The pouring rain was sharp and unrelenting. The winds blew droplets near-horizontal, stinging his cheeks as painfully as hail. Dismas tugged the edge of his scarf higher in an attempt to protect himself from the biting gales.
"Damn," he muttered, squinting blearily. He could hardly see ten feet in front of him for all the rain. The road was muddy beyond measure, and his waterlogged boots sloshed with every step. Hell, his waterlogged everything sloshed. His poor guns were probably useless, the gunpowder soaked as it was.
He needed to find shelter, and fast- the encroaching numbness in his face and limbs told him that much, and he was certain that his lips were blue. "Damn."
There was a rumbling sound from behind him, barely audible above the roar of the rain, and Dismas barely managed to throw himself out of the way of a massive horse.
"God's sake-!" he snarled, heart pounding.
The horse- and rider- drew to a stop.
"Hail, traveler," they called. A heavy cloak obscured their form and features, and Dismas couldn't hear their voice well past the rain enough to distinguish anything other than their words. "You seek shelter?"
He eyed them warily. "Aye," he said, loud enough so it would not be carried away by the wind.
The horse stomped its hooves impatiently, eager to be out of the storm, and the rider soothed it with a gentle hand. "My hometown is less than a mile down," they said. "You are welcome to join me."
"My thanks," Dismas replied curtly, "but I have plans-"
"The next settlement is over two leagues away," the rider said. "If your plan is to brave the storm, I wish you luck."
Dismas frowned as he mulled over the offer. He wished he had his map to confirm the stranger's words, but the parchment had long since disintegrated under the onslaught of rain.
On one hand, he hadn't lasted as long as he had by trusting every offer or petty kindness from random strangers on the road, but on the other hand, he really wanted to be out of this damned rain.
The rider was still waiting for an answer.
"...Fine," he grumbled.
"Would you like to ride with me?" they asked. Dismas swore he could hear the smile in their voice. "It's not far, but I imagine walking would be unpleasant."
He glanced at the beast. It certainly looked big enough to hold the two of them- he wasn't a particularly large man to begin with- but the damned thing had nearly trampled him a minute ago. The saddle didn't look particularly roomy either.
But the alternative was trudging down the muddy, pit-filled road.
They were still waiting, surprisingly patient even as they remained in the downpour.
Dismas hesitated. "...Thank you," he said grudgingly, and took the hand they offered and swung himself onto the horse, settling just behind the rider. It was a tight fit, and Dismas found himself nearly flush with their back.
The horse snorted and threw its head back, stamping its hooves, and his hands reflexively reached forward to steady himself, grabbing the rider by the waist.
Dismas blinked. Their waist was... rather slender, he thought. A woman, perhaps.
A snap of the reins, and the horse took off at a gallop, and Dismas' grip turned white-knuckled and bruising, although the rider made no comment.
As if making up for the time lost waiting on him, the beast surged down the road, mud splattering everywhere and thundering hoofbeats melding with the sound of the rain until they were indistinguishable.
Dismas grit his teeth and held on for dear life. The logical part of his mind told him the ride would take no more than five minutes, and that he was perfectly safe.
Of course, fear was never logical, and it took every ounce of willpower not to tighten his grip any further.
Peering over the rider's shoulder, Dismas could barely make out the silhouette of the rapidly nearing buildings- the telltale spire of a church, the sloped roof of a tavern, the imposing shadow of a manor.
The rider drew to a stop by the tavern and dismounted, Dismas nearly catching himself on the saddle in his haste to be off the damn beast.
A scraggly boy took the reins from her and led the horse around the back and out of sight, but Dismas paid him little more than a cursory glance before following the rider into the tavern.
The tavern was small and rather dilapidated, but it was also warm and dry, and to Dismas it was as fine as any palace. It was largely vacant, but that was to be expected. A town as small as this- and this close to the edge of the Blight, at that- wasn't likely to have many visitors.
There were scarce few other patrons in the tavern, scattered across the booths and tables. An old, sickly man, a weary-looking couple, and-
A knight.
