Clive didn't know for sure, but he could have sworn that Hasufel was moving faster than usual, going at a sprint that the drifter didn't know his mount possessed. Perhaps the horse was eager to get to their destination, or perhaps Hasufel was just anxious to get rid of him as soon as possible, either way, the extra speed was a morale boost for both of them, and Clive even found himself smiling a bit throughout the ride, the effect of the wind on his face freshened his spirit and lightened his soul. It took a bit of getting used to, but as long as he remained a tight grip on Hasufel's mane, riding bareback was not as complicated as it looked. There was the slight issue of maintaining his balance, Clive had to recalculate and estimate his weight now as a metal demon, and absently felt a little bit sorry for the horse, being partially made of metal did not make him the lightest person in the world, or the easiest one to carry.
"Am I weighing you down too much, Hasufel? Sorry." He said, receiving no verbal or literate answer except for an undecipherable whinny. His ability to communicate with the horse had faded as soon as the desperate need was met, nothing more than a transient power. It didn't really matter, anyway. Hasufel understood enough of his commands to take him exactly where he wanted to go. Clive found himself grateful that he had picked a more solidly built stallion all those months ago, during their first journey together as a team in Claiborne, instead of one like Jet's Arod. He had actually gotten pretty close to selecting Arod himself. Sometimes circumstance worked itself out in mysterious ways.
He was hoping that he would have the same sort of luck when he confronted Ravendor himself. Clive knew he would have an incredibly unfair advantage, being both cursed and part-demon, but for what he had done to Kaitlyn, the dark-haired man would pay for it with his life. True, they had been the best of friends a long time ago, but from the moment he had driven a red-hot bullet straight into the marrow of his arm, and the attempt to kill himself, something unseen from those uncertain days had driven them apart forever. Clive had know he had been unstable, but not that unstable. It had all started the moment Kaitlyn had begun to die.
Clive had a flash of revelation so great that he nearly forced Hasufel to come to an abrupt halt, almost letting go of the horse's mane. Of course! How the hell could he have been so stupid?! The key had been lurking around in the back of his mind for so long, going unnoticed. Seraph was Kaitlyn, and Kaitlyn was Seraph. They looked so much alike that it wasn't funny, chronologically speaking, the Seraph of twenty-five years ago was the Kaitlyn of today, by the fact of their similarity. Clive had grown to overlook it through time, hardly noticing the rate at which his daughter had been growing up, because of his frequently long absences. He and Catherine had named their daughter after Kaitlyn so that maybe part of her existence could live on in a different form, and in a way, perhaps get a second chance at life. It was all they could do to honor her memory, because they had loved her fiercely as well, as a big sister. Clive now began to wonder that when Ravendor looked at her, what did he see?
"So I am also not blameless…" He murmured, speaking through the rushing wind. "If I had thought you still alive, I would have never done such a thing. It is so very strange how the past shackles you, even when you believe yourself to be free. When released from a cage, all you find yourself in is an even larger confinement." He heard an unusual noise from somewhere behind him, but simply ignored it. "And that is what life is all about. Sometimes, I do believe I know why you wanted to end it all, and leave forever…"
Hasufel skidded to a sharp halt all of a sudden, neighing loudly and rearing up onto his hind legs, alarmed. The unexpected rising of the horse's neck caught Clive off guard and he hit the bottom of his chin under it, after having to lean closely down in order for him to not tumble off. His vision went bright white for a fragment of a second, as the impact caused his teeth to rattle around in his jaw, and he let go of one hand to clutch at the affected area. It was not a very smart move, and this time he nearly did slip off. "Hasufel! What is wrong?" He demanded, struggling to keep his balance.
The horse danced around in a frightened state, scuffing the dirt and bucking as often as possible, like a frenzied ride in an old-fashioned rodeo. Clive found it amazing that he still hadn't fallen off yet. Hasufel turned suddenly and Clive thought that he might end up tearing a fistful of mane out, but then all his thoughts paused as he saw the reason for the horse's panic.
Diobarg. Huge and serpentine, it was heading straight for them.
"What?!" Clive exclaimed. "But I thought we destroyed it?!" Of course, nobody could give him a rational answer for it's presence. Plenty of theories popped into his head instead. Perhaps there had been more than just one, perhaps there had been an entire colony of the creatures. Maybe the original beast had regenerated, or this one could have been one of it's offspring. But, no matter about the theories, Clive had to figure out how to get rid of this one, first.
