Nineteen:
A Strange Company

"How's everything going?"

"Fine, I s'ppose. Tash's been researching nonstop since you left, but everything's quiet. Oh! Nearly forgot: that siren woke up. Said her name's Arella and something about poison. Your friend's still sorting her out. And Sir Walter says hi." Jack paused. "Is the quest going okay?"

Victoria glanced up at Thorndeep's trees and pressed a hand to her eyes with a sigh. "It's had its moments. And now the first friends we've made are dead."

"Oh…I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. We've found some…possible allies, and we're starting for Miremoor in a few minutes."

"That's lucky; may—ah, shit, I've got to run. Maybe you'll find what you're looking for."

"With luck, perhaps. I'll call when we make progress."

"Right. Tell uncle not to shoot anyone. Good bye, Your Majesty."

"Good bye, Jack." With a huff of humourless laughter, she cut power to the guild seal and slipped it onto her belt.

They'd spent the hours until just after dawn digging a massive grave and slowly moving the bodies of the dead into it. There hadn't been many people in the town, but a small number were unaccounted for. No one was sure if they'd tried to escape into the woods or if, perhaps, their count was off because of how many bodies had been in pieces. Or, worse still, if the balverines had carried some of the townspeople off. At any rate, it had been a sorrowful, odd-feeling morning. In an effort to keep hollow men from forming here, they'd burned the bodies in the grave and then finished burying them once the flames had died out.

Now all that was left was to finish waiting for Scythe to be ready and to prepare Satyr for the coming journey.

Theresa looked worse for wear—exhausted and pressing a hand to her injured side—and she hadn't moved from her usual seat on the cart's bench since Victoria had helped her up. Reaver wouldn't stop working. As soon as one task was done, he moved on to another. Even odder, he wasn't talking. To anyone. And, against Victoria's better judgment, she was beginning to worry about him.

Of the three strangers they'd picked up, Rhys was the first to be ready to leave. Eyes almost as red as her long curls, she sat curled up on the floor just inside the stables. Her freckled hands clutched a velvet bag to her chest as she huddled against the wall. It was over an hour later before Scythe—fully armoured today—and Nergüi, who was, in Victoria's opinion, dressed far too lightly for the chill in the air, joined them. Victoria supposed Scythe must have a bag similar to hers for, between him and his apprentice, they only carried two packs and there had been far more than that in his cabin…unless he'd left it all behind. The thought of losing all the knowledge his books and scrolls contained was appalling to her, but there wasn't time to worry about it now.

"These Willstones you seek," he began, easing his massive scythe through the door to the back of the caravan, "you are certain you know where they are?"

"Yes," Theresa replied. There was a weakness in her voice that hadn't been there the previous day; Victoria felt a stab of concern. They were running out of time. Seemingly unaware of the Queen's thoughts, Theresa continued on: "There is a henge—deep in the Moors. I believe we will find the next there."

Scythe gave a non-committal hum, thinking hard. "It is not wise to traverse the Moors of late. The spirits have grown restless; the beasts that once remained hidden, now they are fearless. Do not expect a quiet journey."

"I believe, with all of us here, we will be more than safe."

He didn't seem very convinced as he pulled himself into the cart. Rhys and Nergüi had seated themselves on the cot and Victoria vaguely wondered where Scythe was going to sit—given there was almost no room back there any more—as she closed the door behind him.

Reaver was waiting for her by the front of the cart, the faintest trace of his usual smirk settling over his lips for the first time since they'd arrived in town.

"Are we going to have to fight over who drives again?" she half-teased, immediately feeling awkward. People had died here…maybe now wasn't the best time to make jokes.

"No, ma chere. I'm feeling generous," he replied, waving her towards the driver's seat. "Feel free to indulge your need for control to your heart's content."

"You are feeling generous." With an intrigued look, she hopped up into the driver's seat and settled in beside Theresa. The seeress looked even worse up close, but she was disinclined to mention it as she waited for Reaver to join them. All seated, Victoria cracked the reins and nudged Satyr into motion.

