Chapter II
Ill Portents
Eva pulled on her boots tiredly. Her hair, unkempt and clumped together from restless repose, hung spread over her shoulders like ragged webbing.
She did not sleep well.
The night was filled with strange, unsettling sounds, cries and roars in the distance. Even if one was to forget the nature of hell outside these walls amongst the humans here, one still couldn't completely escape it. Standing, she brushed her hair with an old, cracked and fairly toothless hairbrush, the wood protesting under the pulls. Her eyes quickly examined the tent around her. She was unsurprised to find the warlock's bedroll untouched, she would have woken if he had returned anyhow.
He rarely spent the night in their tent, and Eva had no notion of asking him where he went or what his business there was. Some things were better left unknown, especially where dark forces were concerned.
She tied her hair back in a high ponytail and stepped outside. The morning was choked by the onset of fog lying heavy over the moors. It made everything seem that much more eerie, reducing the sun to a smeared, glowing blob.
Rogues moved about the camp with confident steps, their discipline shining through with every move, even in times such as these. Eva turned toward where the Rogue leaders' tents were, now determined more than ever to get some cooperation.
Warriv delayed her, approaching with his ever-present curved smile and light gait. He seemed to know everyone in the camp, and was on equally amicable terms with all. Eva wondered cynically if his optimism wasn't just a well constructed mask, like so many things about this place. But just looking at him, one had a difficult time imagining that his demeanor was nothing more than a façade. He flashed a wide, friendly smile up at her.
"Hello, my friend," he frowned for a moment, as if pulling something from his memory. "Eva, yes?"
She nodded tersely, and it made his smile wider.
"Ah, I am glad you are unharmed. Truly there are terrible dangers preying on the warriors outside these walls," he shot a quick, musing look toward the north-western part of the camp, where Gheed's wagon was, and added more quietly. "And sometimes even within. But enough of that, I hope you are well this morning?"
"Busy," she replied tersely, not really in the best of moods.
"Ah, I see. Well, I am looking for your Necromancer companion. Is he around?"
Eva was immediately intrigued, but didn't let it show.
"I haven't seen him," she noted how her reply mildly surprised Warriv, but he maintained his enthusiastic momentum. "What do you need with him?"
He hesitated for a brief moment.
"Oh, nothing important. He expressed some interest in my native lands, and we had a nice talk. I have some books he wanted to study yesterday, so I thought I would find him today while I still have the chance."
Eva was idly focused on the whiteness of his teeth as he spoke, wondering if they really were that white or if it was only the contrast with his skin that made them seem so. She also didn't miss the implication of his words; many people left for battle each day, but far fewer returned at the end of it.
They studied each other for a moment.
"Have you been here for long, Warriv?"
Warriv adjusted his turban with practiced hands.
"For much longer than I would like, I'm afraid. But I see that you have questions and it would be unpleasant to have a conversation outside in such weather. Would you care to join me in my tent? It is much drier and warm, and we can have a sour drink to loosen our minds."
Eva squinted around the camp and thought about the offer. The warlock was nowhere in sight, and there was still time before she planned on going to the moors again. In the meantime, she could gather some valuable information.
"Alright," she indicated for him to lead the way. "But I don't have much time."
Warriv smiled with hospitable delight, as sincere as if they were in the shade of a dry bazaar on a hot summer day.
"Do you know High Priestess well?" Eva asked as they fell into a brisk step side by side.
Warriv glanced at her curiously.
"Akara? Not really, but how many of the outsiders can say to know any of the Order well? I would often take caravans to the West through the mountain pass, so I did get to know the Rogues of the Citadel a bit," he paused for a moment, somberly. "Akara is a good woman. This demonic plague is weighing heavily upon her, and more so, I suspect, the Rogues' impotence against the demons."
"At least they fight back," Eva said blandly as they entered the section of the camp populated by the traders and mercenaries of Warriv's caravan. "As long as they do, they stand a chance against this corruption."
Warriv made a meaningful sound.
"And hopefully with the help of warriors such as you those chances will be greater. Ah, here we are."
He indicated the large, oddly-shaped, brown and grey striped tent. Two men in leather and soaked tunics stood by its entrance, their complexions equally weathered and sunformed as Warriv's, their unease at the foreign environment apparent. Warriv threw some unfamiliar words to the sentries as they passed, presumably to lift their spirits, but it had little effect. He sighed as they entered the large tent, and Eva noticed for the first time the little wrinkles around his eyes, and the bags under them.
They were so much more visible when he didn't smile.
Layered carpets covered the floor inside the tent, various exotic trinkets and scrolls piled on boxes and a small, squat table. Her boots only added to the trampled mud caking the faded carpets, a sad reminder of an unreachable glamour of the homeland.
"Please, have a seat," Warriv offered an old chair, strange in its round and backless design. "I know just the thing to improve your mood."
