Wind was beating down on her tent, buffeting the sewn fabric and echoing in her ears, and for a moment Isala feared that should she sleep she would wake with no tent to protect her from the harsh elements. Raindrops smacked hard into the ground, tattooing a beat upon her shelter, and she shuddered under her blanket.

"Curse this weather," she grumbled under her breath, pulling her blanket closer as she glared at her tents opening. "All it ever does is rain."

That wasn't necessarily true, but it made Isala feel better. The truth was it had only rained the past few days – which was entirely expected of the area. It would probably rain for another day or two, alternating between violent downpours and light drizzles, before the sun would finally rise and she would pack her things and be on her way. She should have considered this before voyaging to the Emerald Graves – she should have known better than to make camp in such an untamed place – but Isala was stubborn and foolish and proud. When she had been exiled from her clan (the burden of any Dalish mage not made the Keeper's first), she had told herself she would travel well. Her mother had provided what she could, and she had been trained to control her magic. Her father had given her a bow for hunting, though she wasn't very good with it, and her elder sister had taught her how to tell which fruits were poison or not.

Isala did well enough. She hadn't starved yet, and she considered that a victory in and of itself.

Normally, Isala would rest with her halla – and before anyone thought wrongly of her, she hadn't taken it from her clan. The halla had been found on her trek through the graves, small for its kind but still sturdy. Isala had saved it from a wolf, who had made to attack the grazing creature. The graceful animal had stuck with her ever since, allowing her to use it to carry her wares. At night they would rest against one another, thankful for the shared warmth they could provide, but that was only when they had shelter from the rain. On nights where the tent was necessary, Asha (as Isala had inevitably named them) would find shelter where they could while Isala remained at camp. The halla always returned by morning, and so they would continue travelling as such.

Finally releasing her death grip on her covers, she extended her palms in front of her and let magic pool in the cusp of her hands. A small flame leaped into existence, flickering red and yellow and casting dark shadows on the inner walls of the tent. Heat replaced the chill that had slowly seeped into her home and she closed her eyes, breathing in the warmth. She couldn't use the heat forever – she would inevitably have to sleep, and burning a fire in a tent unwatched would only bring trouble – but for the moment, the fire was enough to make her forget about the turmoil outside her tents walls.

.

Morning came as always, light filtering in through her tent and casting over her eyes. She made a small noise of protest, throwing her arm across her face to block the light out, but that didn't keep the morning chill from slipping under her blanket, puncturing the warm cocoon she had built overnight. Shuddering, she finally gave up, tossing her blankets aside and sitting up. Dark hair was piled messily on her head, twisted in knots, and she rubbed blearily at her sleep-heavy eyes.

Another morning, another day. At least now the rain had stopped.

She emerged from her camp, quick fingers combing through her hair (slightly too-greasy for her taste; she would have to find a stream to camp near tonight) and fashioning it into a hastily done braid which hung over her shoulder. It was the longest she'd ever had her hair before.

It didn't take long for her to collapse her camp, scattering the ashes of her only briefly useful fire pit and snacking on the few berries she'd found to eat. She was hungry, her stomach growling grumpily at her, but she didn't want to stay too long in this place. She'd already been forced to camp in this part of the woods for three days – she didn't want to linger any longer.

By the time she had woken completely she had her belongings tucked away inside her pack and Asha had returned to the small site, grazing at dew covered grass. They stood patiently as Isala settled the packs on their back, straightening after she ran an appreciative hand over their coat.

"Come on," Isala murmured. "Maybe we'll actually find somewhere nice to camp tonight. Like a cave that isn't infested with spiders, or bears. Or maybe just a nice outcropping."

Asha didn't respond; they just kept trotting alongside the elf as she set a path through the towering forest. Isala had no idea where she was going. She would actually go so far as to say that she never had any idea where she was going (but she would quite plainly ask if anyone ever truly knew where they were headed). She kept her staff secured to her back, prepared to act in a moments notice, but the longer she walked without incident, the more lax she became. Eventually she was focused almost entirely on her one-sided conversation with the halla, and barely at all on the path she was forging.

The sun was high in the sky now, beating down unrepentantly through the green canopy, and Isala was really wishing she'd taken the time to find a stream that morning. Her hair was gross, she felt sticky, and creators but she couldn't help but feel like she was starting to smell. Asha didn't seem offended by her stench, so Isala reasoned that she couldn't have smelled so terribly, but she also recognized that she was projecting her thoughts onto a speechless creature.