He tried to spur Hasufel forwards, hissing at him to pick up speed and continue on. They might be able to outrun it, maybe, and if not, he would just have to think up another plan. This one was temporary, but he wanted to see if it would work, first. The demon estimated that Hasufel should be able to outrun it, if he could just calm the horse down enough to keep on going. Hasufel spent more than enough time just staring at the beast before getting it into his head that speed was of the essence and fled, turning tail and galloping away in the direction that Clive had intended. The sniper breathed a sigh of relief, at least that small part had been accomplished.
But Diobarg was persistent, and it had spotted the man on horseback ages ago. The nature of the creature was to keep it's distance for a while, track it's quarry, and then make an unexpected jump that would send it's prey into confusion. Diobarg had been following Clive for almost a mile now, and apart from the drifter getting a hold of his mount prematurely, all was going smoothly in the monster's plan. It easily kept it's pace.
Clive was beginning to feel Hasufel's muscles underneath his body tighten with fatigue, sweat starting to bead throughout the horse's fur. No matter how far they could run, Clive knew that Diobarg would be more than happy to chase. That was what gave the creature such a deadly reputation, anyway. So, the sniper shot a glance at the monster behind him, he would just have to do his duty as a drifter and destroy it. He knew he was strong, much stronger than when he last confronted a Diobarg, he should be able to easily win.
Then something painfully obvious struck him right in his ego.
He was unarmed.
The drifter, at that moment, would have given almost anything to have his Gungnir, in working condition, by his side. He knew that one singular shot would be more than enough to take the creature down, and his thoughts veered off at a right angle to wonder precisely how much use Catherine had been able to take out of it so far. Clive hoped none, he really didn't like the idea of her fighting again, even, in the most painful of truths, that she had always been a much better gunner than himself. He had improved since her retirement, but still… In his books, she would always be better.
However, he had one other thing that only a few people on Filgaia possessed. Magic, the power of the medium. In this fight, unable to perform melee attacks, it was all he had to rely on. This would be difficult, because he wasn't quite sure on the full extent of his abilities, ever since his modification, any arcana that he used wound up to be three or four times more powerful than he needed. Clive had no choice but to take a wild risky chance.
"Cremate!"
He raised his hand and expelled the spirit energy, manipulated by his fire medium into a howling blaze, bursting like blossoms of licking flame all over Diobarg's scaly and plated skin, scorching and eating away at the flesh with a ravenous hunger. The monster screeched out a high-toned wail of anguish for it's wounded body, sagging onto the ground for only a few seconds, before getting up again and continuing the chase, only developing a slight limp from the damage done. Clive was somehow impressed, though he did not like it's swift recovery. Smoke and small embers clung to it's body in blackened chunks, living off the fat stored underneath it's armor and burning it like candle wax. This gave Clive another idea.
Clive sifted through his inventory and procured one of his many small arsenals of bombs, unlit, but still packed with gunpowder and other forms of explosive. He did not dare lighting it in his own hands, his spare lighter had run out of fluid ages ago and casting another cremate spell over the wick would probably explode both himself and Hasufel, but he thought up an even better method instead.
Trusting his luck enough without having to perform a recast of the Hox Pox spell, Clive gathered his wits and locked onto a part of Diobarg's body that was smoldering the most, the scales coating the body glowing red hot from the heat. This entire plan ran on the power of chance. Clive hefted the bomb as hard as he could at the monster, praying to the Guardian's that the impact and the instant introduction to heat would be enough to set off the wick into activation. If so, perhaps one of his bombs could do the damage that was needed.
It struck Diobarg's side hard, and waiting for the next part seemed to take the time span of forever.
The explosion was augmented by the strength at which Clive had thrown the bomb, blasting away a goodly portion of Diobarg's hide, chunks of burning flesh and scales flying everywhere. Hasufel cried out in fear and galloped faster, while Clive just smiled in a satisfied manner. That fight had been over before it had even begun, nobody could beat him in combat. For over two thousand years, not a soul could have bested him…
Except he realized that that was Boomerang talking, and not himself. Clive shook his head and noticed how pretty the flames looked as they devoured the exploded pieces of flesh, and vaguely hoped that he wasn't turning into a raging pyromaniac. If so, he would have to exchange his medium with somebody else soon. Gungnir or not, Clive had won.
