Rebekka felt the red viscous liquid slide down her throat and chin. She wanted so badly to vomit, but she couldn't. Not with him watching. Even when he wasn't there, he was. And when he was, he wasn't. It was maddening to know she was always watched. Or rather it might be more appropriate to say she was under lock and key; house arrest. For she could not leave the confines of her inn. Not for food, not for sunshine, not even to relieve herself.

For all the supernatural powers the apparition let on to have, he (or it) was terrified of her leaving even the threshold of her own house. How was she to live, to thrive with this... this when she couldn't even take care of herself? When she would voice her concerns to him, crying out to the thin air and maddeningly knowing that he was listening, he had been silent for a time. Then one morning, while placing another damned jar of blood on her bedside he told her that a helper would be on their way. She'd been skeptical of that, but true enough, some days later a knock had come to her door.

It was strange to her to know without any form of evidence that it was in fact her help who was knocking before she'd even answered the rap-tap-tapping. With the war beginning to take a foul turn, fewer and fewer visitors were calling on her for aid, save those soldiers who essentially came to raid for supplies before moving on in their never-ending retreat before the Kushan empire, which was another major concern in and of itself. But still, some soldiers had stayed in her care for genuine medical reasons; many of them would not make the journey to Vritannis without aid. And it was not lost on her that they were retreating to the very same holy city that her four charges had set out for some weeks prior.

She answered the door and a figure stood behind it. They were cloaked wholly in white and wore a full garb that hid even their face behind a plague doctor's mask. They carried with them a cane with which they walked with a small but notable limp. When the thick layers of clothing were removed one by one by her silent guest, it was revealed that they were in fact female. And she wasn't silent for long. No sooner had she gotten the layout of the facility did she order a physical examination of her charge. Rebekka was absolutely livid.

But the woman's words, harsh and expectant from her aged lips, help with them a tone of absolute authority. So, she allowed herself to be subjected to a comprehensive examination. So far, she was healthy as a horse. Discounting the inexplicable need for mysterious blood every other day. But it wasn't all bad. The woman, who she'd come to learn was named Annabeth, made herself busy tending to the many sick and injured who entered the old inn. Rebekka was permitted to handle the cooking, as Annabeth had no mind for it.

Rebekka had once asked how it was the old woman had come to know of her condition, and who instructed her to her aid. The reply had been eerie and haunting.

"I had a dream where a man showed me this place, and you, and told me to look after her, and the child that would be born to her. It plagued me for months ere I could stand it no more. One day I woke up and knew that if I tarried one more day, I would die."

Not long after she arrived, she learned that had she in fact stayed even another day, she would have been massacred by advancing Kushan forces.

And so it was that the inn was managed, the clinic put to use, and Annabeth went about providing miraculous transfusions of blood unbidden to her injured guests in Rebekka's place. The process for the whole ordeal was so consistent, she'd actually taken to cataloging the stages.

First was the Haunting. The subject would experience restless sleep, haunted by strange dreams that would hold them captive until daybreak. They told her tales that they weren't permitted to wake until then, and that a strange man they'd never met before would ask them many questions they never had answers to.

Second was Rejuvenation. After some time, the subject would become familiar with the dreams, and their bodies would heal at incredible rates. The blood wasn't so miraculous as to regrow lost limbs, but it gave the men strength of body and mind they would never otherwise possess.

Third, was Restlessness. As they grew stronger, healthier, their fingers would begin to drum, their toes and heels tap with increasing rapidity. Their gazes would be distant, and their mouths firmly shut, save for when they spoke to one another in hushed tones.

Finally, step for was the Calling. When the anxiety grew almost too much to bear, one way or another a sign of some sort would be presented in the form of a dream that directed the next steps of their journey. They knew not why they were called, only that they must answer it.

And without fail, each... inductee went through those four stages. Unerringly so. Which is why it unnerved her that the seven most recent beneficiaries had already completed stage three, and yet though their anxious symptoms had left them, they had not gone out into the world. They remained in her inn. Oh, they pulled their weight in work alright; she wasn't so generous as to provide free room and board to perfectly healthy men.

