of each step. Uncertain. Lost. Bound by chains of his own past. Chains that had been taken by the Taker.

Had she freed them? Thumb that she was to this hand. These brothers.

And the child? the man upon the ground asked. Tended to by his fellow fingers.

"I am no child," Mina answered coldly. Her three eyes wide and open. Her voice, her own. A far cry from that scared babe Faramund had found upon a distant field. Which he had scene there in that dungeon beneath the Shaper's lab.

Eyes full of tears. For a family she could hardly remember now. After all she endured within the Mount.

1740869527777.webpBebin stared at Mina, his dark eyes bright as obsidian shards, painted by stars' light. "Faramund," he rasped. "A litter for Castor," He wrest himself from the Dawnling with a hiss through his teeth. Tended to his own wounds. Tightened the bandage about the ruin. "We move, with haste, and as soon as able,"

"They still hunt us," Mina said what the Pursuant had not. Her eyes pointed toward the shadow they had all escaped. She turned toward the woods. How its cool darkness welcomed them. Promised them freedom. She stepped toward that promise, with her own two feet.
 

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A length of linen was a feeble aid, but it was not nothing. He stared down at his hands that worked a simple task, at what felt safe to look upon when meeting eyes was — not? Despite all, he felt his nerves rest in the new, deeper silence, naught but the rustle of leaves underknee and a breeze and a breath in his ears. Mere twenty paces away, a heap of sludge and bones was settling, sinking to its place in the mud like it’d always belonged there. He felt more animal than man there, in this clearing, with all the blood and simple thoughts. When none would speak.

Until someone did. With arrival of whom had gone lost in the woods mere moments before, came words. So damn many of them. Tying a knot on the bandage, he hadn’t it in him to fight the irritation that bristled every fiber about him, tensing the shoulders and hardening his face. Castor was being a good sport, managing a whole grin and a response, but it barely inspired him to do the same.

“ Had you any reason left, you’d learn to shut your damn mouth. “ He retorted, head cocking as he cast a glance at Faramund on his way to his feet, rising from where he’d been hunched on the ground. “ Have I need for your input, or any which trite obviousity, I’ll ask for it. “ Swiftly he rotated on heel, marching to retrieve first his helm, which he slammed on his head, and then his gauntlet. It yet clutched the hammer as he fished it out of the black ooze, his face a mask of angry disgust as he made an attempt to shake at least most of the oily substance off them. Hammer looped, he retrieved Syr Castor’s sword in quick succession, tucking it in his belt.

The man would not be needing nor using it, for now.

His eye fell upon the Trinemorro as she spoke, sounding not half as destitute as she looked. It commanded respect, as did her words and demeanor, which he allowed her by keeping his distance. He sought the trees in turn, pace positively enraged as he pulled and then kicked down the straightest branch off a fallen old tree, stopping only to measure it against his shoulder. Though it need not be pretty, Syr Theros’ had larger problems than the aesthetics of whatever would lend him support, he tidied it up a little more on his way back.

He cursed, having to do it with merely his hands, picking at little sharp edges. His knife, a good one too, lay yet stuck to the monster’s foot and now— probably beneath it.

“ What a fucking waste. “
 
There was some life left in Castor yet, much to his surprise. Conjuring a grin, Faramund made ready a reply, only for Oliver to beat him to the punch with bitter words and bared fangs. A good man's patience worn thin, or else stretched to its limits. Aye, thought Faramund, the cut of his teeth all he could muster in the face of Oliver's anger. He could feel his own burgeoning in response. And what has my silence cost us over the years?

So many secrets, kept to himself for fear of what might happen should they be revealed. Endless doubts and the confusion that accompanied them. Had he a thimble of courage, he might have shared his concerns sooner.

But he hadn't, and now here they were.

Lucky us. Distancing himself from the others, Faramund retraced his steps to where the cultists lay dead upon the earth. 'They still hunt us,' said Mina, her voice a whisper in the night. Glassy stares followed the dawnling as he squatted down beside a body, the first to fall during their confrontation. They always will, he mused, closing his eyes as a wave of exhaustion rocked him to his knees.