Then Hasufel practically screamed, and he knew that something was wrong. Clive turned around to see where Diobarg was, which should have been nothing more than a burning point in the distance, but gasped in surprise as the head, shoulders, arms and part of the torso were still chasing them, the back part of the creature blown away. It dragged itself across the ground astonishingly fast, and blood poured out from it's midsection, the heart trying to pump blood into areas that were no longer there. It's agony was made present in it's screeching voice, wailing like a bat out of hell.
Damn it! It will not stop until it has killed us both! I must destroy it, but what I have already used is the extent of the abilities I have access to, so far. If this cannot stop it, I do not know what… Wait… A bomb to the side of it's head, maybe? If I can remove it's head, then the body will easily die…
He searched his inventory for another bomb, but unluckily, found nothing. He was all out. Clive cursed his misfortune most vehemently and enclosed his fist around one of the objects in his pocket, which caused him a moderate amount of unexpected pain. The palm of his hand sliced, and he felt his blood begin to flow. Puzzled, Clive yanked his hand out again to see what had cut him.
The broken steel of his switchblade glinted amidst his darkened blood, coated in the oily substance. Clive pulled it out while he gritted his teeth, some of the clear gunk from the dead crab bubbler was still present on the blade, and it stung his wound like a mild acid. With the piece of metal withdrawn, he clenched his hurt hand to cut of the flowing blood and waiting for his healing factor to kick in. Until then, he contemplated the arrival of the seemingly useless blade. It had saved him countless times before, and now, maybe…
All the games of darts he had ever played in his life suddenly became invaluable, merging that technique with his lock-on skill. Diobarg was running parallel to Hasufel and himself, and Clive could see it's great big eye staring at him, looking him over, in pain, yet carefully calculating. It was like a moving target, and, remembering that the optical nerve was a direct connection from the eyeball to the brain itself, Clive drew his plan from that knowledge. He threw the piece of metal like a dart, trusting his impeccable accuracy to help him hit home.
Nobody could beat me at darts, He remembered, Except for one other person, but I do not want to go into that right now… Perhaps later…
Every fiber of Diobarg's body froze in an indescribably agony as the sharp little projectile pierced through the watery softness of it's exposed eye, splitting the optical nerve in two, a perfect hit in the complete center, dividing the eyeball lengthwise. Clear optical fluids began to squirt from the release of the eye, running down it's scaly face and escaping. The tip of the blade pierced it's brain, the blood welling inside causing a fatal blood cloth which shut down it's entire system. And throughout all of the pain and suffering, Diobarg howled like the world was coming to an end, forcing Clive to actually let go of Hasufel's mane in order to cover his sensitive ears, recoiling from the noise. The foul creature finally collapsed, and never got back up again.
"Whoa!" Clive called, causing Hasufel to canter to a swift halt, the horse panting and steaming from the fatigue lost in their exodus. The demon gave his ride a few precious minutes to recover, patting the side of Hasufel's neck in gratitude. Afterwards, he took a few more in order to convince the horse to head back to the body of Diobarg, because he had left something there that he wanted to get back.
Clive dismounted and walked back there instead, it was easier for Hasufel to cope with. The sniper circled around the corpse slowly, taking in all the injuries and smelling the small cracklings of a body still burning. It was no longer breathing, and had lost just about all the blood it had. Clive couldn't hear a heartbeat or a pulse, either. He officially proclaimed it dead, moving over to it's face and gently withdrawing the short and rusted blade he had lost.
"This is quickly becoming my good luck charm." He joked, smiling a little bit before turning back to his horse. Clive looked up as he moved, indirectly glancing at the sky. The sun was lowering itself to the ground at a steady pace, early afternoon was becoming late afternoon. "I wish I had not slept in so late…" He sighed, regretting his late awakening. Making an educated guess, Clive estimated that it was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Twilight was a only a few hours away.
The drifter mounted Hasufel again, looking at the mountains that were so much closer and pronounced on the horizon than before. As long as he hurried, and didn't stop again for any reason whatsoever, he just might make it. "The Guardian shrine…" He muttered, lightly kicking Hasufel in the side to spur him onwards again, "If you would be anywhere, you would be there. I cannot be wrong, I know I am correct. I think I can… sense you there…" Within a few seconds, horse and drifter were gone, back on the route of their journey.