Through the treetops, the sky was an almost uniform grey—the only trace of the sun was a warm glow of gold unable to break through the clouds. They made their way in almost perfect silence down the muddy path. Victoria tried to keep an eye out for any survivors of the massacre—or any of the horses they'd set free—but she saw nothing. The murky light made Thorndeep seem even darker and eerier, but the aura of menace wasn't as strong as it had previously been. The wood accepted them now and seemed content to let them pass in peace. Still, every once in a while Victoria was certain she heard rustling from the undergrowth near the roadside. Twice she brought Satyr to a standstill and had readied a spell before Theresa could coax her into continuing on. In the end, she forced herself to ignore it. She was tempted to blame the Crawler for her unease, but he had been mostly silent since Scythe's arrival—stewing in what seemed to be a mix of ire and begrudging acceptance that everything was terrible.

The trees groaned and creaked as though speaking to each other as they drove onwards; every so often the sounds were punctuated by the cawing of a crow or the flustered shrieks of another winged creature. The air smelled of rain and damp soil, fog twisting sinuously amongst the tree trunks like serpents. The closer they got to the edge of the wood, the more wild animals they saw. Timid deer and foxes, squirrels and other rodents. Everything was calm and yet, somehow, not.

They stopped every couple hours to tend to Satyr and walk about, but conversation seemed lost to them. All of Victoria's questions—her fears, her concerns—seemed inappropriate for so sombre a day. Every so often, Nergüi would sign something to Rhys and they would chat, briefly and nonverbally, but no one seemed willing to truly break the silence—Scythe and Reaver apparently locked in their own thoughts and Theresa easily assumed to be sleeping if not for how often she fidgeted.

The road grew rockier, the mud turning into hardened dirt, and the trees began to retreat entirely. Before they pulled back a decent distance from the road, Victoria caught sight of a puck lurking under one of the trees. It vanished with little more than a small wave. And then the monotony returned. Victoria watched as the rocks and shrubbery passed them by, barely focusing on the relatively straightforward path of the road.

And then Victoria felt it. A slight tingle of old magic that whispered along the back of her senses like the wind. Wrapped like lover's fingers around her sternum and tugged. Coaxing. Beckoning gently. She felt Theresa jolt in alarm beside her as a prickle of warning stirred in her mind. But the magic called so sweetly, so delicately tempting, that Victoria was unable to resist it. She jerked her head up, drawing a confused look from Reaver as she looked around. On one side of the road was a wall of dark trees and ferns, on the other laid a long stretch of empty bog. The only sign of life was a single, barren tree—it was from there the magic was coming from.

"Take the reins," she said to Reaver, trying to press them into his hands.

"What are you—"

Before he could finish the question, she'd hopped down from the cart. Stumbling slightly, she started for the tree.

"Victoria!"

Her feet sunk into the soil as she walked; ground tugging at her boots as though reluctant to let her pass. Her nose wrinkled at the foul smell choking the air. Strange, she'd never thought bogs smelled this bad before. Was she downwind of something that had died? And the tree, as she approached it, didn't look right. Twisted and mangled, its base was coated in slime and glowing orange plate mushrooms clung to its bone-dry trunk. She thought she could see a face in its bark. A section of branches were frozen spread forward, like fingers reaching towards the forest. A huge crack had split its trunk, revealing a hollowed out centre, and, with careful feet, she climbed its slimy roots and pulled herself up to it. The crows that had been roosting in its branches took off with affronted caws.

She could hear the others calling for her, but was too focused on her task to understand the words. Couldn't make herself stop if she tried. There was something round and shiny stuck inside the trunk, almost as though the tree had originally grown around it. Stretching, she tried to reach for it. It was just out of reach.

Victoria pulled herself up a touch further, wriggling a bit into the crack. Her footing was no longer stable, but she found she didn't care. She could worry about getting down once she had the thing…whatever the thing was. This close, she could see it was made of some warmly-coloured metal (she was tempted to call it gold, if not for the fact that it didn't look right and was far too sturdy for gold) and covered in Old Kingdom runes. And, when she finally got her hands on it, it was gritty with dust and dirt and wasn't as cold as it should have been, sitting out in this weather. The overwhelming urge to seize it faded on contact.

It took some force to pull it free and she flailed a bit, trying to regain footing on the roots. And then everything began to shake.