Eva followed him with her eyes as he stepped back outside for a moment, where he took a small copper pot off the fire. He poured a soupy black drink first for her and then for himself, in thick, etched glasses. She took the offering reluctantly, studying its appearance and then taking a tentative sip.
"Coffee, by the traditional family recipe," he observed her from under his brow expectantly. "Are you refreshed and reinvigorated?"
"And slightly nauseated," she muttered weakly.
Warriv gave a hearty laugh, and she wondered if there was anything that could cripple the will of this man.
"Yes, it does tend to have such effect on foreigners; I'll admit it is strong, but such is the recipe."
He pulled up another low stool for himself, measuring her with expectant eyes. Eva took an idle moment to appreciate the coffee after-taste, during which her eyes took in her surroundings again.
The strange design of pitchers and ornaments, coupled with Warriv's charismatic presence, made the atmosphere in the tent pleasantly warm. She leaned forward slightly in inquiry.
"So what were those books the warlock wanted to see?"
Warriv looked at her with his keen brown eyes, his brows furrowing a little.
"Caravan logs, actually. I can't for the life of me imagine why anyone would be interested in those boring accounts, when there is such furious activity just outside these walls," he commented with his usual oddly mirthful tone.
Eva had already grown accustomed that it was just the way he spoke, and it did make for a relaxing conversationalist. She made a pensive sound, in such a way it was unclear for him to guess whether she might or might not know exactly what the warlock's motives were.
"Most people find his involvement with the dead off-putting," she said off-handedly, but there was a question implied in her tone and look.
Warriv shrugged modestly.
"I try to keep an open mind – one has to, if one wants to be successful in my profession. But I must say, it is not something I understand, or feel completely at ease with," his face darkened and his tone turned grave. "When the dead return to prey upon the living, it is a terror beyond understanding."
Eva could not help but agree silently.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation, that particular silence when the words spoken still haven't fully faded, but neither has anything relevant to say. Warriv studied her with astute curiosity.
"I confess I don't know much about your people," he began conversationally. "I have had rare dealings with them, and what I know is mostly hearsay."
Eva leaned forward with a creak of leather and rested her arms on her knees, her glass held between them. She seemed amused.
"And is there anything specific you would like to know?"
Warriv's eyes glinted with that knowing mischief for a moment.
"Well, I did always wonder if Amazon women are really as dominant as they say?"
She regarded him enticingly in the ensuing expectant silence.
"I can't speak for others, but I like to be in charge of things," her slightly curved lips suggested a predator's delight.
A momentary glimpse of devilish nature amidst rigid mantle of perseverance. Warriv sipped his coffee with a grin. She turned the glass in her hands slowly as she studied him, that spark of life gone from her face as quickly as it came.
"You seem to know many people in this camp. Tell me something, there is a Barbarian from up North that goes by the name of Borrn. He is tall, with a beard and red hair, wears scarce leather," he nodded quickly, indicating he knew to whom she was referring. "I think he arrived recently. Have you met him yet?"
Warriv made a knowing sound, sipping his hot drink loudly.
"He keeps to himself, mostly. I have seen him around, though I must say I have not spoken to him yet. There used to be new people coming into camp almost every day," he shrugged his shoulders in a sort of helpless gesture. "But lately less and less come. There is not that many left, I suppose."
Eva ponderously furrowed her brow, the warmth from the glass making her fingers tingle pleasantly.
"Did he catch your eye?"
She looked up at Warriv and back at her cup again, in mild surprise at the question.
"He appears to be a capable warrior," she explained brusquely. "Considering the reputation of his people, he would make a strong ally."
Warriv regarded her for a moment before agreeing.
"There is a certain air about him."
He knew of what she spoke; of that intangible, indescribable quality that hung about people whose lives were so permeated by warfare that even the ignorant and inexperienced recognized it on some unconscious level. A certain aura of quiet confidence that was more than simple bravado or over exaggerated aggression born out of fear. It was a characteristic kind of bearing that signified a mindset that was willing to fight anyone to the death if need be, and most probably has done so on numerous occasions.
Warriv had met many such people in his travels, the Paladins from far East returning from lengthy crusades, hardened and grizzled veterans that defied the stereotype of a holy warrior; what scarce Barbarians he had come in contact with during his trade runs all without exception radiated this grim resolve; the resilient nomads of the Aranoch desert, prepared to do whatever it may take to survive in the harsh and hostile climate of the dunes – these he knew well.
And now, Amazons.
He contemplated Eva with renewed curiosity.
"Have you ever been to the East, to Lut Gholein? It's a beautiful city, truly a jewel of the desert. I miss its sunsets and clear night sky, without fog or endless rain," his face momentarily cleared of all weariness as he spoke of his homeland, gaze dissolved in comforting memories. "I hope to return there as soon as I can, away from all these nightmares," he snapped from his thoughts, looking at Eva attentively. "I'll take you along, if you are still alive. That is, if you don't have any other plans."