And, perhaps even more strangely, she had no fear for rape. Among disheartened or disillusioned soldiers there was always a risk their desire for control in their own lives may take the form of rape. And yet, even with no man of her own to protect her, they never gave reason to suspect maliciousness in their intents. She slept sounder at night because of this.

This was of course offset by the concern that perhaps remaining here was their "calling;" the calling of a ghost who's plans seemed to center on her and her inexplicable pregnancy. She felt a wave of nausea almost overtake her. Her hands shot to her belly, drawing circular motions over her stomach in soft soothing motions. She spoke, quietly, muttering soothing words she wondered if it could hear. How often now she could feel it moving within her. The reality of her pregnancy was becoming all the more concrete with each passing day as her belly grew and the symptoms of pregnancy came and went. She might have even been able to absently dismiss them if it weren't, for one, a magical ghost-spirit telling her otherwise, and two, her keen awareness as an educated woman of medicine screaming at her that despite all lack of a cause, there was a distinctly obvious effect.

Now she could feel it moving, irregularly so, just as she imagined baby's might. A flicker of motion here, a sudden movement there. Though it was getting progressively easier to deal with the nausea those movements incurred as they became more frequent and she grew used to the sensation.

The strange cravings however... those would take some time to acclimate.

The sun was just peaking over the edge of the tree line as the four men made their way down the packed-dirt road. On their backs were bags filled with supplies, and in their hands tools of their trade.

Tools now stained a distinctly crimson color.

Not a word was spoken between them as they traveled on, the density of the forest giving way to the gently rolling waves that was the majority of Midland. Out in the open were it was far less likely to be accosted by foolish naves in the night. Foolish naves who for all their greed had their very live stolen from beneath their noses. The uncanny blood-thirst that had overtaken the four at the onset of the fight was humbling, considering how easily they accepted the reality of battle. They did not feel the anxiety of, nor the whispering hesitation of conscience.

It was with this sense of whelmed humility that they gathered their spoils of battle and moved onward. But as the shadows of the forest were left behind and the sun shone upon the verdant fields of grass, so too did their spirits brighten and their cautious pace improve.

And so they went on for quite a ways before they came to a fork in the road. The signpost was worn but clear in its direction to Vritannis. Many hours passed on before a familiar sound tickled their ears. They turned and spied a small caravan of horse-drawn wagons trundling along the same road as they, likely also on their way to port city.

Sharing a look between themselves, they elected to hold and wait for the distant caravan to catch up. The lead wagon pulled to a stop before them, bringing the others behind it to a stop as well. Close as they were, they counted seven wagons in total, most with white canvasing over top, along with numerous single-mounted riders. The driver of the head cart returned their wave.

"Ho there fellow travelers!" the man greeted, the woman at his side likely a his wife.

"To Vritannis, are ye?" Wallace asked approaching the cart.

The man nodded. "Aye, that we are. Out from Lempas. Off to trade and find safety from the Kushan. We've heard rumors the armies of the Holy See're gathering there. I reckon it's the safest city in Midland."

"Safe as any city can be you mean?" Dunham chided with a smile.

The man gave a conceding nod. "Well, aye you've got me there. But safer still than those towns in the warpath of the Kushan. I'll take rats, beggars and thieves over those godless heathens any day. For the safety of my family, you see." He gestured to the woman to his left. The four men gave a respectful tip of their hats to her which she returned with a bow of her own, though unlike her jovial husband, she wore her concerns on her face. Her smile was forced, and her eyes showed worry. Not that any of them could blame her. Her husband had just revealed where they were from, where they were going and that they had "family" aboard, which given the couple's age indicated the possibility of children not yet into puberty.

If the four had been highway robbers, it wouldn't be difficult for them to snatch one and hold them hostage for valuables. The man was an utter fool, far too trusting in an age of war and uncertainty. Perhaps he thought the safety of their numbers might dissuade any highwaymen from potential hostilities. But the quartet knew any motivated thief would take the risk if it promised enough coin. No doubt the wife was aware of this; aware and currently praying that her worries were misplaced.