With a rumble and a jarring tremor, the ground beneath the tree began to move and she was forced to cling to the tree to keep from being thrown off. The smell was getting worse. Victoria couldn't keep a grip on her prize and the tree at the same time. Knowing it was better to be able to control her fall to some degree, she leapt from the roots and hit the damp ground in a mostly-successful roll. And found herself face to face with a very confused, very angry troll. Oh. Oh, buggery, fucking hell.

Fortunately, it seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see it and she was able to back out of its immediate range of smacking things before it regained its senses. Furious, it slammed its enormous hands into the ground and roared. Clumps of dirt fell from it with every movement and a decaying buck trapped in its body swayed pathetically. Victoria could hear the others back at the cart telling her to run, to get back onto the cart so they could leave before the troll tried to actively fight her, but she thought the idea was very poor. The last troll they'd met had taken to throwing things at them. If this one was anything like that, there was no guarantee it wouldn't smash the cart…and then where would they be? She just wished she knew how to fight a troll.

From the depths of the woods opposite them, something roared back. The troll froze and Victoria was struck by just how human its expression was in that moment. She'd seen that look on people before: usually it was accompanied by the realisation that they'd just fucked up immensely.

Something was coming—something big. The branches of the wood creaking and snapping, the ground shaking and rumbling. Abruptly less concerned about the troll, Victoria stumbled a few feet closer to the cart. She stopped as the treeline erupted.

It was trees, she realised with a start. Enormous trees with arms and legs, veins of blue light glowing from within them like a hollow man's wisp. Wights. And the dead tree in the bog suddenly made sense. They were furious, bellowing their ire in the groaning of limbs and the rustling of leaves; their spirits pouring forth rage in a bright burst of Will that threatened to overwhelm her even at a distance. Swaying almost drunkenly as they ran, they threw themselves in the troll's direction. The clumps of earth and peat the troll was throwing did nothing to hinder their progress. I'm in their path. Panic cut short any fascination she had and Victoria ran for the cart. Head down, the strange ball clutched to her chest, she forced herself not to stop. Stumbling, she glanced back as she reached the cart. The troll was fighting a losing battle, completely overcome by the angry tree spirits.

Victoria pulled herself up onto the cart, panting, and sat down. Rhys and Nergüi were staring with wide eyes as though torn between terror and awe.

"What?" she said almost innocently to Reaver, Theresa, and Scythe, who all seemed to be projecting various levels of disapproval.

"Your driving privileges have been revoked," Reaver informed her as Theresa shook her head.

"What were you thinking?" Scythe added, settling back down on the crates behind the bench.

I wasn't. I couldn't; it wouldn't let me. But that didn't seem wise to say when everyone was frowning at her.

"None of you are very fun, are you?" she replied dryly, turning her attention to the strange orb. She doubted she'd ever figure out what it did, but it was still a fascinating find. Perhaps, once they got back to Bowerstone, she could open it up and see what it had once done.

The caravan jerked back into motion under Reaver's control, travelling slightly less sedately than they had been. Victoria could hear both girls chattering in the back about what they'd seen with an excitement that only made Scythe sigh.

Halfway down a hill, as Nergüi was explaining to Rhys the difference between the creatures of the North and their southerly variations, Reaver leaned toward Victoria and murmured, "That was one of the best things I've seen in decades."

"Wasn't it?"

They travelled until dark. On roads that could barely be called such, past the mountainous path up to the Forge of Fire, and onto a rocky, craggy route high above a rolling expanse of moorland. This high up, there was nothing to protect them from the biting wind. More than once, Victoria had to hop down and, holding firmly onto Satyr's tack, lead her as far from the edge of the path as she could to keep the wind from blowing them off a cliff. Travel became easier as they descended once more. The rocky ground rose up on either side of them, failing to protect them from the light drizzle falling from the sky. It was soon after that that they stopped, pulling as far under a stone overhang as possible.

There was no water nearby beyond the occasional drop from the sky, but they had refilled their bottles and extra stores enough that they suspected it wouldn't be a problem tonight. The real issue was sleeping arrangements. There was barely enough room in the cart for three people; now that they had twice that, it was impossible for them to all sleep there. Victoria brought it up as she set up a fire. Fortunately, their new additions had had more foresight than she had and, in short order, there were two tents situated as far under the overhang as they could safely manage

No one was especially chatty as they sat around the fire, eating a simple meal from their supplies and a couple underfed fowl Reaver had managed to shoot down. (There had been a few comments that they should have just eaten Henrietta the ever-angry hen, but, despite her attitude hinting that she was secretly a demon in disguise, she was slowly becoming more like an ornery pet and less like dinner. Besides, who was willing to risk reaching into her cage?) The group split up almost immediately after they'd finished eating: Reaver ducking into the caravan for his nightly journal scribbling and the girls heading into their tent. Scythe sat in the opening of his own tent, reading with concentration that seemed impossible to shatter. In contrast, Theresa sat before the fire, clearly struggling to keep warm in her thin robes.