The wind sprite watched Clive leave from his little perch on the tip of Diobarg's nose, ruffling his feathers up and cawing. Leaning down, he tore off a few strips of partially cooked flesh and gobbled them down with greed. Kestorael knew that if he was stuck with scout duty, he may as well get a free meal out of it as well. Kestorael remembered Clive vividly from the green-haired man's childhood, when the raven himself had been only a little hatchling, and he honestly didn't have anything directly against him, but he knew what his master wanted, and so he did it without question. Well, if he had the vocal chords to learn english, he probably would have, but himself and his master always came first. Always.
Kestorael did indeed have a fondness for Clive that had not dwindled over the years, but that was still, also the past. Even if they were on opposite sides now, well, that was just a fact of life. Humans had a phrase for that, and the raven took the time to try and recall it. Oh yes, 'Shit happens.' That was it. What a wonderful summarization of the human experience. If Kestorael could laugh, he would have.
Instead, he spread his wings and took flight, keeping a close eye on Clive for his master.
xxx
He knew that if he stayed underground for too long, it would easily drive him mad. Despite the fact that the sun's brightness hurt his eyes a little (he had been engineered for night vision), Ravendor leant against the edge of the cave's entrance, whittling away the time. There was hardly any air in the cave, stagnant and vile, making it difficult to breathe. The other bandits and Kaitlyn seemed not to notice the stuffiness with their human senses, but it was his programmed dislike of small places that forced him out into the open. Ravendor narrowed his eyes. Programmed. He had been programmed against his will, and it had taken nearly everything he had to break free of those shackling chains.
The dark-haired man had removed his gloves and was slowly wrapping a long length of white pristine bandage over his right hand and forearm, starting from the joint at the elbow and working his way downwards. He wasn't injured, he was just preparing himself for what was to come. The bindings were made as tight as he could wind them, nearly enough to cut off his circulation, but not quite. Sighing, Ravendor ignored everything else except for his task. For ten whole years, he had tried to bury both his programming and his past, but they always seemed to pop up right when he didn't need it. Finding out that he was the only prophet remaining had struck him a huge blow, if only because he now had no method left to purify his artificial blood. And even worse, discovering that Clive was still alive and married, of all things, to Catherine. He just would have never thought of it, but it was somehow true. Clive was still alive, and so he had to remedy that situation.
Ravendor's bandage ran out of length, so he tied the cloth off at the base of his wrist and fumbled in his pockets for a new one, swearing lightly. It was the afternoon, it hurt, and so he was almost out of time. He knew Clive was coming, Kestorael was constantly giving him updates on the man's current position, which made him uneasy. He wanted this, but at the same time, he was reluctant to enter battle. The last time he had fought without reservation, he had almost killed himself, the enemy, and all the spectators around them. A few years back he had even made to effort to check up on one or two of them, not that it made much difference. They were still locked up in that asylum, still stark raving mad, permanently damaged, unable to return to the sane world. Ravendor could understand why, the things that they had seen, if he had not been the object of their insanity, he probably would have easily been one of them. Sometimes he wondered how he kept himself more or less normal.
He discovered another roll of bandage and pulled it out, but his fingers slipped in the motion and it fell out of his hand, rolling to a short halt in a mound of dusty, water-drained dirt. His right hand had gone numb, he knew it would, but he knelt over and reached for the bandage anyway. Ravendor liberated the item and a small amount of dust at the same time, shaking one from the other while watching his own movements with eyes dulled by boredom. The earth in his hands was dead, devoid of living bio-material, just eroded sandstone and slate. If there had been any life inside, he would have sensed it, and he was a bit disappointed by the fact that there was none. Last time he had checked, Filgaia was actually fighting back the decay that clung so tenaciously to it's surface.
Everything dies, He thought quietly, This planet, the people within it… Birds, fish, trees… Nothing will remain…except for me. I thought that if I could support the Council of Seven with my power, perhaps they could revitalize the land like they promised… I had nothing else, back then, and they practically controlled me, anyhow. But…
Suddenly, Ravendor sensed another presence, one as corrupt as his own.
"But… they abandoned you, didn't they?" Another voice sneered, forcing the dark-haired man to stand up swiftly and face the addition to the area. The rest of the dirt fell from his fingers as he dusted them off, taking his time to look up. When he finally did, Ravendor had to immediately mask his surprise, tensing slightly. He was staring at himself, or more precisely, a smug-looking shadow of himself, talking with a voice full of arrogance and conceit. He was merely inches away from Ravendor's face, leaning over the original version of himself with his arms folded in a condescending manner. He was not there, truly, but sometimes it could seem all too real. "Once they were done with their twisted godless experiments, they left you to cope with your own trauma, correct, Mr. Guinea Pig?"