A red mask awaited him in the darkness, there. Frightening... and oddly reassuring.

'I am sorry,' he said, speaking aloud, unsure as to whom he was addressing. Drawing his dagger, he cut away the cultist's robe, folded it up. Belts and branches followed. Binding and support. A few minutes later and he had built something resembling a litter. Nothing pretty, but it would do.

He passed the body of the Taker on the way back. The pewter eye seemed to follow him as he strolled by, shattered shards clinking in the breeze. Dissolving, degrading in the muck, the construct's pale skin came apart like parchment as Faramund placed a hand upon its chest. Black ichor adhered to his gloved fingers as he spotted something glistening in the flesh of its foot. He recognised the handle, the slim band of metal topping it.

Sticky fingers retrieved the knife, slipped it into his belt. Oliver would have need of it soon enough, and so far as peace offerings went, it wasn't a bad one.

'Alright, Castor. Time to ante up!' Laying the litter down by his brother's side, the dawnling took a knee. 'Think you can manage on your own... or do you need help?'

@Castor @Bebin @Oliver
 
"I am no child."

No, apparently not.

None of them were likely to remain unchanged after seeing the other side of the Mount. Just now, Oliver seemed ready to change the shape of Faramund's skull. Fortunately it didn't come to that as they had bigger problems per Mina's warnings. Castor drifted into his own thoughts until the other sworn returned with the makeshift litter.

The question drew the dusker's ire which, surprisingly, was exactly what was needed. Whether that had been Faramund's intent was anyone's guess.

Castor shifted himself onto the litter, gasping in pain as he finally settled on the contraption. His mind swam through a sea of curses before finally managing something slightly more productive. "I believe there was talk of haste."

He dared not look in the direction they came, feeling as if his mere gaze would draw cultists from the shadows.
 
The quibbles of the men fell deaf upon the Trinemorro's ears.

Thumb to this hand she might have been, strange and malplaced, but this hand seemed hardly put together. A loose thing, only just able to keep from falling apart.

Maybe she was no thumb to it. No part of it. What she was, as her bare feet plod against the cold earth, felt the prickle of stone and twig mix with the give of forest floor underfoot, was but a thing that wanted to be free.

1741407225589.webpBebin tied down the bindings about his leg, all clenched teeth and sharp breath as he grunt. Worked himself up onto the crutch that Syr Oliver had given him, and cast his eyes out to the darkness of the woods. "The girl moves beyond us," he hobble hopped forward. Shift his crutch. Hobble hopped forward. "We move after her," he said, strained and short before he went on.

Pain, agony, all kept beneath the fragile surface of his waking mind.
 
Talk of haste there was, so haste it would be.

He eyed at Bebin as the man stole on the rest of them, already begun away in the Trinemorro’s wake. However he was to keep up with that leg and subpar makeshift means Oliver dared not ask. Neither wanted, frankly, lest he break into some expression of sentiment or concern, burdening whom would not suffer it.

Containing his simmering temper within a harsh exterior and a grave silence, he tore his look away from the fellow Pursuant and made to where Castor lay upon the litter. For his own sake he avoided looking at Faramund, settling to take the other handle they were to drag Syr Vega through the trees by. It wasn’t negotiable whether they would, his feet solidly planted as he waited to hoist in tune.

He’d not hear another objection.
 
The deed was done, or so they believed. The girl had been rescued. Now, all they had to do was make it home in one piece. If I even have a home to crawl back to, thought Faramund, smiling away his woes as Castor clambered aboard the litter, halfway to dead but stubbornly resisting. As always.

A shadow fell across Faramund, heavy, and sinister in the way it lingered.

Oliver's anger had heft to it, like the hammer he carried. Palpable, Faramund suffered the brunt of it in silence, his expression one of calm acceptance. What would be would be. No point in fighting it. 'Alright then.' Standing, the dawnling took up his handle, the weight attached to it. He wasn't sure he could carry Castor far, the way his limbs protested. But he could certainly drag the bastard. For as long as it took them to reach safety.