The drizzle had grown into a downpour and Victoria took advantage of it to stick the dishes out into the rain and give them as much of a wash as she could. "You know," she called to Theresa, voice seeming almost quiet against the drumming of the rain, "you never did tell me what exactly the Corruption wants."

For a moment, Theresa didn't answer and then, shifting, she replied: "To reclaim something it believes was taken from him long ago, at the height of the Old Kingdom."

Can it really be that old? How has it existed so long without discovery? "What was taken?"

"I believe you are familiar with the story of how the bloodline first began?"

"Yes. The Court of Blades came from the Void and William Black eventually put a stop to them. …I used to have nightmares he was hiding under my bed whenever mum got mad at me." At the very pregnant pause that followed Victoria's words, she added, "Jack of Blades, I mean; not William Black."

Theresa responded with a note of understanding, but didn't continue on. Victoria waited until she'd finished cleaning out the last of the dishes, picked them up, and settled in before the fire to dry them off before enquiring: "So what does that have to do with the Corruptor?"

"He was once a man…or part of a man."

"William Black?" Victoria murmured slowly, trying to piece it together. She was too focused on her thoughts to notice Scythe had stopped turning pages in his book a while ago. She could, however, feel the Crawler shifting, listening with interest.

"You are very astute, Hero."

"So that thing is—" Victoria broke off, shaking her head disbelievingly, and tried to change the tone of her words— "how can that be possible? How can it be the same as a Hero?"

Theresa started to speak as though preparing for a grand story. At the last second, she paused, falling silent. Her body language seemed to suggest that, had she eyes, she would have been staring into the fire, but her expression made it clear that her attention was focused far beyond it. After a long couple minutes, she finally murmured: "How, indeed."

The rain had not dissipated by the next morning; it was lighter, yes, but not stopped. The mood had lifted somewhat, though. Even Theresa seemed to be feeling a bit better. By the time they'd packed up their camp, they were drenched but no one was snapping at each other or acting otherwise disapproving—it was as though everyone had decided they were committed to the quest and so there was no point in continuing to fight. (Everyone except Reaver, that is, who was fluctuating between barely-hidden annoyance and a sulky, huffy silence.)

The wind had picked up, whipping leaves and pebbles against the sides of the cart as they travelled. Theresa was forced to wrap herself in a spare wool blanket as Reaver and Victoria pulled their coats closer, trying not to let the rain and wind in. As they turned a corner, the right side of the road abruptly dropped away, revealing the vast seeming-emptiness of the Moors. Ancient, crumbling towers dotted the distant landscape and, towering far above everything in the distance, the snow-covered peaks of the Whitespire Mountains maintained an impassive, uncaring vigil. Long grass and juniper clung to both sides of the road, stubbornly refusing to let the strong winds rip them from the ground.

Ruins, almost as old as the Old Kingdom ruins they'd previous seen, sporadically crossed them on the roadside; all choked with dead vines and browning ivy. In some places, it almost looked like plants had burst out of the ruins, shattering their stone facades. The dim hollows of what might have once been windows and doorways stared after them like the eyes of some great, dead beast. It was remarkably desolate and…almost lonely.

"It's so dreary," Rhys commented idly, pressing her freckled face against the larger of the cart's windows in an effort to see past the rain. "I forgot how depressing the Moors are."

"It was not always so," Theresa replied, adjusting her blanket. The howling wind nearly swallowed her voice but, at Victoria's probing look, the seeress continued: "A great city once stood here. The Heroes that founded it had elected to settle here, exhausted by the trials of their work and the demands of their nation, and they had no desire to suffer more for their new home. Instead, they poured their Will into the soil, ensuring the soil would be fertile and that they would always harvest abundant crops. However, the foundations they had laid were weak. Very weak. And land consumed them."