She was lucky they were.

"Aye," Dunham agreed leaning an arm on the side of the wagon. "No man can judge you for that. The Kushan are living death and worse."

An agreeable confirmation went around. "Say, I note your tools there. Be ye woodsmen by chance?"

"Aye, out of Trivoli. Wagered we could put our skills to use in the war effort." Alexander spoke. It was true they were out of Trivoli, but the fact that each had experience in outdoors just so happened to fit their appearances, what with hand ax and two saws handing from their backs.

"Trivoli?!" the man balked in surprise. "My, you're a fare ways from home! I can't imagine you haven't come across trouble along the road."

"Oh, we have our ways of staying out of trouble," Gottfried said with a wink and a smile as he leaned on his cane.

"I suppose you do, don't you?" The man considered them for a few seconds. "I don't doubt our little cavalcade could use some of those 'ways' as we get closer to Vritannis. If even peasants like us know where Midland's armies are marshaling, the enemy is sure to be aware too. I bet they're setting up ambushes along our way."

"How have you avoided danger thus far, man?" Dunham asked with genuine interest. "Lempas is several days from here."

The old man's smile grew brighter. "Well... You'll think me gone batty, I bet. But, uh..." he looked between them, focusing on their faces, their expressions, their garb and tools. "I suppose it won't hurt to say it. First though, what say ye four to joining us in our journey? It's safer to move in groups of course, and we could use your luck."

"Groups 're easy to spot, and if they ain't quick on their stops, 're easily caught," Wallace warned before his gaze softened. "But I figure it'd be rude of us to turn down a generous offer..." he trailed off as he looked to his fellow men questioningly.

For a few seconds, each looked between the others, searching for any disagreement they could think of. When none were presented, Dunham smiled and nodded. "Why not? We'll join you gladly!"

The man's smile brightened even more. "Splendid!" He reached out with his hand to Dunham who took it firmly. "Name's Jeremiah. This is my wife Sarah." A round of formal how do you do's cycled. "And if it's not expectin' too much, you can ride with us," he offered with a gesture. "You'll have to share room with Leera and Jes, though!"

As if on cue, two faces popped out from behind the man's back. Round heads with sparkling eyes that shown beneath light auburn hair. "Who're they daddy?" one asked, her slightly smaller stature indicating she was likely the youngest.

Jeremiah smiled as he reached behind him to pat their backs. "These gentlemen will be joining us on our journey, so make sure you two treat them nice back there." A delightful chorus of affirmations sounded out as they disappeared back into the canvas covering. "And make some room for them to sit, you two!"

Jeremiah stood and leaned around the canvas to yell at one of the riders. "Niel! Find two more horses to hitch up to our wagon!"

A distant acknowledgement was barely heard from somewhere in the back of the caravan.

"Go on 'n rest your feet good sirs. Once we're hitched up, we'll be back on our way."

With nods of thanks, the four moved to do as instructed. At least their journey would be made a bit brighter with the company.

When after several minutes the horses had been found and allocated, the wagon lurched forward once more, followed by its fellows in turn. The little girls were rambunctious little things, which Dunham and Wallace enjoyed watching, though Alexander was notably at a loss for how to interact with them, being as young a man as he was. Gottfried opted so simply observe and smile from his position laying against the wagon bed's gate.

The children, at the chiding of their mother, forced themselves to behave, and thus began a long and curious process of entertaining children who ought to be out frolicking in the grassy plains. But such was the life of refugees.

Look closely. Concentrate, so as to burn the image into your mind. Slowly. Close your eyes. Now imagine it. The image of the apple you just saw. Shape, color, as much detail as you can. Not rushed... but slowly.

Farnese sighed as she felt the strain frustrate her. She opened her eyes. "It's no use. The image is blurred and will not take firm shape."