Eva took her time taking a drink of her coffee before answering, watching him over the rim of her glass.
"The demons have to be defeated here first," she pointed out.
"Of course," Warriv nodded quickly. "The Rogue Monastery must be taken back from the demons before we'll be going anywhere. But I'm wary of waiting here for too long. Something dreadful happened in Tristram, and I'm afraid it will soon spread to consume us all. As soon as the Monastery's Gates are re-opened and the countryside is made a little safer, I am taking the caravan back east."
Eva's fingers idly tapped against the glass in her hands, while her eyes cycled around the room slowly in thought.
"Speaking of which, something important seems to be happening but the Rogues are as tight-lipped as ever. They are definitely preparing for something. I hear that the demons are getting stronger, more organized. Have you heard anything, or talked to any of their Lieutenants?"
"They don't tell me much, you know. Akara has been preoccupied with tending the wounded and such, and Kashya, well..." he smiled faintly to himself, looking up at Eva with that glint in his eye. "She is a special kind of woman. Not too keen on strangers."
"But something is amiss?" she persisted.
Warriv put his glass on the table slowly, pensively.
"There seems to be a shift in the air, a sense of urgency falling over our Rogue hosts, like you said. It could be because of the more frequent attacks recently," he speculated.
Eva now watched him with careful interest, agreeing.
"The demons are breaking through the Rogue patrols in the Blood Moor more often. That can't be a good sign."
Warriv glanced at her from under his brow, resting his chin on interlaced hands.
"Whatever it is that has the Rogues alarmed, we have not fallen yet," he looked down for a moment, thinking some gloomy thoughts. "But there are things out there beyond any dark dream."
"Maybe it is better we don't know what is waiting for us," Eva said with a distinct hint of bitterness in her voice. "Sometimes knowing your enemy is a terrible burden."
Warriv brightened again as a quirky proverb sprung from his memory.
"He who fights the dark unknown should at least know himself better!" he declared in that half-sagely tone of his, straightening.
She blinked, snapping from her thoughts to look at him with her large eyes. They were blue and clear like the midday sky over the desert. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, then his attention was drawn to the nearly empty cup in her hands.
"Another one?" Warriv arched his thick brows inquiringly.
Eva shook her head mutely, plunging them into further silence. He rose abruptly with a small noise, as if a thought just struck him, fluidly stepping over to the hardwood boxes stacked in the back of the tent. One of them was already opened, the weather-worn lid leaned against it. He searched through the box for a moment, then, smiling, returned with his prize – a book.
Eva quickly deposited her glass cup on the table and took the offered book curiously, marvelling at the elaborate heavy covers and luxurious binding. The covers were worn but still very much exquisitely filigreed, ornate patterns carved into the silver. Book itself felt heavy in her hands, the covers contributing more to its weight than the relatively average thickness of the written material within.
"It is one of my favourites," Warriv explained enthusiastically. "I have read through it enough times to know it by heart."
"The Truth and the Government," Eva read the title outloud slowly.
"Yes, written by Euandros, a Horadric battlemage and philosopher of old. It's an exploration of an ideal sovereign, a reconstruction of a governing mechanism through Horadrim ethics, mostly in the form of a dialogue. But it is also so much more," his eyes rested on the old book in her hands with a soft smile. "There is something about its unfettered idealism and conviction that never fails to lift my spirits."
Eva leafed through the pages carefully as he spoke, taking in the odd sentence here and there, meticulously illuminated initials and elegant hand.
"Beautiful," she murmured, closing it shut and running her scraped fingers over the etched cover.
"Keep it," Warriv said suddenly, surprising her.
She whipped her head up at him in startlement.
"What?"
"Keep it," Warriv repeated, unfazed by her scepticism. "It's yours. May it help you know yourself better, so that you can better combat the darkness ahead."
Eva shifted uncomfortably, glancing from the book in her hands and back to him.
"I don't have much gold..."
"Please," Warriv held up his hands in false indignation. "Don't insult me. It is a gift, because you seem like someone who would appreciate it. Not much other use for these books now. I had almost a full wagonload of these rare tomes for a western nobleman who ordered them specially, for a special price."
He sat back down slowly, making a tired sound.
"Unfortunately he was killed in a skirmish with demons before I could deliver the shipment to him," he looked up, seeking her eyes with a poignant sound. "And now I am stuck here with nothing but old books and humourless Rogues to keep me company."
Corners of Eva's mouth quirked up at his tone, there was just something so very disarming about his manner.
"Then I'll be sure to keep you company more often. It is the least I can do to repay such a gift."
"I shall look forward to these occasions," he replied graciously, inclining his head slightly.
Eva carefully wrapped the book in some leather and secured it in her pack.