"That's…dark," Victoria said after a moment. Behind her, she could hear Rhys make a sound of agreement.

"Indeed."

They passed another ruin at their left and Victoria tried to imagine people living here. What had their lives been like? To have a world so full of Will…where Heroes were commonplace…she couldn't imagine it. Had it been wonderful? Or…perhaps the exact opposite. So many egos, so much power, so many people taught to deal with problems by attacking them…surely it had been fearsome at times. And perhaps that explained why Heroes had eventually fallen out of favour. And it raised…questions.

"This Hero that created the next Willstone," Victoria began carefully, "do we know what they were like?"

"Yes; Stone was a Hero of no match—possessed of great character and incredible prowess. She was commendable."

"She sounds impressive. And potentially terrifying."

"She was. One off the greatest Heroes that ever lived…much like her descendants."

"Oh?" Victoria probed, curious despite the annoyed scoff the Crawler gave in response. "Do we know any of them?"

"You do not know her personally, though no doubt you've heard tales of her. She helped your father and myself defeat Lucien."

The entire cart swayed violently as Reaver half-rose, leaning in front of Victoria. The Queen panicked and, alarmed, instinctively jerked Satyr's reins to the left. Shouts rose from the back of the caravan. Entirely oblivious to the distress he was causing, Reaver pointed accusingly at Theresa.

"Did you not think to mention this before you dragged us out here?"

In contrast to rest of the group, Theresa appeared unconcerned: "It did not seem important to mention."

"'Not important to'—if she's anything like Hammer, I highly doubt she intends to let me anywhere near her Willstone. Lest you've forgotten: she threatened to throw me through a wall."

"I'm certain Stone will be more reasonable."

"I think fucking not."

"Can we not fucking do this while shaking the cart to the point we might go off a cliff?!" Victoria hissed, more than a touch concerned. Irritation boiling under her skin.

After a moment of tense silence, Reaver threw himself back into his seat. Arms folded across his chest, he shot Theresa a venomous glare. "You are, quite possibly, the worst guide I've ever met."

"Given the state of your life thus far, I find that very difficult to believe, Reaver," Theresa replied, feigning obliviousness.

Victoria repressed the urge to put her head in her hands.

"Is that a cullis gate?" Nergüi interrupted, reaching past Theresa to point at a crumbling circle of stone, half-covered in dead plants and weeds.

The distraction worked and, as Theresa and Nergüi launched into a discussion about cullis gates and their functions, the tension slowly dissolved from the group. Reaver remained in an annoyed, seething silence, but didn't immediately launch into a new argument. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she thought he looked tired. Worn down as though all his long years were slowly catching up to him. And, though she knew she shouldn't, she found she missed the suave, cheerful-about-terrible-things attitude he always carried himself with back at home. She didn't think he was really this grumpy just about Theresa not revealing Stone's connection to the late Hammer; he'd been grumpy for a while now. Certainly, his mood had taken a turn for the worst after they'd met Scythe, but that didn't explain it either. What's happened to you?

"This may be a problem."

Victoria jolted out of her thoughts at the words. A small group of hobbes were riding towards them, their boars eating up the rocky ground with ease. Instinctively, Victoria pulled on her Will, even as Reaver reached for his pistol. The hobbes didn't seem to care. With a speed and focus most unusual for them, they rode right past the cart as though it were nothing more than a boulder on the roadside.

"That's…odd," Victoria murmured, letting her Will slowly fade.

"Those creatures must be very far from home," Nergüi observed, shifting slightly towards the front of the caravan.

Victoria shook her head. "Maybe they were just passing through."

"But passing through to where?" Theresa added, expression grim.

They received an answer almost an hour later. The road had twisted through long-dried gullies and stone tunnels—past a grey, wind-ravaged lake and another cluster of ruins. Up ahead, an enormous gate loomed over the road, looking as though it had been built with driftwood and whole felled trees. As soon as the hobbes manning it caught sight of them, they retreated inside, closing the gates with a painfully loud bang.