"No," Ravendor's argued softly, looking down and continuing to bandage his hand, continuing the slow winding motion. "I left them out of my own personal interest. I was never a true part of the Council of Seven, and I always wished it to remain that way. Holding power as a Prophet did not appeal to me, so I departed." His scar disappeared under the white cloth as he worked, bound and hidden away. He knew that Clive also had a similar scar, a bullet wound right near his elbow. Living on Filgaia meant that you were bound to be scarred, it was a fact of life…
The shade reached out and grabbed Ravendor by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. He looked somewhat amused as the drifter instinctively tried to pull himself away, despite knowing that the shade wasn't even there. "Do you not despise them for what they did to you? Knowingly? And Malik, do you not hate him for making you what you are? For all the unwanted 'attention' he spent on you? You must have hated that… You hate everybody, the Prophets, Clive, the world in general… So much hate… No wonder you are a monster…"
Ravendor effortlessly pushed the shade away, and it had no choice but to let go. The bandit leader looked annoyed, he was not in the mood to argue with himself today. "I do not deny it," He admitted, "Now cease pestering me and go back to wherever you came from. You are merely stating facts that I already know to be true." He finished his work, stretching his hand out to test the elasticity of the bandages. They held together pretty well.
"Why are you bandaging your arm?" The shade asked with a demonic grin. "What is it that you wish to hide? Do you expect others to believe that you are human? How sad. You are not human, just a thing with a human form. For ten years you have imitated mankind, to live with them, to survive with them, but your body is just a horrible forgery, a cheap replica. What is your true form, Project Dark Angel?" The shade took great pleasure in repeating himself. "Why are you bandaging your arm?"
Project Dark Angel. It had been nearly a decade since anybody had ever called him that. Ravendor clenched his fists, the bandages stretching. He did not reply, just turning and walking away, back into the cavern. The shade looked triumphant as it faded away, or in truth, it had never really existed there in the first place. It had said what it had wanted to say, and now it was contented. Ravendor felt his panakeia boil inside his veins, a slight and fairly harmless crackle of dark electricity forming around his arms, before dissipating into the ether. He already knew he was not particularly stable, but… he really hated to acknowledge it. He liked to get through his life telling others that he was sane, even if it was just a simple lie.
Kaitlyn ran up to him with an innocent smile on her face, grabbing his hand and trying to tug him forward. "Come and see what I made!" She exclaimed brightly, "I finished the puzzle on the floor! Come see!" Ravendor remained rooted to the spot for an uncertain moment, then he let go and allowed himself to be led to the broken mosaic covering a corner of the floor, carefully placed in some kind of coherent order. The little girl had actually done a pretty good job overall, but there were still some gaps here and there amongst the pictures, something Ravendor didn't choose to point out. She had run out of pieces to organise, and so she considered her work complete.
"Very nice. I see you have not wasted your time…" He inputted, glancing at a sleeping Dario and a loitering Romero. "Unlike certain other people I can mention…" He kneeled over and patted Kaitlyn lightly on the head, taking note to use his left hand instead of his right. Kaitlyn was beaming with pride as she gestured, her smile bold and open.
Upon taking a grip on Ravendor's hand, Kaitlyn unknowingly loosened a small bit of his bandage, only at the very top, where it unravelled a few centimetres and went unnoticed, the end getting caught underneath the sleeve of Ravendor's jacket. It revealed not what one would come to expect from him, pale skin and flesh, but gleaming perfection, the edge of a polished obsidian plate of armour, covering the front of his arm and seeming to be made out of the same substance as his arsenal of black feather darts.
He felt pain, he always felt pain, but now, that pain was taking on a solid and frightening form.
xxx
They all congregated with a collection of much lighter hearts, a great deal of hugging, backslapping, prideful comments and short tales of their overnight adventures. Gallows in particular, had woven his epic saga of the Eel Volk and his electrocution at least four or five times, and, Virginia giggled a bit on this fact, each time he told it the number of monsters seemed to increase. By now, Gallows was claiming that no less than thirty amphibian monstrosities had jumped him in the middle of the night, and that he had slain them all effortlessly. Jet was trying his hardest to keep his mouth shut and not make any comments over this, and Shane actually looked like he was believing his older brother's story. Catherine just kept quiet, and Halle was snickering softly to herself. In truth, it was just a relief to know that everyone else was safe and well.