"Thank you again. I must be going now," she rose slowly.
Warriv quickly rose with her.
"Of course, I fear I might have taken too much of your time already."
"No, it was...nice."
Oddly enough, she found herself loathe to depart, and this surprised her. Somehow, Warriv's company had been refreshing and comforting, even pleasant. For a few minutes she had forgotten about the wailing of inevitable death outside his tent.
"Come speak with me again soon," Warriv escorted her out congenially.
Outside, the wind seemed much more colder than she remembered.
The fog had cleared somewhat, but not nearly enough to lift the despondency that felt thick in the air around her. This condensed, smudged atmosphere made people appear like some vague, shambling figures, and gave even the most innocuous crate or wagon an air of subtle menace. From outside of the Rogue fortifications, some disturbing sounds drifted in that might have been the wolves. But she doubted it.
Eva decided it would be provident to seek out the warlock and take some action.
She found him in conversation with some Rogues outside of their barrack-tents. Or perhaps conversation wasn't the best term to describe their interaction. A small group formed a half-circle around him, their faces reflecting fear, wariness, and, most of all, some deep-seated curiosity. One, a particularly burly Rogue, indicated his long white hair mockingly.
"Do you ever get mistaken for a woman, Necromancer?"
Priest turned to her coolly.
"No. You?"
She flushed furiously, sending sharp looks at her sisters who fought hard to contain their snickers. Eva walked up through their midst to him, dividing their attention and interrupting the banter. Priest acknowledged her idly as she approached.
"Warlock, a word."
He observed her smugly with a crooked smile, but it was not a pleasant kind of humour.
"One, or several?"
Eva ignored his barbs and adopted a severe expression.
"I would like to talk to you about something."
Seeing as the Necromancer engaged in conversation with Eva, the Rogues slowly dispersed. Priest made a vague gesture, indicating for her to speak. Eva noticed several new vials and flasks of varying colours on his belt. She seated herself over by a large rock, losing no verbal momentum.
"About Akara...did she ask to see me yesterday?"
Priest paused for a pensive moment, leaning carelessly on a creaking wooden fence.
"Yes and no," he offered blandly. "I also thought it relevant that you meet her, and get to know her. And so you did."
Eva scowled in discontentment, some thoughts visibly bothering her.
"Not as much as I would like. What did she mean by what she said?"
Priest glanced at her askance, scowling into a small pouch he retrieved from his belt.
"I wouldn't know."
She frowned.
"Then why didn't you let me get some answers from her?" irritation was clear in her voice now. "All this secrecy and pride is doing Rogues more harm than good."
Priest replaced the pouch on his belt and smiled thinly, but not at her; toward the clouded sky.
"Do you think you would have gotten them?" he pulled his eyes back down to roam the distant gloom. "Akara would have told you nothing, and she doesn't strike me as the easily intimidated type."
Eva gave a frustrated breath, tensing her gloves compulsively.
"I don't like being treated like some peasant cowering from the dark. How are we ever going to win this war if we don't work together?"
Priest turned a slow, cynical look on her.
"Don't waste time with idiots, Eva," he said in measured tone.
"It's not that simple," she appeared at first surprised at his condemnation, then indignant. "We should try and work together in times like these."
"Quite," he arched a mocking brow at her. "I can see how the help of such people could be invaluable."
Eva exhaled gruffly, forcefully pulling off her gloves and slapping them down on the rock next to her.
"I hate sitting around like this," she complained sourly as she rubbed her hands. "While peasants and mercenaries are out there in the moors, killing scum."
Priest watched her with a curious expression.
"We are not aiding these warriors because these are petty battles, a waste of time and effort. We will strike when the opportunity presents itself."
Eva regarded him reproachfully.
"Let's hope, then, that by then it's not already too late."
He shrugged slowly, eyes deceptively placid as they cycled the camp around them.
"And your northman?" he shifted the topic fluidly.
Eva reached over to take her empty quiver, staying silent for a long time as she studied the leather strap sullenly.
"He works alone."
Priest made an indelicate sound.
"Good, because he strikes me as a bit of a cretin."
She scowled in disapproval.
"He seems more of a stubborn kind, I don't think he is more of an idiot than anyone else here."
"Or any less, for that matter," Priest said faintly, then snapped his thoughts to other matters. "Now listen. The local armourer is a Rogue that goes by the name of Charsi; she seems a competent blacksmith, if a touch...annoying. I dropped by her some things you needed repaired earlier, as well as having ordered something for myself. Go and collect them, they are already paid for."
Eva grabbed her gloves and rose. She blinked at him blandly, studying him with some annoyance.
"Why can't you go collect them yourself, warlock?" she tried half-heartedly.
Priest dismissed her curtly.
"Warriv is waiting for me," he said simply, as if that would explain everything.
She watched him in indecision as he stepped past her back toward the camp.