"Go away" the place seemed to say as the cart pulled to a stop in front of the gate. But cliffs and a steep hill enfolded either side of the road, making it impossible to go around. There was only one way through…and the hobbes were blocking it. Victoria didn't need anyone to tell her this was a problem; she handed the reins to Reaver and hopped down, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground. Up close she could see the gate was sturdier than it appeared. They weren't going to be able to smash it down or drive through it without danger to Satyr and the caravan. But there had to be a way to open it from the inside.

Almost as though in response to her thoughts, a hobbe poked its head out from under the gate's upper wall. Ears flapping as it jabbered, it threw a handful of twigs and leaves in Victoria's direction (the plant matter falling to the ground long before it could have reached her) and chattered something in a victorious tone. Before Victoria had more time to do anything other than stare at it, it ducked back out of sight. Bemused, she turned to stare at her companions. Her lack of understanding seemed to be shared by them for only Scythe appeared unsurprised.

"Well," Victoria began, stopping for she didn't know what to say.

"I suppose it feels confident the only controls to the gate are up there," Theresa supplied, not very impressed by the hobbes' efforts.

"Let me guess: scout around, find a way through, open the gate?"

"You learn quickly, Hero."

Yeah…fuck this shit. With a sigh, she dropped her hands from her waist and adjusted the straps of her holster. "I'll be back in a bit."

Knowing perfectly well she wasn't going to make it up the cliff without presenting herself as a target for the hobbes to shoot, she headed towards the hill. Perhaps there was a crack in the wall she could climb through.

Are you ready for hobbes: round two? she thought to the Crawler.

The Crawler shifted, seemingly stretching, and the transition into them sharing control was painless this time. Always.

Twenty minutes passed before Reaver began to feel a trickle of concern. Nergüi and Rhys were chatting quietly in the back of the caravan, all but hidden from view. Theresa leaned back against the cart, clearly trying to rest and reserve her energy. And Scythe appeared absorbed in something he was writing. None of them seemed to realise something wasn't quite right about the situation. Victoria was not the type for a silent battle; certainly it could start silently, but it always dissolved into screaming and explosions—she was much like her father had been in that way. For neither of those to be occurring, something had to be amiss.

"Something's wrong," he murmured, staring at the gate as though it would open through sheer strength of will alone.

"That is very unlikely," Theresa replied evenly. "She is more than skilled enough to handle a pack of hobbes."

"Just because she's skilled doesn't mean she's not in trouble."

"If she requires assistance, she will ask. Underestimating her will undoubtedly do little more than irritate her," Scythe put in unhelpfully.

"That doesn't mean she doesn't require it."

Theresa frowned. "She has fought much worse—"

"Which is precisely the danger!" Reaver snapped. "You're so eager to tell me I'm egotistical, but at least I'm aware of the danger that lies in being so used to being the strongest fighter around that you forget there are still dangers in the world. Is no one going to consider that she could be in trouble?"

He frowned at the company, waiting for some sign of acknowledgement that his words had gotten through. Nergüi and Rhys had fallen silent, staring between them all questioningly. Scythe's expression was impossible to read, watching Reaver with a look that hinted at calculation. Theresa was equally inscrutable and Reaver found his annoyance growing.

"Very well, then." His Dragonstomper was still in its holster. He couldn't reach his canesword, but there was a dagger in his boot and another hidden under his coat. He stood up, for once making sure not to unbalance the caravan as he did so. "But this? This here—" he gestured between Scythe and Theresa, derision clouding his features— "is why I hate Heroes. What good have you done anyone lately? Perhaps it was better when you were just legends for children."

Theresa turned away from him, something like guilt flickering over her face.

Ignoring the protest of his shoulder, Reaver pulled himself onto the roof of the cart. Ignoring the shouts of what he was doing, he leapt for the wall, kicking off the stone to pull himself on top of the gate.

"Open the gate!" someone shouted from the cart.

Reaver rolled his eyes. "Why don't you all just...sit here? And wait." Turning away, he added almost under his breath: "You're all too bitter for anything to try to eat you."

His shoulder was burning, searing at the added strain he'd placed on it. It was only after he'd dropped down out of view of the cart that he rubbed absently at it. He couldn't tell if it was healing or not. It didn't hurt as much as it had been—until now, that is—but it wasn't going away, either. It wasn't as though he'd had a chance to check it, either. With six people in such a small area, there was no room for privacy.