"Creators, I've been alone too long," she murmured under her breath. The halla looked at her, cocking its ears in what she imagined to be resentment, and she reached out to gently pat its neck. "You don't count, da'len. I'm sure if you could talk to me, you would."

She hoped, at least. Otherwise, she was just making herself look like an ass. It wouldn't be the first time.

As they moved through the forest, Isala had her eyes set on a rocky wall ahead of her that became progressively more visible the deeper they went into the forest. She'd been in the area before a few weeks previous, knew vaguely where she was. There was decent cover to be found, though there was a villa too close for Isala to be totally comfortable setting up a semi-permanent camp there. She hadn't seen any humans enter or leave the villa when she'd passed a little closer, and she had reason to think it was abandoned (most villa's in the area were), but she didn't want to venture too close regardless. Not unless it was completely necessary.

The ground nearly tripped her up several times as she moved, her hand automatically reaching to steady herself on Asha, but otherwise she was still making good time towards the outcropping. If luck was on her side she would make it there just before nightfall.

Her heart stopped as a loud, angry roar vibrated through the otherwise still air. It was as if the gods themselves heard her positive thoughts and mocked her for them. Asha bleated anxiously, shifting their hooves and looking jerkily around. Isala ran her hand down the halla's flank, equally perturbed but unwilling to let it show. "Garas, Asha," she said softly, nudging her forward. "We're almost to camp. Nothing big can get to us there."

She took to leading the halla then, hand pressed comfortingly on the back of their neck. They made it a few feet further before another roar, this one louder and more agitated than the last, and Isala cursed as she pulled her staff from her back, turning around and scanning the area. The staff glowed a subtle, pulsing blue, but she made no move to cast. She was too busy trying to think of what she could even do. She was a healer, first and foremost: what was she going to do, pull a thorn from a beasts foot and hope that it left her alone? That was assuming she could get close enough from whatever it was to even attempt that.

The roar sounded again from the left but this time it was accompanied by a very mortal shout, and she gave Asha a stern look. "Stay here," she said. "I'll…be back. Hopefully."

Isala didn't give the halla chance to argue (though it couldn't anyways) and hurried off towards the sound. She didn't know who was getting in a fight with (what sounded like) a giant, and she had no idea if the person would even welcome her attempts to help, but she couldn't simply sit aside and do nothing. She cursed herself under her breath, navigating through the raised roots with familiar ease, and came to a stop at an outcropping of small shrines. Her stomach dropped.

True to her theory, the creature had been a giant. He was large, his head aligned with the height of some of the smaller trees. Its combatant was an elf, clearly wounded if the way he favored one side was any indication. He had no visible weapon, but magic flew from his hands with practiced ease and collided with the giant's leg. The elf had no armor she recognized, and she could hardly see his face under his hood, but she was quite familiar with the differences between a human's gait and an elf's. He was too lithe, to fast, too graceful.

Too injured. "Fenedhis!"

She acted on instinct when she saw the giant swing towards the man, power blasting from her staff and securing him in a protective blue shield. The giant's fist bounced harmlessly away and served to unbalance the ungainly creature. Whether the man acknowledged her assistance or not she wasn't sure – he was moving then, pulling a dagger from his belt and slicing into the creatures hamstring with brutal efficiency. The beast toppled to one knee with a roar, swinging blindly, but her shield held firm and the elf took no damage. He seemed to hardly notice anything, in truth, aside from his goal. Isala worried her lip, sending a blast of ice towards the giant's leg, but the elven mage was already moving. She watched, mouth ajar, as the ground rippled under him, rolling towards him and creating a springboard from which he jumped towards the beast, fingers clinging in the creatures fur as he feet grappled for purchase. He scaled the creature, practically ignoring the way it flailed under his ascent, and swung to straddle the back of the giant's neck. Isala watched as the dagger came down, digging into the giants eye with brutal precision.

Another roar, this one pained, and the giant twisted violently. The elf held firm, and Isala idly wondered how strong the mage's thighs had to be to keep purchase while the beast made every effort to dislodge him.