If such a thing even existed anymore.
 
The voice of Loch's Pursuant sounded pained but steady. Castor realized he hadn't given much thought to the other man's injuries. Passing out from blood loss didn't leave much time for commiseration. He imagined the whole not trying to be torn apart by a giant fucking monstrosity also played a part. Either way, he knew the other knight was not one to make excuses. He'd failed at shaking the shame from not being able to walk out of this mess on his own two feet. Gods knew he wanted to but Castor couldn't stand let alone crawl.

He grimaced slightly as the litter was raised but otherwise said nothing. This run back to the Monastery was going to hurt, and that's assuming they weren't being chased.

Castor slowly focused inwards as he attempted to regulate his breathing. He wanted to be able to sling at least one damned spell if it came to it.
 
It was sorry going.

Slow and full of agony.

But they were too close. Far too close. To the Mount. To the Shaper. To the horrors birthed by those minds bound by the shackles of the Everwatcher. That mind bound to nothing save its own want. So close he could feel them. At the edges of his own sanity's silk. Those three ghostly eyes staring back at him. Whatching his every thought from clouds of silt and mire his own mind could not see.

Step after plodding step. Stab after stab of his makeshift crutch. He marched as his brothers carried forward Castor. Their presession a miserable crawl. And it was all unto him that the blame fell upon.

Diver of the Loch. Pursuant of Dusk. The Basilisk. For all his titles. What difference had it made? For all he had done, what could he have done now? Half ruined, and but steps away from death's door.

But suffer in silence as they marched.

Minutes, or hours, he could not fathom.

A sharp crunch, a snap. Balance lost, instinct, reflex, saw him try to land on both feet. But the ruin of flesh and bone failed the more. Wet and slick with weakness. Bebin groaned as he fell unto the dirt with a crash. Face twisted, dried blood about his features cracked and peeled in flakes of rusted black beneath the darkness of the woods. He writhed. Grasped. Held on to his mangled flesh and tried to keep it together.

From the darkness beyond them. Three moons stared.
 
There wasn’t another stir in their midst for quite some time, until Syr Theros holding the helm should’ve fallen. Oliver stopped pulling the litter in an instant, but didn’t let go. Instead, he tapped Syr Faramund on the shoulder and adjusted his grip on the litter handles as to take both of them, relieving the man from his post.

“ I’ve got this from here. “

He hazarded meeting the man’s eyes only once, in passing, as to him there was no arguing the sensibility of it. They’d have to force Syr Theros back up on his feet and therein support him — by a good measure himself was the fittest man to keep pulling Syr Castor along, no matter how much he suspected Syr Faramund may have liked to deny his own weariness.

Idiot would’ve offered to do both at once, he had to imagine, if he didn’t order him otherwise.
 
The walking dead, that's what they were. Four injured and ailing knights following after their rescuee, with no hint as to where they were or where they were heading. So long as it's away from the Mount, thought Faramund, each breath a struggle, every step a marathon.

They had been on the move for two hours now, and likely would have gone further had Bebin not fallen.

Faramund was of half a mind to fall down next to him. He could've used the rest.

Turning at the tap on his shoulder, his wary eyes met Oliver's for a beat or more. The Pursuant had fared better than the rest of them, but that wasn't saying much, considering the magnitude of what they'd just survived. 'Sure,' replied Faramund, relinquishing his hold on the litter without fuss. He'd had enough fighting for one day.

Crouching down beside Bebin, Faramund did what he could to assess the damage. The dusker had broken his splint during the fall, his bandages wet and muddied. The wound was beyond Faramund, the nearest healer a day and a half away in Outer Haven. Hopefully, the brethren would still be waiting there for them. Hopefully, they'd live long enough to see Mina safe.

The dawnling harboured doubts.