While they chatted, Catherine was still working on the antidote, diligently and dutifully continuing her work. Raising one hand over the cup, she sprinkled a small amount of the silver compound into the mixture, after having crushed it up into a very fine powder. The substance glittered as it sunk into the fluid, like a whisper of fading stardust. As soon as that was done, acting on the directions of the antidote, she had to apply the aconite flower straight away, not needing any preparation at all and just dropping the entire plant into the concoction. This was precisely what she did, without hesitation.
After a little lie down, Virginia was now awake enough to watch Catherine intently, noticing how involved she looked with the potion's creation, how focussed she was becoming. It was strange to watch such a soft and warm-hearted person look so honed to a single project, like looking at a velvet sheath and knowing that there was a razor-sharp dagger inside. Catherine was like that, a little bit, in an abstract sense.
Shane passed Catherine a knife, as soon as she had set the wooden spoon down. Taking a choice few seconds, he put a thick chopping board in an empty space between the ingredients and placed the bizarre potato-like carved doll in the center, stepping away afterwards. He smiled. "This is the mandrake plant. Do you want an explanation on it's… unusual shape?"
"I do." Virginia butted in, curious. Catherine looked sideways at her, then smiled and nodded as well. She had heard the word 'mandrake' before, a long time ago in some form of ancient superstition, but for the life of her she just could not remember it. Shane would probably know more about it, anyway. Virginia gently put her hand on the herb, and was surprised to find that it had a sort of warmth radiating from the inside, a sensation that was impossible to describe.
The young Baskar nodded obligingly, picking up the plant and holding it like one would hold a child's toy, around the midsection with a careful grip. He began. "Mandrake was held to be more than a plant, it's long doll-like root was said to embody an earth spirit, and pulling it from the ground made the spirit shriek so horribly that any person hearing it would die." He stopped explaining for a few seconds to let the other absorb the information, before continuing. "Because of this, dogs were used to uproot the plant. A hungry dog was tied to the mandrake and some meat was placed nearby. Theoretically, the dog would rush at the meat, but would soon die as the shrieking plant was torn out."
"That's terrible!" Virginia exclaimed, "The poor dog!"
"Many others thought that too," Shane informed her, "So the Baskar priesthood banned the further cultivation of the mandrake herb unless it was a life or death situation. We've been training pilbugs recently to perform the task, seeing that the type of creature they are means that they have no definite hearing to damage. Maybe once we have domesticated them, cultivation can begin anew." He placed the plant back on the chopping board. "Just cut it all up into little cubes and distribute it into the antidote. That should do the job."
Catherine had more than a hard time chopping up something that looked so much like a tiny baby into little cubes, even though it was like preparing potatoes for dinner. She brushed away the green leaves at the top and tossed the pale cream-coloured chunks in with the rest. It was not long before they too disappeared. "Is there anything else I need to do?" She asked, wanting to keep working so that she could remain focussed. "Are there any more ingredients?"
"Yes, yes…" Halle rasped in her aging voice as she hobbled over to Catherine's side. "Another important one, nearly as important as the one we discussed…" She winked at her, then removed a sharp little knife from the table, honed to a spike-like point. "A drop of your blood, a drop of blood from the person he cares for the most. Hold out your hand, this will only sting for a second." But Catherine wanted to do it herself. She took the knife off Halle and held her hand over the mixture, poking a small hole in her finger and allowing a welling bead of bright red blood to fall sullenly into the liquid. It made a little red blot on the surface of the broth, before mingling and becoming one with the rest. A small sacrifice of her own life-force to save another. It was a worthy donation.
"There," Catherine breathed, "All done."
"And now, the final ingredient." Halle had to pause, rustling the papers a little as she looked at them. The space between her sentences was long, and at the same time, overwhelming. "A hair from the lycanthrope himself." She finished at last, shaking her head slowly from side to side.
That silence passed from the elder, to all the other occupants of the room, dropping heavily onto them like a lead weight. The wooden spoon Catherine was stirring the nearly-completed antidote with slipped to the floor from her loosened fingers, hitting the edge of the bench on it's way down, her face incapable of expressing the true emotions within. Shane and Gallows looked blank. Virginia was staring at the ground, her arms firmly by her sides. Jet glanced at the old woman, his façade unreadable.
Halle had just asked for an impossible item, one that none of them had, or could find.
And that was that.