Schierke, smiled reassuringly at her from across the small wooden table. Beside them a window into the city was open but ignored. Casca lay contentedly watching from her place on one of the beds, hugging a pillow under her chin so she could watch them. "That's how it is at first. This is the first step towards becoming a magic user. It is basic practice for 'tangibly imaging a phenomenon within your mind.'"

Farnese frowned, trying to grasp the deeper meaning of her words. "...Tangibly imagining?"

Schierke nodded. "Magic is not accomplished by merely reciting a spell and drawing symbols. It is the chaining of images in conjunction with those things that first yields efficacy. The essence of magic is the world of thought. It is practiced in the astral world. You have already felt a portion of that, Farnese."

"Oh, the trolls and the ogre... and that light, yes?" Farnese asked, thinking back to the time Schierke had wielded that power to protect the church full of villagers from a troll assault that would have undoubtedly ended in a massacre for the villagers otherwise, even with Guts and Serpico doing their best on their own.

Schierke nodded. "That four-hued light is the manifestation of power from me personally proceeding into the astral world offering supplication and receiving assistance from the beings known as the 'four cardinal kings.' The astral world is comprised of wills and powers - memories and portents in various domains. To accomplish things in the midst of that, more than anything it is necessary to make your mind, your ethereal body adhere firmly as a projection of your physical body, so as to not lose yourself. We magic users call that unwavering stable projection a body of like, a 'luminous body.'" Schierke picked the fruit up and held it out as an offering to the former knight, which Farnese took, examining it closer. It wasn't just a matter of committing the image to memory. It was also about visualizing a detailed image of the apple as it currently was.

"This apple is your first step in obtaining your luminous body, Farnese. Persistent practice is sure to bear fruit. Please do your best."

"Luminous body..." Farnese repeated as she turned the apple this way and that. 'But right now, I'm...' She knew. It was the daunting nature of trying to climb a mountain, guided by someone who already stood at the top. It was easy to see the vast distance she needed to cover to reach what Schierke a child had already mastered. And this little red apple was her first step.

Suddenly the apple disappeared.

...Into Casca's mouth.

...Hopefully that wasn't indicative of a jinx or something...

"Aw man... Forget it. Not a single bite."

"That was sure a vain effort."

Both women turned their heads as the remaining members of their party trudged their way up the stairs.

"Welcome back," Schierke greeted, turning around in her chair to do so. "How did things go?"

"They went nowhere," Isidro bemoaned, shoving his hands deep into his pockets irritably.

"We tried every maritime trading firm, and even a private ship captain in the city, but every ship has been commandeered as a warship or has accepted military related commissions. They curtly... well..." Serpico's expression was downcast. "All of them turned us away without negotiation."

"We walked our legs off all day in that crowd," Isidro added for emphasis.

"We overestimated our prospects." All eyes turned to Guts, laid up as he was on the nearest bed, a thin blanket up to his chest. His lone eye stared up at the bunk above him but his gaze was beyond it. "I assumed something'd work out so long as we reached a port, but..." He let out a short sigh. "It looks like this is different from how our journey's been left to chance so far."

A sour silence proceeded news of their dismal luck. Fortune had favored them for quite some time, and given the ordeals they had already surmounted, it was bound to run out eventually.

Isidro sighed, bringing his fingers to is chin thoughtfully. "Guess now we'll just have to plunder some ship..."

"Again, such nastiness," Serpico chided, though based on the chestnut fairy's sudden garb as a typical red-coated pirate, swashbuckling cutlass and all, Isidro wasn't the only one considering the path of piracy.

But any complaints were shouldered as Farnese found her voice. "Actually, would you mind leaving this to me?"

A collective stare fell on the blonde, but only Serpioco could see the woman's plan behind her eyes. "Lady Farnese, you cannot mean..."

"I will be gone for a bit," she continued without explanation, ending with a pointed look. "Serpico."

The herald of arms gave tentative acknowledgement, following her steps obediently. "A-Aye..."