'Can't say I blame you, catching a few winks when you can. But is now really the time?' Gazing down at the dusker, the dawnling unwound the soiled bandaging. He tried the gentle approach, but he was no mender. Fortunate, then, that Bebin was a tough old goat. A lesser man might have passed out by now. 'Gonna have to craft you a new splint,' he said, fishing in his pouches for ointment. 'I haven't the strength to carry you by myself.' Or at all, really. 'Perhaps a spot of rest is in order? I doubt we'll get much further tonight.'
 
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Only when they stopped did Castor truly realize the severity of the group's state. Oliver was in the best nick out of them but the Sworn could tell that last bout with the Hextaker had been costly. Then the man had to haul the Dusker's broken shell of a body through this bloody forest. Castor owed the man a pint, or a a couple of kegs more like. He now saw just how bad the Pursuant's injury was. Not many who could've made it this far on a leg like that. Guess that's why he always got the heavy work.

Strangely, he was most concerned about the other Sworn. The man was quipping the same as always, and that was worrying. Couldn't be any way of staying level after that reunion.

He was right that they needed rest. They could only hope enough distance had been put between them and any potential pursuers. Even if that wasn't the case, they'd at least have some life to make a final stand.

Camp, if it could be called that, was setup as Castor found fitful rest. He awoke suddenly to find the others at attention, gazes directed towards the brush.

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"Well aren't you lot a sorry sight." A familiar voice accompanied by an equally familiar figure.

Syr Zirain stepped from the shadows, always more ranger than knight but just as irreverent as ever. Castor couldn't help but notice the blood dripping from her blade.

"Seems the Master wasn't full of it after all," she said with a glance behind her.

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"Must you always speak in such a manner?" A second stepped into view."Thank Sitha you're all still counted among the living." Syr Veth was an ardent believer of the Eight. Apparently he once held high rank among their clergy, a Bojhamukt if rumors were to be believed.

The beleaguered still wore quizzical expressions. "The old ghost sensed a, uh-"

"Turbulence."

"Sure, that. Spooked him enough to go straight to the Captain. So here we are, and not a minute too soon." She punctuated her point by raising the blood-slicked blade.

Castor could only hope this wasn't some delirium-induced fever-dream.
 

"Levity won't ease every problem, Faramund," the Dusker groaned as he turned over in the dirt, his hands clutched around the tattered wraps. But the Dawnling eased Bebin's grip with his ministrations. "Thank you," Bebin managed through his teeth.

Tense as each breath came. Dull ache stabbed with sharp hurt that clawed its way up the mangled mess. He drew in a breath. Let a breath out. Choked back a groan. At mention of camp, there was not for him to say or do. He would have told them to press on. Leave him be.

But they were all spent.

The girl, but a ripple in the distant darkness that surrounded them. One that only seemed to grow the farther and farther away which each passing moment.

Would their chances go up any with him put behind? Mayhaps Faramund and Oliver could carry Castor the further for it. For how far? At least all together, slim as the chance would be, they could mount a stand.

Between he and Castor, a Locus of Communion could be bound. Their pull on the shroud doubled, the strain they dealt with, halved. As Castor was now, as Bebin himself was now. Alone, each of them was next to worthless. Together, they might amount to half a weaver at least.

This was the lie he knowingly told himself as he nod his agreement. "Rest as we can, Oliver, you take the first watch, followed by Faramund, I will take the last," he grinned, self hating.

"On alert," came Bebin's low rumble from the darkness of their camp. "Something approaches," he said as he coiled up from his rest, and pulled his sword from its sheath. Hid the shine of its blade behind him.

Come the candor of sworn kin, came the slack of Bebin's coil. "A miracle then, that you'd find us," Bebin grunt. "Though I see you ran into trouble," Bebin eyed the blood. "Syr Veth, Syr Castor is in need of immediate attention," assuming he was still alive. "My leg is..." Bebin stared down at the freshly bandaged mess. All wrong and swelling. "Hardly there," he admitted.
 
His would be first watch, for which he had no protest.