Finally reaching a decision, she stopped him by partially blocking his way.
"Wait," she started uncertainly. "What did Akara tell you last night?"
Priest's expression cooled momentarily, a flash of something quickly subdued. He looked her over critically, then stepped around her.
"Nothing relevant, do not concern yourself with it," he paused on the trampled mud to glance over his shoulder at her. "Let Rogues be the least of your concerns. There are far more pressing things to worry about than some cryptic priestesses in a derelict shanty."
Priest ignored the poorly disguised looks while he walked through the camp, occupied with some thoughts known only to him as he made his way through the denseness of mist. He brushed by a pair of gawking Rogues on his way to the caravaners' tents, where he left a letter with one of Warriv's men to be delivered to him later.
Afterwards he had little difficulty locating his and Eva's tent, patched and faded yellow linen with weak fire burning strenuously against the wind in front of it. The inside was compact and dark, scarcely any warmer than the outside. It was empty, of course, but the distinct scent of Eva still lingered. He shed his cloak and dropped it in the corner, then stepped back out and took a moment to light up a small, battered oil lamp. Its meagre light cast hard angular shadows over his face in the dimness of the tent, making him appear positively nightmarish.
With an old, worn key he unlocked the large reinforced coffer that occupied a significant portion of the tent with its bulk. The wind drove into the tent's linen walls with erratic bursts, keeping them in continual, if negligible, movement. Priest searched through the chest carefully, depositing some potions and retrieving some other minute items from it. With a scoff he considered an oddly shaped wand in the dim light for a while, then cleaned it carefully and secured it in his belt.
He barely had the chance to kneel down on a patched leather mat before he was disturbed.
"Have I found the tent of the Necromancer from the East?" came a frantic whisper from the uplifted tent flap, tentative and uncertain.
Priest shifted his weight in annoyance. Apparently, news travel fast in the Rogue encampment.
"You have."
A long pause, no doubt to gather courage.
"May I enter?"
"You may."
It was a man, with a scrawny hen under his arm. A commoner, if judging from his simple attire, faded by age and elements. Neglected black curls were flattened close to his head by the dampness in the air, rough skin and sunken eyes. There were many like him on the Rogue grounds, taking refuge with their whole families, if they still had any left.
His eyes darted around fearfully while he crawled into the low tent, then settled heavily on the stoic Priest as he seated himself across from him. The Necromancer waited patiently as the man took a few moments to compose himself, the chicken squawking timidly from his armpit. He shifted uneasily and took a deep breath before speaking, avoiding Priest's eyes.
"Oh wise warlock, I wish to place a curse upon my enemy. His wife had soured my cows' milk. She is a foul witch!"
The Necromancer looked him over slowly in the long, uncomfortable silence that followed. Then he adopted a businesslike expression.
"I will require an animal and a personal possession of this individual."
The man quickly set down the scraggy chicken he had been carrying under his arm, holding it down with one hand.
"Yes, I thought you might," he said hastily, obviously no stranger to such practices. "H-Here is a chicken and I also got..."
He fumbled in his belt for a moment, finally producing a small piece of cloth, appearing to be torn from a larger garment. Priest took the item with slow grace, in no apparent hurry to cut short the man's obvious tenseness. With baited breath he watched as the Necromancer carefully laid it down on the ground in front of him, then pulled a short, wavy-bladed dagger from his belt. He wrapped the piece of cloth over the dagger's ornately carved handle and cut the chicken's neck with it. Carefully he held the dying animal over the vial so it filled with its blood. The man watched with nervous expectation, biting his lip in unease. For a moment it seemed as if a deeper shadow rose from behind the Necromancer as he worked, arcing and twisting like an echo of something not really there. The man blinked quickly and dismissed it as the play of the flickering oil lamp, biting his knuckle nervously.
Corking and wiping the vial now filled with blood, Priest handed it to him.
"Smear this blood on him, and he shall be afflicted with blindness. If you cannot smear it on his persona, an article of clothing will do."
The man took the vial reverently, eyes gleaming with mixture of apprehension and anxiety. Priest observed him disinterestedly.
"That will be two hundred gold."
"Yes, yes, of course!" he quickly pocketed the vial, producing a small pouch to count out the, no doubt painstakingly-obtained, gold for Necromancer. "Thank ye, milord!"
Priest took the gold, then trained a pointed scowl on the man. Snapping from his staring, he gave an awkward half-bow and scuttled quickly from the tent. Outside, he straightened his crumpled shirt compulsively while glancing frantically about to make sure no one saw him. Satisfied with his subtlety, he fell into a nervously stiff gait, his fist clenched tightly around the precious vial in his pocket.
O O O
"Look at that one over there."
The Rogue indicated the man to her friend, a large northerner moving swiftly through the camp. He moved gracefully through the crowds of people, and his manner spoke of constant wariness to the Rogues' trained eye.