The barrier disappeared as the giant made to grab the elf, and with a shout Isala leaped forward, ice propelling her forward and closing the distance in a blur of white. Ice shot from her staff, encircling the giant's arm and freezing it before it could reach the elf, and it's roar of rage turned to one of pain as the elf's dagger slammed back into its face. It's fight turned sluggish as the elf struck again, and it's body began to crumple forward. Isala worried the elf would find himself squashed under the giants weight but quickly realized her concern was unfounded; the elf disengaged quickly and efficiently, landing a small ways away from the giant's crumpling body.

There was a beat of silence as the fight ended, and Isala dared to breathe again. As soon as she did the elf staggered, gripping his side and falling to one leg. Isala hardly hesitated; she ran forward, skidding to a stop beside him with her staff once again secured on her back.

"Where are you injured?" she asked, glancing up at him. Her throat constricted when she saw his face. His skin was pale, which wasn't unusual for an elf, but he seemed almost too-pale. High cheekbones and a strong chin, with heavy-lidded eyes that seemed focused on glaring at her.

Glaring? Oh, creators, what had she done now?

"It's none of your concern," he said shortly, moving to push himself up only to stumble again. She reached out, supporting his side and ignoring the displeased twist it brought to his otherwise handsome face. 'Oh, creators, don't think of him as handsome,' she cursed herself. 'He's injured. It doesn't matter if his voice is – no. No, I'm not thinking about it.'

"You just took down a giant by yourself," she said.

"Last I saw you were intent on interfering," he said shortly.

"Last I saw you were well over halfway done by the time I walked up," she retorted. He was silent, and she sighed. "Look, I'm a healer. Let me take a look at your side."

"I have no reason to trust you," he said simply.

"You don't," she agreed reasonably. "But I tried to help you before. Can you at least accept that my concern is genuine?"

He still seemed largely displeased, his lips twisted in discontent, but this time he nodded once. She relaxed. "Thank you," she said. "I can do a little now, but I won't be able to do much more until we're somewhere safe. There's an outcropping to the west just a little ways off that offers some protection. That's where I was headed before."

"Is that the only shelter you have?" he asked, looking to her.

Worried that it sounded to unsafe, she hesitantly shook her head. "There – well, I think it's abandoned, but – there is an abandoned villa to the east, closer than the outcropping. We risk running into raiders, or even Freemen, but the Inquisition moved through the Graves a few weeks earlier. It should be safe enough."

He was silent for a long moment, a strange expression settling over his features, but he nodded. "We'll go to the villa," he agreed.

Isala nodded and moved, letting him use her for support as she looked back towards where she'd come, scanning the line of trees. "What are you looking for?" her new companion demanded, twisting to follow her gaze.

"Asha has my pack," she explained. She brought her fingers to her lips and whistled, a sharp, short sound.

"Asha…?" the man questioned, brows furrowing. A moment later a flash of white moved through the trees, and the halla came cantering towards them. She smiled, reaching out to run her fingers through their fur once they were near enough.

"You realize that halla is male…don't you?" her companion asked. Isala shook her head, turning towards their path and nudging for him to start moving with her.

"They'll only respond to Asha," she said. "So, I call them Asha." She looked to them then, trying to get a read on their expression and failing miserably. He just looked perpetually displeased. Normally, she didn't think that was attractive. "What should I call you?"

Silence answered for a long moment as the moved, Isala's stomach twisting anxiously as she wondered if she would ever get a proper response. Finally, he said in a low voice: "Abelas."

Sorrow. That seemed to fit, somehow. Perhaps it was because he looked so sad. She nodded once. "I'm Isala."

He made no acknowledgement of her name, and she sighed slightly before pushing onward. He wasn't too difficult to support, though she had the suspicion that was because he was still bearing most of his weight himself. Asha walked at their sides, attentive to their surroundings, and the closer they drew to the abandoned villa the more Abelas leaned against her and the more anxious the halla became. Isala had to slow her pace, her hand pressing between Abelas' shoulders. Her side was warm, warmer than it had been before, and she worried her lip anxiously.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine," he said shortly.

"We can stop here so I can look at your side," she offered.

"No," his tone was still clipped. "I will be fine."

Though his voice gave no indication of a lie, she was convinced he was doing just that. Regardless, she silenced herself and kept moving, perhaps a bit faster than before. The sun would be going down within the hour, and she wanted to make it to the villa before then.