Farnese wrapped her cloak about her shoulders and slipped her gloves over her hands. Finally, she fastened her sword to her waist, giving the crest thereon a pausing glance before heading down the stairs. Schierke looked at the place where Farnese had been for a moment before she and Isidro clambered onto the table by the window and watched as the two adults exited the building's front door into the street. They were joined by Casca, who unaware of the precious position of the table, accidentally toppled the thing over, dumping both children and woman unceremoniously onto the floor, along with Schierke's bag of magical items.

Schierke felt a twinge of worry bubble within her. "Oh, come now..." she muttered. Not a moment's peace between Farnese stepping out and Casca acting unruly. Being of a certain authority on the matter omens, she knew they weren't such simple things that people often trivialized, like spilling salt, or shattering mirrors. Still, she dared to hope that wasn't a bad omen.

She quickly helped the dark-skinned woman up and checked her for injuries. Isidro grumbled as he surfaced from the pool of trinkets like a swimmer. "How much stuff do you have in there?!"

"A witch's arsenal is far more vast than a boy like you could ever dream!" Ivalera boasted from the side, heedless of the boy's concerns. "Also don't touch anything. You never know what might kill you."

Schierke quickly went to pick her things up and replace them. It took her several minutes to get them all organized how they were. Truthfully, Ivalera exaggerated. Nothing in her bag was so powerful. But... she supposed a little intimidation wasn't really a bad thing, especially when it came to keeping certain monkeys from touching her things.

"Huuu..."

the witch turned and noticed Casca had occupied herself fiddling with a small object which she held tightly in her hands. "Casca, what do you have there? May I see it?" The woman hesitated but opened her hands to show her friend. Schierke frowned. "A bell? Where did you find that?"

Casca's only reply was to coo quietly before going back to playing with it. The woman shook it, but Schierke heard nothing. "Oh my. Is it broken? That's too bad," she comforted as Casca seemed a bit downcast. For a brief moment, Schierke felt a strange familiarity stem from the small object, but it was so fleeting and faint that she wondered if it wasn't just concern for where the woman had found the thing. Maybe it was just under one of the beds...

"Haaa~," was Casca's unintelligible response. Despite its silence, Casca seemed interested in staring at it, turning it over in her hands as if she were some merchant inspecting prized goods. The little witch opted to let her keep it. If it kept her out of trouble until Farnese's return, she wouldn't complain.

With a leap, Casca jumped on her bed belly first, half burying her face into the pillow as she set the bell in front of her, peering at it like it might grow legs and walk away, a moment she would be the first to witness... if it occurred.

"I guess the simple things are enough for the simple minded," Isidro observed as he rubbed his rump from his fall.

"Hey now, don't be rude!" The little pink elf batted him on the head with her hand, more of an annoyance that a pain.

"Oh, don't be like that, you know what I mean!"

Truth be told, the bell actually did a pretty good job keeping her occupied; she remained fascinated by it for the rest of the night.

Victor let out a breath as the life of another candle winked out and the room became that much darker. So many an unfortunate candle had expended its life illuminating the pages of the many books that lay on the table before him. He'd spent the last... week? The days all blurred together... isolated reading his assigned quota of literature, and truth be told, his eyes were starting to deteriorate from the unexpected voracity of his intellectual appetite. One of the first things Regis had cautioned him against was consuming knowledge too greedily, for just like food, unless one stopped to savor the taste it would be forgotten by the next bite. Learning involved retention.

That had been... some time ago. Was it months? Years? By the time his family had mustered up his "ransom", he'd managed to learn quite a great deal from his new society of friends. Since then, and since returning to his family (with far more connections than he himself realized) he immersed himself into Petrosian family affairs. He was not so naive to think the secret society wanted nothing from him in return for opening his eyes to the wider world, so he did his best to position himself for a suitable position of power for the fourth in line to the Petrosian family head. To be a worthwhile noble in the eyes of society, one has to manage something. Historian sounded pleasing, but how does one "manage" history? He wasn't one for finances, so bank or treasury management was not an option either. Eventually he came to the conclusion that land development was a never-ending task that always required someone with a strong hand and a good mind for functionality and form. Plus, all the advantages that came with knowing one's own territory and subjects. Thus he put all of his effort into the task of learning all there was learn on the subject.