"I've never seen his kind before. He doesn't look local, or one of the easterners."
Her companion was engrossed in obsessively trying to wipe a dirt stain from her exposed thigh.
"He's a Druid...I think," she gave up on the stain to look up at last. "The first one of his kind I have ever seen here."
The other Rogue lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
"I thought you were more experienced than that, Oriana."
Oriana shot her friend an annoyed look.
"You know people come here from all over the land," she said with an air of mild scorn. "I know as much about Druids as you do."
Her Rogue sister made a non-committant noise, her eyes idly wandering the foggy camp while she encouraged Oriana.
"Come on then, I want to know how it went. Did you..."
She trailed off and they both shivered as a dark hooded figure passed them by from opposite direction, close enough for the fabric of his cloak to brush brown leather. He half-turned in midstep as he walked past, lingering his unseen gaze on them for a long moment.
"You're too curious for your own good, Aliza," her eyes stayed on the Necromancer's back as she spoke. "There are dark creatures all around us, temptations at every step."
"You sound like Kashya now," Aliza retorted with resentful exasperation. "It's a little late to be warning of dangers, don't you think?"
A small group of men walked by them then, most likely some local nobleman's guard, talking excitedly amongst themselves. One of them carried several heads, disfigured in their demonic nature, tied to a large pole over his shoulder, a gruesome collection of trophies. Their faces were locked in an expression of eternal pain...or was it rage? Hard to say with dead flesh that never belonged to this world to begin with.
"We should remain vigilant at all times," Oriana said pointedly, ignoring Aliza's tone. "Not just give in to our defeat."
Aliza grunted in annoyance.
"I'm not giving up, am I?" she dismissed more than challenged, then her expression shifted back into impatient expectancy. "So tell me what happened. You went to see Kashya?"
Oriana nodded quickly.
"Yes, me and Isolde delivered the report to her. I heard her talking to High Priestess Akara, they agreed that something must be done about this threat. The High Priestess has considered some capable foreign warriors she would ask for help with this den of evil. She doesn't want to send any more inexperienced souls to their deaths in that place."
Aliza frowned in restrained irritation.
"Why doesn't Kashya send more sisters? We could-"
"There is too little of us left," Oriana cut off the thought harshly. "And more die out on patrols in the moor each day. Kashya is right, it is about time we let these people prove useful in something else than eating our food."
Aliza shifted her weight, somewhat satisfied with the answer, but still apparently displeased that the matter would be given to strangers.
"And the place itself?" some fearful curiosity lingered in her voice. "You've been there, have you not?"
"Yes," Oriana affirmed grimly. "But I wish I haven't. It was a large patrol, standard formation with those in the front and flanks wielding swords and hammers and several of us in the back with the bows."
She took a deep breath, gathering her memories into coherency before going on. Aliza licked her dry lips slowly, expectantly.
"And? What happened?"
"We came upon the old caves in Blood Moor because a large group of fallen had set up camp at the entrance. We killed most of them, but some fled back inside. So we followed," she shook her head with a sorrowful exhale. "We weren't prepared for what we found in that damned place. It was dark, almost pitch black, but we had torches. The first thing that struck us was the dreadful smell, the stench that was absolutely overwhelming. We thought it was a choking poison trap at first. But it was corpses. There were corpses everywhere, and everything was covered in blood. Sisters, peasants and soldiers. All mutilated horribly. The cave floor was littered with weapons and cracked shields. It stunk so much I thought I would pass out. There were so many dead bodies strewn about, just rotting openly.
Just outside the reach of our torches there were corridors in limestone, leading downward steeply. There was a dull thumping coming from below, as if something big was moving about in the darkness.
Then it started.
Carvers and fallen swarmed us from all sides, I can still hear their wild screeches and that filthy, guttural language. We fought them, but there was too many. They seemed to be coming from every hole, from the caves below. We tried to retreat back into one of the elevated grottos on both sides of the main cavern, to gain some breathing space. Then the torches of those in the front lit up a large group blocking our retreat."
She took a moment to let what she told so far sink in fully. Aliza was biting her lip unconsciously, listening in transfixed silence.
"It was zombies," Oriana continued, keeping her absent tone. "By the Eye, there was so many of them! They overwhelmed us, breaking our formation against the fallen that pressed on against our back. The zombies were terrible, they just wouldn't die. You have to almost completely destroy their bodies to kill them, and there were so many...all around us. Aly cut off one zombie's arms, but it still brought her down, falling on her and biting viciously. I saw the others join in as she fell, eating her alive. I'll never forget her screams."
She stopped her narration for a steadying moment, and the silence was deafening.
"Still, we managed to reach the side alcove. We thought we found a safe place to hold back the tide, but then things got much worse. The thumping turned into thunder of heavy footsteps, and inhuman roars cut through the shrieks of the carvers. We could see the small devils actually shrink back and pause in fear, with huge shapes moving out of darkness."