Dismas' eyes narrowed. An odd sight, to be sure. He was dressed in a well-worn, chainmail hauberk, helm settled at his elbow and longsword at his hip. A heavy kiteshield leaned against the chair, emblem of the church emblazoned on its face.
A paladin, then, Dismas concluded, returning his gaze forward. Pursuing a holy mission.
Good lot faith did against the Blight.
An elderly bartender minded the counter, and they made their way over, Dismas easing himself onto a stool.
"Butter rum," he muttered, sliding a few dripping coins across the bar counter. "Hot as you can make it."
He shrugged out of his sopping coat and unwound the soaked scarf from his neck, wringing out what he could into a nearby potted plant.
The mysterious rider settled in beside him, and Dismas studied them from the corner of his eye as they removed their cloak.
"The same for me, please," they said, voice rough and quiet.
The bartender did a doubletake. "Y-your ladyship?" he stuttered, eyes wide.
Dismas tilted his head. Ladyship?
She smiled tiredly. "Hello, Mikhail," she said. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"
The bartender stared, wide-eyed. "Gods above," he whispered. "I never thought I'd see you again. The Blight-"
"I know," she said quietly.
Mikhail caught his eye and suddenly seemed to remember he had patrons and bustled off, filling tankards with alcohol, sliding one to Dismas wordlessly.
Dismas nursed his stoup between his chilled hands, taking small sips of the steaming, sweet rum and warily eyeing the woman next to him.
"I realize now that I never asked for your name," she said conversationally. "I am Ailith."
"...Dismas," he grunted after a moment's pause.
She flashed him a brief smile, and Dismas took the moment to look her over more carefully. She was dressed in well-worn clothes, the fabric faded and having seen better days, but Dismas could see that they were once quite fine- the fray at the hems where embroidery had once been, but long since picked off, and the vividness of the dyed cloth despite its obvious age.
Old wealth, he thought, drumming his fingers along the cup. Nobility, perhaps. Not anymore, judging by the state of her things.
"What were you doing so far north?" Ailith asked, eyes glinting with genuine curiosity. "There isn't much around." A beat. "And for good reason."
"I wander," Dismas answered curtly.
Not only a coward, but a liar, hissed a voice in the back of his mind. And a fool besides. You should know you cannot run from the crimes you have committed.
"Wandering straight into Blight-ridden land?" she replied, disbelieving.
Dismas ducked his head slightly. "Not many have use for my skill set," he said. "I thought perhaps I would be more valuable in… this area."
Ailith's gaze flickered to the holsters that housed his precious flintlocks, then to the wicked blade sheathed at his thigh.
"I may have work for you," she said, "if you find yourself desperate enough."
He let out a low huff. "How desperate should I be to accept such an ominous offer?" he asked dryly.
Her expression was grim and tight. "Very."
Dismas paused then, observing her quietly. He stared at her levelly, silent and considerate.
He set down his cup. "What can you tell me about this job?"
"What I can tell you," Ailith said, "is that there is a far greater chance of death than there is of money and glory."
Dismas leaned forward. "Miss Ailith," he said, "I am a man with very little to lose. Such warnings do not scare me."
Still, she hesitated. She swallowed thickly. "I am in need of an escort," she said, "to travel with me to the old capital."
Dismas' first reaction was a snort of laughter.
Ailith glared at him, eyes narrowed. "If that is your response," she snapped, "then perhaps I was remiss for asking you-"
"No," he said quickly. "No, I-" He blinked. "You're serious."
She pursed her lips. "Indeed."
Dismas' breath escaped him in a puff of disbelief. "What in God's name do you need to do in the heart of the Blight?" he asked incredulously.
"To stop it," she said.
"Stop it?" he repeated. "And how do you plan to do that?"
Ailith opened her mouth to answer, and the doors to the tavern burst open, the roars of men echoing in the small room, and Dismas turned sharply.
Immediately, the elderly man and the couple hastened to leave, skirting around the walls to flee through the back door.
"What a shit hole," one of the men barked, and the others howled with laughter.
Brigands, Dismas noted, a scowl slashing its way across his mouth. Half a dozen exactly. He eyed their ratty leather armor and grimy, ill-kept weaponry with disdain.