After walking for a few more moments Isala felt something damp pressing into her side and she stopped, slipping her hand between them and pulling back to see blood coating her fingertips. Her breath caught and she forced him to stop. "Lethallin, you're wound is bleeding," she said. "Let me-"

"Do not call me that," he said sharply. Isala withdrew slightly, wide-eyed, her heart stattering at the anger in his tone. She swallowed.

"I – I'm sorry?" she apologized, unsure. "I didn't mean anything by it. Just – come on, I need to know how bad you're injured. Please, let me look at it."

Abelas clenched his jaw, clearly irritated with her needling, but if Isala was anything she was stubborn. She couldn't let him risk his health any more than he already had. He exhaled sharply and nodded, pulling away from her and working on the clasps of his chestplate. She raised her hand to help and he slapped it away. The slap stung, but it didn't really hurt beyond that. She kept her hands to herself from then on, watching as he removed his chestplate and lifted the bloodied tunic underneath. Her breath caught when she saw the extent of the wound.

The bruising was the worst of it, by far; it extended over the right half of his ribcage and around his side, venturing down under the waist of his pants. At the center was a jagged cut, raised and painful and slowly bleeding out. She made a small noise of protest.

"You should have told me it was this bad," she said, stepping forward and letting her hand hover over the wound. "Creators. This should have been treated immediately."

"Then are you going to treat it?" he asked shortly. "Or simply continue to stare?"

She glared up at him then, and the expression seemed to have surprised him. "I would have treated it as soon as we started walking if it weren't for your stubbornness," she said. "I'm just trying t help. Don't be rude."

Abelas was silent then, though he made no move to apologize, and Isala took that as permission to continue. She also counted it as an apology, though she knew she shouldn't. Her hands glowed faintly, warm and comforting, and she delicately pressed her hands to his side. He flinched under her touch, automatically trying to move away, but she moved with him and let the slow pulse of magic slowly scab the wound over. She knew she couldn't do as much as she needed – not out in the open like this, and not when they were so close to the villa, but she could keep him from bleeding out.

"That's enough," he interrupted her, his fingers tugging her hands away from his side as he let his soiled undershirt drop back into place. "We need to keep moving. It isn't safe to stay here."

She sighed, but acknowledged that he was right. "Okay," she took his chestplate from him, settling it on Asha's back with the rest of her belongings. "We'll keep moving."

He leaned against her again, though more stubbornly then before, and she kept her arm around his waist as they moved more quickly towards the villa. Asha walked silently beside them, ears swiveling about as they trotted over raised roots and wandered slightly ahead of the duo. For a while the halla seemed fine – calm, completely collected – but as they slowly approached the slightly ajar-gate they froze, backing up anxiously and bleating in concern.

"It's alright, Asha," Isala said, stepped away from Abelas' side to approach the halla. "This place is empty, has been for years."

Asha bleated again, backing away from the gates and Isala gave a sharp exhale. Normally she would trust the halla's judgement, but the sun was too low to change course for the outcropping, and there was nowhere relatively safe for a nights stay. She sighed, rubbing her temples before nodding. "Alright. Just let me get my pack, you can wait out here," she said.

"It's probably wise to trust the halla's instincts," Abelas said from behind her. She sighed.

"Normally I would," she agreed, shouldering her pack and grunting at the added weight. Asha wasted no time in galloping back, further away from the house, but Isala knew without a doubt that the stag would return come morning. She moved back to Abelas and slowly opened the gate, grimacing as it creaked ominously. "Unfortunately, there's no good cover anywhere we can reach before the sun goes down, and my tent isn't big enough for two. It's barely big enough for me."

He sighed, but Isala ignored him as she stepped into the courtyard. It was ill kept, clearly the result of neglect, but Isala always preferred the untamed beauty of nature to the too-clean version that humans attempted to cultivate. Abelas entered the courtyard after her, moving quickly despite his wounds, and together they moved towards the large entrance. A plaque beside the door gave the villa a name: Chateau d'Onterre.

Isala prayed silently as she tried the handle, hoping it would open, and when it did she gave a soft sigh of relief. The room was dark – too dark – as they stepped in and she shook her head.

"I'll find a lamp to light," she murmured. "There has to be rooms here. Maybe even a bath."