But there was time to worry about that later. Dragonstomper in hand, he hurried across a wooden bridge and down some stone stairs. It looked as though the hobbes had built over one of the old ruins, using the structure to their advantage. But it barely held his interest. Where are the little bastards? There wasn't a single hobbe anywhere he looked. Not one. He didn't think Victoria was to blame for how empty the structure appeared—if she'd gotten this far, he was certain she would have opened the gate. They also would have heard her or the hobbes fighting. Now it was simply quiet. It didn't feel right.

The stairs descended into a series of twisting tunnels that, if anything, made him feel worse. The air was heavy, tense. He felt like something was watching him. The shadows seemed to writhe and twist about as he walked. Pulling away as he approached before flooding the hall as he moved away.

"If this is a taunt," Reaver called, needing to hear something other than silence if only just to ease his nerves, "then it's sorely in poor taste."

There was no response.

Vines and roots twisted through the stone walls and ceiling as though seeking soil that just wasn't there. Dampness seeped down from the upper levels, coating the stone work in slime and moss and filling the air with a musty, mephitic smell. Braziers and torches flickered without wind. He crept through a large dining hall—long tables laden with rotting food, filth, and mess; a fire was roaring at the far end of the hall and a keg spilled its, long soured, contents across the floor. Such a waste, such a waste…but it wasn't as though there was anyone to complain to. The room was as empty as the halls had been.

It was starting to feel a bit worse than eerie, if he was honest; downright creepy, actually. Somewhat like that time he'd woken up to—wait, no, this wasn't the time for that story. He was far too preoccupied to get the events perfectly in order and deliciously melodramatic. He had much more pressing thoughts on his mind. Things like: where the hell was she? He ought to have seen her by now. It's not like she could have gotten lost. The halls were far too linear, even a child could have gotten through with ease. Avo help them all if she'd died, because he'd…he'd…he didn't know what he would do. He didn't know.

"Come…to me…."

His skin crawled, gut twisting. He didn't recognise that voice but he'd felt the feelings it inspired many times before. The Darkness was cloying, tempting and pulling. But he shouldn't have been feeling it here. Either the Temptress had found them or…. Victoria, what did you do?

The halls opened up into nature, gravel crunched under his feet, and realised he stood in an arena. Dead hobbes littered the ground everywhere he looked. The scent of blood and burning filled the air, unwilling to wash away even with the rain and wind. A lone figure sat crouched over a dead hobbe, surrounded by broken arrows and scorch marks. With more wariness than Reaver would ever admit to, he crept towards it.

"Victoria?"

Alarmed, the figure whirled around, blade raised, and Reaver had barely enough time to pull the knife from inside his coat and block the strike. It was not Victoria. Or, rather, it was her body, but she was not controlling it. Wisps of darkness rose from her tattoos and there was an eerie scarlet sheen to her eyes. But the worst, to him, was her expression—it was mimicked passably, but wrong. Simultaneously vacant and malicious.

"You are the Thief," it said. The tone and pronunciation were wrong—warped and off key. And far too calm. "She does not wish us to harm you, even if you may bring her great harm."

Reaver waited until it lowered its blade before doing the same. He didn't trust this. Didn't trust that this thing wouldn't attack him the second his guard was down. But he'd be damned if he made it obvious. "And so you finally reveal yourself. Tell me, how does Victoria feel about you stealing her body out from under her?"

The Crawler smiled—it was unpleasant and unsuited to Victoria's features. "Perhaps you might ask her yourself."

The darkness vanished. The red glow was snuffed out from her eyes. Her legs wobbled. He caught her before she fell, but she didn't lean against him for long. She pushed away from him, exhaustion etched into her features. She almost seemed ashamed.

"You weren't meant to see that," she begrudgingly admitted. She was struggling to keep her voice from shaking and it was failing drastically.

The problem, Reaver found, was that he didn't know how to react. The Crawler clearly hadn't taken control against Victoria's will. That was a dangerous concept. He was far from concerned about the fate of Albion and its people, but he really didn't want to imagine what Victoria could get up to if the Crawler had free reign. The threat the Crawler had originally posed had been…terrifying. To some, at least. And what about Victoria herself?

He bit back his worry and extended a hand. "Let's concern ourselves with the gate first."

AN: Don't mind me, just laying out some threads for later. Certainly nothing to be concerned about in the future. :)