Victor rubbed his eyes and stood, stretching his back and swinging his arms (well away from the flames) to loosen his stiff muscles. A knock at the door was so light he thought he might not have even heard it. He turned and spoke loud enough to be heard.

"Enter."

The door creaked softly open and a servant peaked his head in. "Did I disturb you, sir?"

"Not at all, Enry. I was just about to call it a night. Did you perhaps come to fetch me to bed?" Viktor asked with a light smile, knowing that Enry was always worried for his lord's health, and that his long sojourns into the realms of paper and parchment into the wee hours of the morning were less than healthy for his body.

Enry stepped from behind the door and entered the room fully. "Well... Yes, sir. B-but also..." he extended his hand, and in the dimming light of dying candlelight Viktor perceived a small envelope. "This came by messenger just now."

Viktor took it and held the face of it against the light. It was addressed to him by name in an unfamiliar handwriting. Flipping it over, he had to blink several times before he realized that what he was looking at wasn't just a figment of his sleep-starved mind.

The wax seal of the Vandimion family.

"Vandimion?!" he couldn't stop himself from exclaiming. "What on earth do they want with me?" he might have expected such a letter to be sent to his father, the head of the Petrosian, but never to him, the fourth son in line. Did he even know anyone of that famous bloodline? Surely not.

He broke the seal and withdrew the letter inside. It was folded in threes. He squinted as his eyes struggled to see. Where before his mind felt sufficiently sleep-addled, now he felt his second wind. He read it a fourth time, carefully. The single page read eloquently and flatteringly, inviting him to a celebratory Ball, to send off the many forces of the Holy See. Everyone would be there... everyone who mattered. Ladies and lords of every family of stature... every general of worth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Viktor doubted very little that this invitation was the result of some manner of manipulation from his newly acquired friends. Therefore, it stood to reason they, in their ancient knowledge and wisdom, saw something to gain by having him attend the event. 'And if that's the case,' he realized, 'then I will need an escort.'

"My lord?" Enry prodded after a period.

Viktor let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He quickly strode over to the table, collecting blank sheet parchment and some half-dried ink. He scratched out a simple letter, addressing it to a certain man. That done, he folded it up and sealed it with a wax seal. "Send this letter immediately to the old keep in Eid Forath. Do not look for a response."

Enry took the letter and nodded dutifully. "At once, my lord."

Viktor nodded. "Thank you Enry, that will be all. I'll be going to bed now, so you may rest as well."

Enry nodded deeply and stepped outside the room. No doubt the servant had questions after learning a letter addressed to his master came from the Vandimion family.

Well, he'd find out soon enough. For now, rest seemed entirely apropos and tomorrow would be a big day. His steps toward his room faltered for a moment as he realized what that actually meant. "Ah, damn it..."

…He hated wearing frilly clothes.

Rebekka sighed for what must have been the thousandth time that day and watched from her window the comings and goings of the townsfolk as they went about their lives. The setting sun painted the sky a beautiful red, though eclipsed from her perspective on the ground floor. Occasionally, if the inn or clinic were slow, she'd gaze out a westward window on the second floor and bask in the sun's fading warmth. Though neither the inn nor the clinic were slow, she found herself relegated to bed-rest most of the day. Annabeth was quite forceful on the matter.

The elderly woman had taken to managing the building in her stead, enlisting the aid of several "blood-patrons" as Rebekka liked to call them. Though usually compelled to venture forth on some whimsical quest, seven such partakers of blood seemed devoid of the symptoms of the Calling stage she had observed since the stranger had decided to turn her daily life upside down. Considering that each decision forced upon her by the spectral figure seemed to be only parts of a greater plan, she doubted it was unrelated. Regardless, Annabeth put their bodies to good use taking care of the building and household chores.

And it seemed as though the men were simply... content to obey. She doubted that was unrelated too.