"We are in a mansion," Abelas said dryly as he followed her, hand gripping his side. "I doubt someone would spend this much and decide not to include one."

Isala opened her mouth to retort as she stepped into the hall, but any attempt fell short when the sconce opposite her flickered to life. On it's own. They both suddenly got very quiet.

"You know, we don't have to explore," she said, turning and moving back into the entryway immediately, her palm catching his chest to usher him back into the darker room. "Let's just sit in here. I can see well enough to heal your side."

"I think your halla had the right idea," he murmured, glancing towards the hall. "This place is not at rest."

"Well then, we wont stay long," she said in a deceptively perky tone. "We'll settle in here. Can you undress?"

His brow raised sharply at her and she made a frustrated noise. "I can't heal you with your tunic on," she reminded him. "I need to see what I'm doing."

He seemed hesitant, which didn't come as any sort of surprise at this point, but finally he moved to disrobe. She hated not helping – his face twisted uncomfortably as the movements aggravated his side – but she still remembered the way he had slapped her attempt away. She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't going to blindly attempt to help when he so clearly would rather she not touch him any more than necessary.

As he pulled the layers of chestware off his hood came with it, and she finally got a truly good look at his face. To her surprise the hood hid a wealth of silvery blond hair, pulled back and secured in place by a leather throng. She hadn't known what she'd anticipated, but that hadn't been it. She swallowed, eyes darting from his jaw down his neck – Creators, his neck – and to his chest. And with that, any idle fantasy that might have slipped into her mind disappeared: he was in bad shape. She didn't resist then, stepping forward and immediately running gently glowing hands over his side. He tensed under her and reached out to support himself against the wall, looking away from her. Disassociating.

Worrying her lip, she pushed any sort of emotional response to that aside. She didn't expect kindness, or camaraderie, but that didn't make it any less hurtful. She was just trying to keep him alive.

The bruises faded slowly under her touch, creeping away until only an ugly yellow remained, and the gash looked better with each passing moment. She hesitated before letting her hand hover over his hip where the bruise extended, cheeks flushing slightly. She wasn't going to ask him to take off his pants – that seemed completely inappropriate.

Fortunately Abelas remained silent as she worked until she pulled her hands away to inspect her job. The skin was still marred and ugly, and she was certain that the gash would leave a scar once it healed, but it wasn't deadly, and he was in no more danger from it. "Are you injured anywhere else?" she asked.

"No," he said shortly, straightening and stepping away from her. Isala sighed and turned to her bags, shuffling through for a change of clothes. Her dress now had blood all over the side. She shifted for a while, a frown pulling at her lips as she realized all her spares (a grand total of two) were soiled as well – one was covered in mud, the other had a rip sustained from a nasty trip over some tall roots. She could mend that one, and wash the other, but both would take time. Not to mention she had no idea where water in the villa would be found. In the clearly occupied-possibly-haunted villa… She sighed heavily, pushing her bangs back from her face and grimacing at the greasy texture.

"We're going to have to find the bath," she said finally, turning to look at him. He had pulled the bloodied tunic back on, but hadn't replaced the armor just yet.

"That involves going further into the house," he told her plainly.

"Your shirt is soiled, all my spares are soiled or ripped, I need to wash my hair, you could probably stand to wash as well," she listed. "And we can't just hide in the entryway forever."

"You literally suggested we do that just ten minutes ago."

She flushed stubbornly. "Yes. But that was before I thought things through."

Abelas sighed and straightened, moving to her things and pulling his chestplate from the pile before securing it around himself. She watched as he clipped his armor back into place, pulling his hood back up to obscure his features –and his hair – once again. "You are not traveling by yourself. There is clearly something at work here."

"A moment a go you seemed quite content to be rid of me," she reminded him.

"Regardless of my personal feelings, I am in your debt," he responded shortly. "If we are not leaving the villa, then I will ensure that you will survive it."

He said the words with finality and Isala couldn't find her voice to dispute him. Instead she nodded, twisting her fingers in the loose fabric of her dress. She was entirely unsure what to think of this man – of Abelas – but she knew that, so long as they were allies, he would be good company to have. She still remembered how he took down that giant. That fight would have killed most anyone else. She doubted it would have killed him even had she not arrived – he was barely phased by the wound he had sustained. She had no doubt that her presence was simply a perk, one that helped him heal faster and cleaner but one that did not necessarily ensure his survival.