Then he noticed the knight.
He remained still and calm in the midst of the bandits' clamouring, nursing a steaming cup with little regard for the ruckus around him.
Apparently, his apathy drew the brigands' attention.
"What's this?" a particularly large marauder jeered. "A choir boy? Your fuckin' God ain't worth shit 'round here, boy."
The paladin tilted his head, calm and collected. "It would be wise," he said, voice deep and low and frigid, "not to mock the faith of others."
"And what will you do, little choir boy?" the brigand sneered. "Pray to your God to smite me?"
The others broke into raucous laughter, and Dismas watched intently as the knight slowly rose to his feet.
The bandit noticed and drew his blade- a rusted, ugly knife that didn't so much as glint under the light. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The noise of the rest quieted as the knight and the brigand faced each other.
"Answer me, you fuckin' bastard!" he snarled, levelling his knife at the knight's throat. "You-!"
There was a clash of metal-on-metal and the bandit's knife went skittering away, and suddenly the bandit was on his knees, wrist twisted painfully as the knight forced him down with one hand.
There was absolute silence for several long moments.
The room exploded into action.
The knight twisted the bandit's arm until there was a sick crack and the man screamed with pain before promptly kicking him to the side- one of his companions lunged, knife in hand, and blade deflected off the knight's pauldron harmlessly as he sidestepped.
Dismas' hands twitched to his guns- no, he thought, they were useless because of the wet, the gunpowder soaked with rain- and reluctantly unsheathed his dirk, the narrow blade keen and wicked.
Ailith reached over the counter- "Hide," she whispered to the bartender- and grabbed a heavy quarterstaff, hidden behind the empty tankards, and vaulted over an abandoned table and leapt into the fray, Dismas on her heels.
One of the bandits was readying an unwieldy rifle- Dismas swept up behind him and slipped his blade in between his ribs, and he fell with a gurgle, gun clattering to the ground, and Dismas turned just in time to see the knight unsheath his sword and bash a lunging bandit with the pommel to send him sprawling, and finished him off with a downward stab.
Beside him, Ailith parried a slash from another with her staff, the dagger barely nicking the dense wood, and brought the weapon down on him twice with brutal efficiency- the first blow came down on his wrist, and the bandit cried out, and the second met his skull with a sickening crack and silenced him as he dropped like a stringless marionette.
With over half their number felled, the remaining bandits, now outnumbered, seemed hesitant to engage. When Dismas took a step forward, dirk gleaming with the blood of one of their own, they fled through the doors and back out into the rain, leaving lifeless bodies of their comrades behind.
The paladin watched the door slam shut and Dismas flicked his blade, blood splattering on the floor.
"My thanks for your assistance," the knight said, turning to them. His face was stern and solemn, but his eyes were warm. "I doubt I could have fended them all off on my own."
"Of course," Ailith said.
Dismas grunted noncommittally, crouching down to wipe the blood off his dirk on the coat of one of the fallen bandits.
Ailith blinked, suddenly turning heel and rushing back to the counter. "Mikhail?" she called.
"Here, Ladyship," the older man wheezed, peering up over the bar.
The paladin quirked his head. "Ladyship?"
Dismas turned and leaned against the counter, stabbing his dirk so it stood, point down, in the wood and retrieving his mug of rum. It was barely lukewarm, and he took a long gulp, the cloying sweetness thick against his tongue.
"Perhaps you should introduce yourself first before asking others," Ailith said lightly, leaning the quarterstaff against the edge of the table.
The knight seemed mildly surprised, eyes widening for just a moment before he let out a small huff of laughter.
"My apologies," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I am Reynauld, a paladin of the church."
She smiled. "You may call me Ailith," she introduced herself.
The two of them looked at Dismas expectantly.
He huffed. "Dismas," he said curtly. He thumbed the end of his sleeve, fruitlessly rubbing the damp blood from the cloth.
Reynauld's eyes studied him coolly, took in his still-damp clothes and gleaming dirk.
"If you two need boards for the night, it's free," Mikail said, and Dismas nearly flinched at the sound of the bartender's voice. "It's the least I could do."