She sucked in a breath as she felt - didn't see - the man enter the room. Well, it would be more appropriate to say he that he simply appeared. Ever since her miraculous pregnancy, she realized she gained a much keener sense for the creature in her belly... or was it the man? She wasn't quite certain what he meant, even when he spoke in plain words. She supposed that was just the was of demons and angels, whichever he may be. He was not so foul as to be demon, but he was a far cry from any such angelic nature as had been described to her. She asked him once, several days ago. He seemed amused by her question, and simply told her that he was both... "probably." Oh, that cleared things right up.

"Madam Rebekka," he greeted, gesturing across his chest in a small bow. Rebekka didn't need to look at him to know it... she just knew. "How fares thee this eve?"

She did her best not to let any irritation creep into her voice. For the imposition this... thing pressed upon her, she was far too terrified what it might do if she seriously offended it. "The same as last night. And the night before. And the night before that." It was truth, but it was also a complaint. Not that it was news to him; she knew he was aware of her irritations, and that worried her too. Somehow he knew things that he shouldn't, particularly when it came to her thoughts. At first she thought he was reading her body or expressions, but she soon realized it was deeper than that.

He was silent for a moment before stepping closer to look out the window over her shoulder. "Is there... perhaps anything I may do to make your internment here more comfortable?"

She turned and looked at him. She examined him for some time, deliberating on whether there was even a point in saying anything. She sighed... again. She returned her gaze to the streets. "Did you know that my father would sometimes lock me in my room when I misbehaved? I could have played with my toys, but I preferred to look out the window at the people passing by. I liked to watch the sky... and the clouds. I'd wonder if there were other kids like me, locked in their rooms looking up at the same blue sky?" She huffed. "Sometimes I'd speak in my mind, thinking somehow I could communicate with those other kids through the sky. I knew it was silly but I was entertained by the idea." She furrowed her brow. When did she stop that habit? She didn't remember.

"Thou art... not incorrect," he replied, drawing her gaze back to him. He smiled beneath his mask. "Mayhaps you find it impossible to believe, but the sky is connected. Just as the sea may join two continents, so too dost the sky join many places together."

"And is that where you come from? The sky?" Rebekka eyed the figure. Despite the exposure of only the barest minimum of his flesh, she spied a smile in the crinkled corners of his eyes.

"Aye," he confirmed, the depth of his gaze all but consuming her spirit. "A sky far and away that thou hast ne'er seen."

It was always like this, the way she felt her heart beat like a hammer in her chest whenever she looked into his eyes. All other things discounted, she could tell that the man was otherworldly. Sometimes she found herself drawn into a dream of a place she'd never been, witnessing things she'd never seen in a city she'd never heard of. When she came to and caught herself staring, she'd apologize and look away in embarrassment. Now she no longer apologized, and he did not comment on the act at all. Perhaps he was self-aware of the way he affected her.

"...Is it a nice sky?"

She started at the question, caught off guard by her voice speaking of its own accord. If he noticed her lapse of self-control, he didn't show it.

He was silent or several seconds before he answered. "Nay, it is not." She almost caught a tone of dismay within his voice.

Silence reigned for some time and she returned her gaze to the window. When he wasn't speaking, the man made no noise, even when he moved. He was like a ghost, and often she would forget (or just not notice) that he was still in the room, like his very presence slipped from her mind if she let her concentration waver for even a moment. The palest red remained in the sky as the nearly full waxing gibbous moon peaked over the roofs of the city outside when he turned to leave.

"You know I heard..." A sudden compulsion made her speak. She turned to him. He stopped but did not turn to her. "I've heard a lot of people talking about this dream... There's a kingdom of villages dying out from the plague. Routed by an army driving mammoth beasts. There was a city devastated by earthquakes. Towns swallowed by raging torrents. There was a sun obscured by black smoke and mobs of starving vagrant folk. There were the corpses of both family and neighbor... Each event occurred individually, yet converged upon one idea. Each night an utter darkness fully enveloped the world. Then, amidst such discord they caught sight of it. A single, shining hawk, sundering the thick darkness, alighting upon the bloodstained land."