"What was it?" Aliza whispered quickly, as if afraid the sound of her voice would bring that very malevolence upon her.
Oriana seated herself on an old barrel, slowly rubbing her palms against her thighs, her eyes unfocused in the wash of ghastly memories.
"I couldn't quite see what it was in the mad waving of torches, but it was big, very big. It crashed through zombies and us alike, tossing Anya and Erin aside like they were nothing but dolls. Before I could even loose an arrow I was struck by a heavy fist and thrown back against a rock. Everyone scattered among demons. I panicked," she paused, her gaze distant. "I ordered retreat and somehow managed to stumble away. All the time I could feel a sharp pain in my chest with every breath. Blood dripped into my eyes and I couldn't see anything, so I just ran blindly. I could hear others alongside me, a steady hand guiding me along as we ran back to the entrance."
Aliza watched her friend intently, some deep-seated dread evident on her face.
"We lost six sisters that day," Oriana finished despondently, her voice cracking toward the end. She turned her eyes on Aliza for the first time since she spoke. "It's no wonder Kashya is reluctant to send any more there."
Aliza watched her in stretched silenced that followed, then stepped forward and hugged sitting Oriana unexpectedly.
"I'm glad you came back alive," she whispered in her ear hoarsely.
They stayed like that for a long moment, taking comfort in in each other. As she pulled back they remained in awkward silence, both silently pondering how badly they were losing this war, but neither having the courage to say it aloud.
O O O
Cold.
The chill was in the wind, and normally he would welcome the fresh energies it brought with it, reinvigorating the body with tingling fingers in every breath. But there was something oppressive about this wind, corrupt and unnatural. Perhaps it was merely because he was more attuned to the threads flowing though nature and life it sustained, but all this encroaching perversion put him at constant unease. Even the fires in the distance seemed threatening, as if there was more behind them than just another cycle of rebirth.
Unnatural, distinctly so.
He had realised long ago that the threat was not merely physical, and that was far more terrible than any demon. Demons were just the most obvious signs of the disease...the whole land was changing, for the worse.
He paused, fixing his attention to a specific spot. Not far up ahead, a man was pulling a sword from the body of a dead fiend, a corrupted Rogue by the looks of it. He slowed his gait in approach, adopting a cautious posture.
Borrn finally yanked his weapon from the freshly killed enemy, several of her companions scattered about in haphazard pattern where they, too, met his blade. He swore crudely as he realised, upon closer inspection of the bloodstained blade, that his broadsword was chipped in several places. The shield of that corrupted bitch must have been the final strain for the weapon. He lowered the sword by his side, looking down on the body before him miserably. All those ribs weren't very healthy to the blade either...
His head snapped up as he became aware of another's presence, his hand automatically bringing the sword back up in defensive form, while the other one reached for the axe at his belt.
It was a man, no less, just as familiar as the cautiousness with which he moved.
The Druid approached slowly but determinedly, holding his hands open by his sides to renounce any hostile intent.
"No enemies here," he called out raspily, keeping his eyes on the Barbarian.
Borrn lowered his weapons slowly, reluctantly.
"Well," he greeted in not entirely friendly manner as he appraised the Druid. "This darkness really has brought all sorts together. Do you walk all alone through these moors, shaman?"
His tone wasn't mocking, nor was it completely wary; it was something undecided, rather. Druid kept a steady gaze on him as he carefully listened to every word.
"I am never alone when I walk through wilderness."
Borrn sheathed his sword again, then spat blood into the grass.
"I've heard as much," even though he relaxed his posture he still regarded the Druid sharply for a long moment. "Did you see any Rogues around?"
The Druid shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off of him.
"Only dead ones," he paused awkwardly, but without any anxiety. "If we are fighting on the same side, we should at least know each other's names. I am Jelen."
Borrn snorted bitterly.
"Yes, to carve them into the other's gravestone if nothing else. Borrn of Clan Black Bear."
He offered his hand and took Jelen's forearm firmly. Jelen nodded his head in acknowledgement.
"Well met."
Borrn studied the Druid through his wind-whipped hair for another moment, then turned away.
"There's a farmstead up ahead, I've seen some light moving there."
Jelen stepped up to Borrn, standing by his side as they gazed into the old farmhouse ominously outlined against the grey sky. The fog had lifted, affording them a clear view of the windy landscape.
"Let's investigate," Jelen suggested.
Borrn looked at him silently, then back at the distant farmstead. Exactly what he had in mind.
O O O
Eva held up the scythe, observing it critically. It was well made, in appearance a compromise between aesthetic appeal and usability. The war scythe's straight, wide edge was fitted upright on the reinforced handle, its design showing it was primarily intended for combat, not farm work. She herself was not exactly a stranger to unconventional weapons, not that a war scythe was particularly exotic as such. But her training in these types of weaponry was rudimentary at best, having focused more on spear, sword and bow.