Ailith's eyes flickered to the four bodies on the floor. "I'll help you clean up," she said.
"Please, allow me," Reynauld said. "It was on my behalf you had intervene, after all."
Before anyone could protest, he hefted the largest of the bodies up and slung it over his shoulder effortlessly. "If I remember correctly, the cemetery is down the road?"
"Just leave it with the trash outside," Mikhail said. "I'll send someone to take care of it when the rain stops."
Reynauld inclined his head, and, as if for show, picked up another one of the brigands by the collar with his free hand as if he were holding a kitten by the scruff.
When Reynauld had cleared out the bodies, Ailith treated him to another drink, and Mikhail mopped up blood he could.
"What brings a proper knight such as yourself to this town?" Ailith asked, drumming her fingers along the counter.
"I am on a holy mission," he replied. "I seek to aid those whose homes are threatened by the Blight."
Dismas grimaced, dragging his seat closer to the fire.
Reynauld nursed his steaming drink, quietly observing her. "May I ask why you are here, as well?" he questioned.
She smiled tightly. "Just looking for help," she said.
"If I might I offer assistance-?" Reynauld began.
"Don't bother, paladin," Dismas scoffed. "She wants to go to the old capital." He took another swig of his drink "She wants to stop the Blight."
Ailith sent him a sharp look before turning to face Reynauld. "He is correct," she said.
The knight caught Dismas' gaze for a moment. "And I assume he rejected your proposition?" he said.
"Whether or not he goes with me is little concern," she said. "My plans will not change, with or without company."
"What would prompt such devotion to such a cause?" Reynauld pressed.
"A death wish," Dismas commented acerbically.
Ailith let out a huff of laughter, but the warmth on her face melted away quickly, and she remained in stoic silence for several long moments.
"My full name," she said slowly. "Is Ailith Ulfhilda Lovell."
Dismas froze, and the drink turned bitter in his mouth. "Lovell," he said flatly, "is not a well-loved name."
"Indeed," Ailith murmured into her cup. "'Tis the name of the court magician who caused the Blight. And he is my uncle."
Reynauld made a small, disbelieving noise in his throat. "I aware that a royal decree was issued for the entirety of the Lovell family to be… massacred," he said.
"I was a bastard child," she answered shortly. "I did not live with the rest of my family." She laughed humorlessly. "Such was my luck, then, that I was spared."
"And now you seek to right the wrongdoings of your uncle," Reynauld said. "A righteous cause, to be sure."
Ailith scoffed, running her hands through her hair. "If only," she muttered.
DIsmas tilted his head, but all she did was avoid his gaze.
"So," she said, "that is my story. Will you join me?"
"I will," Reynauld said immediately. "There is no more noble cause than your's. I would be honored to accompany you."
"As would I," Dismas said.
Ailith turned her quizzical gaze towards him and Reynauld's eyebrows raised slightly, and even Dismas himself was surprised by his own readiness to accept.
He exhaled softly. "I told you earlier, didn't I, Lady Lovell?" he said dryly, "I have very little to lose. I do not fear danger."
She let out a short laugh. "Ailith is fine," she said. "Rank means little in times like these." She glanced down, smile fading. "Although… are you sure? I have little to offer now."
"If we succeed, I imagine simply being able end the Blight would be reward enough," Reynauld said.
Dismas grinned wryly into his mug. "All things aside," he said, "while I may be willing to risk my life, I'm not so inclined to throw it away."
"Do you have suggestion?" Ailith asked.
Dismas shrugged. "Gather more recruits," he said. "I doubt three people charging headlong into the Blight would last very long."
Ailith's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Recruitment posters, perhaps," she said. "'Heroes wanted.'"
Dismas snorted. "Heroes?" he said. "Where on Earth will you find those?"
She grinned. "I've already found two," she said. "Finding more shouldn't be hard."
He shook his head ruefully. "Miss Ailith," he said, "I am anything but a hero."
"Then prove otherwise," Reynauld said suddenly. He looked Dismas in the eye, gaze unwavering. "That is what this country needs."