It would take a lot to make her admit that to him, however. He was capable of surviving on his own – on surviving and fighting – but she was a wandered. She avoided fights. This villa was clearly uneasy, and she knew she would need him if she anticipated surviving whatever happened here.

"Let us go, then," he said. "Gather whatever you need to wash."

"I can wash your shirt while I'm at it," she offered as she grabbed her pack, not feeling completely comfortable with the idea of leaving anything behind. "I might not get all the blood out, but, it'll help."

He didn't respond even as she approached him, belongings in hand. He simply moved, leading her into the hallway – still only lit by a single light, a portrait glowing eerily behind it – and hesitating only slightly before turning to the left. Lights blossomed on the walls as they moved until two stands illuminated a door. Papers were strewn in front of it, but before she had a thought to gather them up Abelas had already opened the door and moved deeper into the house. Isala followed, nearly tripping on the abandoned pages, and almost ran into Abelas' back.

"What – oh."

She swallowed. There, to her left, were two bodies. Abelas approached them without concern, examining them closely. "Looters," he identified them.

"Perhaps we should have gone to the outcropping anyway," Isala said hesitantly. Abelas shook his head and straightened, saying nothing as he continued onward. Isala muffled a shriek as the fireplace roared to life, stepping even closer to her companion. "Alright. Definitely should have gone to the outcropping."

Abelas was setting a course upstairs, ignoring her quite contentedly, and Isala fought back an exasperated sigh. Of course he was ignoring her. She should have expected as much. He made no effort to converse whatsoever, apart from any sort of conversation she initiated. And even then, he only chose to respond as he saw fit. It was irritating, to say the least.

Irritation left her once the duo reached the top of the steps, the sconces lighting to reveal a long hallway stretched before them flanked with an impressive amount of books. She exhaled slowly, looking around as Abelas seemed largely uninterested, moving forward with singular purpose. They reached the end of the hall and saw it was a dead end, several more looters bodies strewn about. She sighed, again pushing her bangs from her face. "Creators. This was a horrible idea."

"Agreed."

She glared at the back of his head as the retreated, only for Abelas to catch the back of her shirt and navigate her down a door they had passed unnoticed. Isala made a small noise of protest at the man-handling, but he released her and continued moving as if nothing had happened. The first door they came to led to a bedroom with an ornate – well, everything. Isala had never seen something quite so lavish, even if it was worn down with age and dust. However, she was excited – bedrooms meant that a bath should be close. The next room was a study and bedroom combined, even more ostentatious than the last, and though she wanted to explore that room further Abelas had already hooked his hand in her dress and tugged her back out.

Finally the struck luck with the last door, tucked away at the end of the hall; there was a large mirror above a vanity, and on the far end was a bath. The bucket that had no doubt been used to draw water sat abandoned on the floor. Abelas nodded. "You have your bath," he said, moving forward until he stood at the tubs edge. He waved his hand, that same ancient magic she had seen from earlier acting to slowly fill the tub with water. The scent was immediate and refreshing and she closed her eyes, savoring it.

"I will stand guard outside," he said. "Don't take long."

"What about your shirt?" she asked. "It's soiled. It can't be comfortable."

He sighed, long and suffering. "I will tend to it once you are done," he said. "If you are capable of guarding me while I work."

She nodded slowly. She figured she was quite 'capable' of that, at the least. "Alright. Thank you."

Abelas shook his head. "Bathe. We shouldn't linger."

He left then, turning and stepping outside into the hall, crossing his arms over his chest as he went. Isala sighed, closing her eyes and looking to the ceiling for a long moment. Finally she moved forward, stripping down before submerging herself in the warm water. She would have to thank him for this. She worked carefully and quickly, undoing her braid before ducking under the water and letting the oils that had gathered in her hair wash away. She reached over the tub to her satchel, pulling out the handmade soaps she had and quickly lathering herself up, eager to rid herself of the dirt and grease that had clung to her on her travels. Once she was scrubbed clean she emerged, the cool air of the villa sending goosebumps over her pale flesh, and she wasted little time in lifting her clothes to submerge them in the only slightly cloudy water. By the time she had finished scrubbing her two dresses clean the water was filthy, dark and useless for much at all, and she was left with no clothes to change into but the old tunic she wore to sleep. She pulled that on, her body mostly dry but for her hands and hair, and wished that it didn't fit quite so snugly. She used the throng used to keep her braid in place to pile her hair in a knot on the top of her head, mostly to keep her tunic dry. She hung her dresses up to dry, making a mental note to grab them later, and then turned to exit the bath.