"It's a good weapon," Eva's eyes slid aside to Charsi, who opted to comment helpfully. "But people usually prefer more standard types. My blades and axes are almost always sold out."
Eva looked around meaningfully, spotting piles of damaged armour and discarded weapons on the ground nearby, and several individuals perusing the weapon and armour racks.
"There is a lot of people in this camp for just one blacksmith. I'm surprised you have the time for custom orders."
Charsi grinned brightly.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it. But with so many people coming here from out where, most of the repairs I do can be said to be custom work. We also managed to bring some of the old stock from the Monastery when the camp was set up, so I have a few exotic pieces left for those who can use them."
She studied Charsi from the corner of her eye as she collected her armour with practiced efficiency. She was shorter than Eva, but stout and muscled and moved with surprising grace about her makeshift smithy. Face that was smeared with soot held such surprisingly soft countenance, and her dark blonde hair was oiled and pulled back. Her bare arms were glistening with sweat from the heat of the forge as she leaned on the table heavily to watch Eva pack her bag.
"There was a Barbarian here a couple of days ago," Charsi continued, either oblivious or uncaring to Eva's mere casual interest. "He was looking over some enchanted claymores, but I think he couldn't afford them."
Eva paused in her packing to send her a contemplative look, but said nothing.
"I think I'll give him a discount if he comes back," she said wistfully while adjusting her heavy leather apron, blackened by many years of use.
Eva found it absurd how even in this dreary place and dangerous times, and despite her obviously hard-trained and work-shaped physique, there was still the trace of some girlish uncertainty on her face as she considered the Barbarian. In that moment Charsi seemed to her so out of place amidst the hardened warriors and miserable peasants and death here, like a rare flower growing from the crack in barren rock.
But then Charsi ran her gloved hand over the newly repaired hard leather armour and Eva knew there was more to the Rogue blacksmith than what she appeared. She may have looked out of place, but she surely belonged to the Sisterhood as much as Kashya or any other Rogue.
"It's as fixed as it can be, but that leather is pretty worn out," Charsi explained while studying the piece with a skilled eye. "Maybe you should consider buying something better?"
"It'll do for now," Eva declined flatly, annoyed by the question reminding her of the lack of coin to afford better equipment.
Charsi observed her for a moment longer while she tied the armour chestpiece together with boots and slung them both over her shoulder.
"Oh, sure. Just let me know if you need anything else," she chirped pleasantly, before moving back to the hearth.
Eva secured the scythe on her back and reached for her overstuffed pack. Distant thunder rumbled somewhere in the everpresent cloudy blanket, the wind picking up in intensity. She stopped for a moment, letting her eyes roam the dark skies.
The gloomy weather was really gnawing at her disposition. Since she had arrived in this land she had seen scarce days without rain, not nearly enough to alleviate the despondency.
Rain and mud, blood and pain.
Her boots made wet, slushy sounds as she trudged on through the camp. The time itself seemed to have been caught and slowed in the creases of mud and wind-beaten landscape.
How apt.
Looking around the camp she couldn't shake the feel that everyone here was living on borrowed time, on a lease from the jaws of death which have now opened to reclaim all that was once theirs.
She found their tent, not exactly located in a particularly solitary spot, which were fairly rare in the crowded encampment, being given a wide berth by the locals and soon saw the most likely reason.
The warlock was outside, tending to the fire.
"There you are. I picked up those items from Charsi."
A spark of annoyance lit in her when he didn't acknowledge her, but was quickly dismissed as an infantile impulse.
Eva entered the tent to deposit the new weapon and pack with her own repaired armour inside. The book Warriv gave her she carefully put away between the folds of her crumpled bedroll. Outside she paused to squint around the bleak camp with her hands on hips, then turned her attention back on the warlock. He seemed to have discarded his cloak and body armour for his open leather vest, unsurprisingly black. She took a moment to study his unusual complexion, which was as white as she had ever seen on a living human, and his tattoos. Both his arms were covered in black ink from shoulder to the wrist, delicate tattooed patterns twisting and bending across his pale skin with some arcane significance.
Hesitating, she adjusted her hair and tightened her gloves. Some angry shouting, muted and stretched by the wind, from the distant end of the camp broke the silence of indecision, prompting her to action.
"That is some weapon you ordered, warlock. Slightly unconventional, isn't it?"
"It was a fair price," he answered off-handedly without turning around.
"I talked to Warriv too, I forgot to mention it before."
Priest made a curt, disinterested sound. It prompted a pang of irritated frustration from her.
He was sitting on a log of wood in front of the small fire, stirring the cooking cauldron slowly. Eva walked up behind him, pausing to sniff the air appreciatively.
"What's for dinner?"
"Chicken."