She drew a leg up to her chest, wrapping her arms around it. "Of course, I've never had such a dream," she clarified. "Neither have any of the ones to whom you've bid me give blood."

Her gaze was level and pointed. He did not betray a single thought.

"The only dreams we have had, and continue to have, are of a great ocean above and below, an expanse of twilight sky between them. And when we plunge into the murky depth, we are greeted by many arms, dragging us down into a terrifyingly safe place. There, many millions of eyes watch over us. We cannot see them, but we know they're there. And the only light we can see is the way we are meant to go. We don't know where it will take us. We don't know if we will survive it, but we know we must walk it, many mighty serpent limbs guiding us along."

He was silent.

"Why does everyone else dream of a white hawk?"

No response.

"Why do only we dream of the deep sea?"

Nothing.

"I wonder... Is it your doing?" she murmured, her voice low, as if her words were a quiet secret. "Perhaps, you and the white hawk are... enemies?"

She did not speak again, but neither did she need to. With slow, almost deliberate effort, the man turned and peered at her from beneath his pointed cap. A strange, surreal rumbling disturbed the foundations of the building. The moon in the distance seemed a slight bit larger... brighter. And she saw for the first time since meeting him a queer strangeness about him unlike like his natural oddities. He seemed tall and misshapen. His human body looking a little less so, and his eyes seemed to slant unnaturally. Parts of his body seemed to writhe in her peripherals, though when she focused on him, she saw no movement at all.

Yet for this, she was unafraid. She knew she should be. But something seized within her, calming her... sedating her mind and heart from a sudden swelling of panic. She wanted to speak, to cry out in confusion as her world seemed to turn queer in noticeably minute ways.

Was there always a small lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting a soft pale glow that seemed brightest behind her eyes? Was there always an assortment of quiet little creatures, malformed and grotesque, attending to her needs? Their minds ever bent on her care?

Something must have shown her face. The man turned fully and stepped over to her, caressing a cheek of hers in his hand. He looked at her carefully, and again his eyes crinkled, but now they seemed less like human eyes at all. His face seemed contorted and irregular, like a rippling reflection in murky water disturbed by a distant stone.

He placed a finger over his mask with a drawn shush. "Quiet thy mind, o mother of myself. Thou glimpseth too keenly behind the veil. Sleep now, and let no nightmare disturb you."

And immediately, she felt her mind slip away... far away. She rested in a field of white flowers, a great tree at her head and a burnished sky above her filtered through green leafs. And she felt a contentment in that place... to simple be. She wished she would not have to leave too soon.

The door to her room was shut. That is to say, it was never opened in the first place. He stood outside it because so did Annabeth. She stood contritely, as a meek lady before her lord. He spoke quietly and strode silent steps away from his mother's room. "She shall not wake before the morrow."

"Understood," Annabeth replied following close behind.

"What of my warnings?" he queried.

"We have take what precautions we can, but ultimately it is happening as you said." They stepped into the inn's common room, lit now only by fireplace. Seven silhouetted figures populated the space, their attention entirely focused on him.

"The Kushan will attack I'm certain," one said. He was a former soldier, and had been scouting the forward camps of the Kushan for several weeks now. "Their camps have been abuzz with activity, mounting every day. I anticipate that tonight is the night."

"Then remain alert," the specter commanded his form fading like a flickering shadow in the crackling flame. "I care not for the inhabitants of this city. Save them if you may, but above all, thou'rt not to let even a single pane of glass be touched this night. Use whatever methods suit you."

They each stood up at his departure. "My gifts given thee are not given freely," he reminded, though he knew he need not. "They shall aide thee greatly this night."

They each salute his vanished form, as a final disembodied order echoed in the timbered room. "A final point of order," he added. "Fail tonight... and our contract is voided."

A stiff bristling of spines set the tone for what was at stake, though none but Annabeth knew the significance of why this night of all nights was so important.

The full moon was only three days away day away.

They quietly filed out of the room and the front door.

The hunt was on tonight.