Abelas stood, his back to the door, and hardly paid her any mind as she emerged. She swallowed, tucking a slick strand of hair behind her ear. "The water is all muddy now," she said, "but, if you want, I'm done. I can keep watch while you're in there."

He looked to her and his eyes stilled for a long moment, focused on her outfit – or lack of outfit – before darting down to her legs and then back to her face. There was an awkward moment of silence between them before he twisted on his feet and disappeared into the bath, closing the door behind him. Isala sighed, running her hand over her face before turning her attention to the hallway. It was dark save for the flickering lights, and creepy, but it was also quiet. No signs of whatever had killed those looters anywhere.

She shivered, running her palms over her arms. She missed her dress. Though not entirely covering – it revealed her collar and arms, along with much of her legs – it was of a hefty material, and actually met the top of her boots. The tunic was thin and did not reach so low. She twisted her fingers in the fabric as she waited, scanning the hall for any sign of other trespassers. That would be just her luck to have someone wander up now, when the most powerful of the two companions was vulnerable and she, the healer with little practical knowledge of offensive magic, was keeping guard.

Though the fact that he trusted her not to turn at him was heartwarming, in a way. Though she wasn't very threatening to begin with. What could she do, whack him with her staff? For as skilled as he seemed, that was probably one of the most effective things she could do against him.

With a heavy sigh, she leaned against the door and rested her head against the smooth finish, worrying her lip slightly between her teeth. She didn't like this villa – this Chateau d'Onterre – and she didn't want to spend the night here, but she was reasonably certain whatever was going on within the many walls was safer than the creatures that roamed about at night. Besides: Abelas needed to let his wound rest, at least for a while longer. Healing magic could only do so much, and if the patient refused to let the wounds heal then it would worsen just as quickly as she had mended it.

The longer she thought about the bruising on his chest, the more her mind wandered, and her cheeks flushed pink as she thought about his chest beyond the wounds. He was very fit – especially so for an elf – and he was taller than she came to expect of elves as well. Certainly taller than her. And his legs –

Her cheeks turned red and she turned her gaze to her hands, which she twisted together as her mind wandered. Should she be thinking about him like that? No. Not at all. But she remembered the way he'd clung to the giant's neck with his thighs alone, very clearly remembered the way his armor clung to them, and creators, but she couldn't help but wonder what he looked like in that tub.

"Fenedhis," she cursed softly, running her hand over her face as she tried to calm her racing heart. She shouldn't be thinking of that – she should be focused on the hallway. The hallway that was part of a creepy villa filled with dead looters.

Except her mind was already gone and she leaned more fully against the door, eyes clouding over slightly as she allowed herself to indulge. Fantasy never harmed anyone, so long as she kept it from leaving her mind.

She hadn't seen him without his pants, but they were skin-tight. She didn't have to in order to imagine him. His face and torso was pale, but not the sort of pale that came from nature – it was a pale that came from spending too long out of the sun. How tan would he get in the sun? Not very.

Creators, even in her fantasies her mind wandered. She refocused herself – his legs. They were strong, and she wondered how they would feel pressed against her own. His hands were long, fingers thin and deft, and she was willing to bet he had a firm grip. She wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on her hips, holding tight enough to bruise. Or would he be softer? Perhaps a blend of the two – soft lips running reverently down her spine as hands gripped her like chains, dragging down her thighs as his hips piston into hers, her upper body pressed into the ground (or a mattress? No, the floor, hard against her cheek as her fingers scrabbled for purchase on an otherwise smooth surface, nails biting into the flooring as she arched desperately, moaning).