“ As you say. “

*​

He’d not spoken since as they settled down, all of which to him appeared ill-adviced. It wasn’t the worst idea of the eve on it’s face, but neither had any of the others that’d become such only on hindsight.

Reluctance writ about him, he turned his back and sought the edge of their tiny, weary camp. In there he’d settle against the trunk of a large tree, figure clad in the dark plate night fusing to it. When he’d taken his helm off to hear and see better, it had merely dropped from his hand and into the ground. He’d not dared crouch down to pick it up, lest he be bent low for good.

The wood snapped. Once, twice. Gentle movement, wordless. Glancing back at the rest, he realized someone missing.

“ The girl. “ He said simply, pushing off the comforting support of the tree. “ I'll see to it. Watchman, off. “

With that, he begun away and into the darkness. For the sound.

*​

“ Trinemorro. “ He called to the darkness, to where the others’ voices rung incomprehensible and the world had lost all colour. With his enchanted plate he realized himself probably too silent in his step, like a snake in the grass, creeping up on prey. He tried to relax, stand a little taller and steadier, but if he succeeded he felt no better for it. The woodland seemed to stretch and deepen, ready to swallow a man whole.

Would he return from it? At least he’d not promised to, excusing himself. And that wasn't even considering the additional complications.

" You feel safer out here? Straying by yourself. "

He was probably the worst man to be out here, for the task, having not exactly behaved his best. To a stranger’s eyes, let alone three of them. That is what they were to one another, after all. And she hadn’t even trusted those she knew, enough anyway to stay in their proximity. Feeling nothing short a fool, he exhaled. It was strained, leaden at the throat.

“ Mina? “
 
'I know, but it's that or a knife twixt the ribs,' came the dawnling's reply, no longer knowing whether he was joking or not. In the Mount, all his fears had been focused down to one tiny point. But out under the open sky, they had room to grow, to fester, as he feared Bebin's leg might, given their environs and the severity of his wounds. 'Thank me when we're out of this mess. Right now, I can't tell if what I'm doing is really helping or not.'

It was a bad break, the limb twisted far too badly for Faramund to even contemplate messing with it. Had he been born a battlefield surgeon, he might have decided to take it off then and there before it went septic.

But what do I know? He thought, ministrations finished. Orders followed, and the knight bade rise, his own legs made of lead. They carried him away into the trees all the same.

Finding a spot beneath the boughs, Faramund settled down for the night. He could hear a brook quietly bubbling away nearby. It gave him something to focus on instead of the dark thoughts swirling within his mind. Not that it was his mind anymore. His passenger had been let loose, set free by the Shaper. Nothing good would come of that, Faramund realised.

The red masks hovering amongst the trees seemed to agree, bobbing and nodding along, like old friends reminiscing of days gone by. Faramund closed his eyes, hoping to block them out. But they were waiting for him there, too.

Faramund dreamt the dream of the dead.

When he woke, it was to the sound of splashing, and the soft, immutable crunch of pine needles being tread upon. Awake, alert, he rose in silence, a hand drifting to the knife tucked through his belt. He did not know what had made the sound, but he was fairly certain it was no enemy. Pity, then, that fairly certain just didn't cut it.

Ghosting between sentinels and firs, through shadows empty and concealing, the dawnling paused when he spotted a figure up ahead. Black plate, deep as midnight. The armour of a friend, he told himself, letting slip a relieved sigh.

The knife in his hand begged to differ.

Quietly, as if carted along by the breeze, Faramund approached Oliver, sure in his steps and where they fell. He was not sure what inspired him to come up on his brother's blind side. Habit, maybe? Easy enough to believe, to explain away, like it was no big deal.

'Looking for someone?' Speaking up from the moon-pierced gloom, Faramund stepped into the light, calm as you please. Inside, he was anything but. What the fuck am I doing? He wondered, forcing himself to stop, to think for a moment. The knife sat heavy in his palm, whispering, its blade cold as the Spinebacks yet somehow too hot to touch. 'Mina... she gone... wandering?'
 
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