Her fingertips drifted gently against her thigh, her teeth clamping even harder on her lip, and she wondered how much longer he would be in the bath. Long enough for her to slip her hand between her legs? Did it matter? What would he do if he exited and found her like this, flushed and hot with hand pressed desperately between her thighs, fingers plunging into her heat as she worked herself over the edge to the thought of him-

The door opened at her back and she lost her support, her arms flailing to grab at the frame as she fell backwards into a solid chest. Hands – the ones she had just been thinking about, fenedhis – gripped her under her arms and steadied her, as firm as she might have imagined them and creators, why had she let her mind wander at all?

"Were you sleeping?" he asked as she looked up at him, wide eyed and face burning.

"No!" she protested immediately. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she got the notion that he didn't believe her in the slightest. Truly, that was preferably to him knowing what she was thinking, what she was considering doing – oh, creators, why did she let her mind wander?

He pushed her back onto her feet, hand at her shoulder to make sure she was steadied before pulling back. She was burning up all over, still flustered from her vivid imaginings, and she pressed her hair back from her face as she finally forced herself to look at him. He was in his trousers again, which he must not have cleaned if it were already dry – or did his foreign magic extend to that as well? – and he had her dresses in the other hand. His hair was loose, no longer held back in place, and she realized it was longer than hers.

"Go towards the first bedroom," he ordered. Her jaw clicked shut.

"What?" she asked, blinking incredulously at him.

Abelas sighed heavily. "The second room has a body on the bed," he said. "The first is clear, and relatively clean. If we are spending the night in this place, it is best to do it there. We can barricade the door for added protection, should anything wander too close. The window is facing the east, so when the sun rises it will wake us if we have not already woken before then. It is also close to the exit."

Clearly he had been thinking about this while he bathed. She flushed, this time feeling absolutely useless, and nodded. They moved back into the bedroom quietly, and though she didn't ask him to, after closing the door Abelas carefully hung her dresses to dry. She couldn't watch him for long though – not with the way his back shifted with his every movement. She turned her attention instead to the room, giving it a more thorough look than she had before. It was largely decorated in blues and greys, and the floors and walls were made almost entirely of marble. It was cold to the touch at matched the diamond shaped pattern throughout the villa. The room was divided into two sections, one perched on a slightly elevated platform and fenced at the edges with low marble railing. On the lower half of the room was what looked to be a study – there was a small armoir that she had nearly run into entering and leaving the room, and next that that there was a fireplace. Next to that was a set of bookshelves pressed into the corner wall, and a backless couch strewn with scrolls sat next to that. The raised level started then, and directly across from the roaring fire was a large bed draped in grey and mounted in an ostentatiously carved frame, gold inlay decorating the very Orlesian curves. Under a window was a small desk, one that barely came to her waist, and in the corner of the room was a slightly more ornate writing desk with a book spread open and papers shoved in the cubby holes.

A note on the smallest desk caught her eye, and curiosity bid her to read it:

Ma Chére Colette,

I am very sorry, but we must depart sooner than anticipated. Night terrors seized my husband; he will not remain a moment longer. Honestly, I don't know what he's thinking, rushing us out of here so rudely…

Isala didn't finish reading the note – she looked ahead of her, considering what that meant. She turned and spotted Abelas, standing opposite her across the bed and looking idly at the armoire settled there. "Abelas?" she said softly, extending her arm. "Read this."

He moved towards her, taking the note from her hand and reading it quickly. He frowned. "This doesn't bode well for us," he said finally. He looked to her. "We wont sleep easy tonight."

She wasn't certain that she was going to do that anyway, even before she read the letter. She bit down hard on her lip, running her hand over her eyes. "Creators. This was a horrible idea."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "We will be careful."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head and murmuring under her breath as she moved past him and towards the armoire. It was taking effort not to mock him under her breath, but she succeeded. She heard his footsteps as he moved across the room, exploring the other half, and Isala took her time fishing through the armoire and the scattered belongings left there. She pulled out a pair of black leggings and consulted them for a moment. She could put them on. It'd make it less cold, and she would feel less exposed. Both sounded ideal.

Then again, they weren't hers, and she didn't feel comfortable with the idea of wearing a dead persons clothes. Assuming they were dead, of course, but based on the bodies…

Shoving the clothes back into the drawer, she sighed and closed the dresser, turning back and inspecting the bed. She didn't relish the idea of sleeping on it. But, to her slight relief, she was fairly certain this had been a guest room. So it was fine if she slept here – there were no bodies, that assumed no one had died here – and she would be fine. Totally and completely fine.