A/N: Stole a quote in here, somewhere. I can't remember who said it, but I think we all know it isn't mine.
Their search for the acting troupe had been in vain; Magda and the others must have wisely fled from the Veil after she and Cal had taken care of the brat onstage. The girls had barely exited the theatre when three bolts of light descended one by one from the sky. Cal recoiled in shock, and her hand – in spite of her fatigue – immediately went to the hilt of her sword. Safiya's own fell upon it, stopping her from making an otherwise deadly mistake.
"Keep your distance, witches. I've studied your laws, and we've broken none," Safiya said. The lights had dispersed, revealing three women garbed in colorful dresses and adorned with strange, feathered masks. They covered all but their eyes, noses and mouths, but that did nothing to mask their hostility.
"You know our laws, but I know you, child. You'll be better served by keeping silent," the middle and evidently eldest warned her in turn. Safiya withdrew slightly, heeding the thinly-veiled threat.
"Look, Sheva – the girl's companion! It's that one that offends the land and draws an army to our gates!" one of them cried, pointing to Cal. The only discernible features were the long, dark hair and the pink hue of her dress. Cal narrowed her eyes immediately.
"Speak your name, foreigner," the eldest witch spoke to her, "and be warned that you address the Wychlaren."
"Be warned that you address one powerful enough to draw an army to your gates," she said in turn, and Safiya was both mystified and mortified by her gall. "I don't give my name to strangers who surround me in the street like a pack of thieves."
"Listen to this, sisters! How can any of you doubt the words of the bear god?" the dark-haired witch cried again. Safiya found her voice grating at best, and wished that she would remain silent. She had dreaded an encounter with the witches ever since learning of them and their kind, just as she had dreaded facing the land and the peasants and pirates. And Cal's temper – regardless of how amusing Safiya found it – was not going to do them any favors in such a dark little world.
"In this country, foreigner, it is death to speak so to a Witch... but you crossed spells with our mortal enemies this day, and drove them from our midst. For that, much may be forgiven," the eldest witch spoke, her tone wavering between being firm just as much as it hesitated. But it did little to appease Cal, who's expression merely darkened. After a brief pause, she scoffed and smirked, though the expression was still terribly cold. Safiya worried that she might fall into another rage if pressed enough.
"Sounds like I deserve a reward, not a scolding," she said. That cold, snide tone had returned.
"No. Not a foreigner. You fought for your life, not our law," the dark-haired witch spat at her.
"Is that a crime, too? Self-defense and wit? You must lead a very boring little... town, here," Cal glared at her, then returned her attention to the eldest. "That bear held me prisoner. I committed no more crime in escaping him than I did killing the wizards who were in the Veil."
The smallest of the trio, a chestnut-haired girl garbed in blue gave a little squeak. "Then Magda spoke true? She said there were Thayans, that they appeared from the very shadows - !"
"Calm, Katya, you are a Witch now, not a farmgirl," the eldest witch glared at her, and Katya seemed to regain herself. She turned back to Cal. "You claim innocence, but the bear god has marched an army of spirits to our gate, and he roars for your blood. He claims that you have defiled his sacred den and loosed an evil upon the world."
"Well, he's completely full of shit then."
The dark-haired witch very nearly hissed at her. "The bear god does not lie! I can smell the wrongness on you, foreigner, it hangs upon you like a corpse-shroud!"
"That's actually a couple of days of tromping around in the mud and not being able to properly bathe," Cal snapped at her. "Though I guess I can't expect peasants who worship bears to know any difference."
Safiya chuckled and quickly covered her mouth, trying to suppress her amusement. All four of them marinaded in anger and disgust and their banter was unexpectedly hilarious to her. She chalked it up to her frayed nerves and swallowed any residual urges to laugh.
The eldest witch's eyes moved sharply from one girl to the next, her wrinkled mouth curving into a deep frown. "Make your peace with the bear god, foreigner. Only then will you be a friend to us."
"You claim that you have the right to kill a countryman for speaking back to you? You command that much respect? Then the three of you get off your lazy, leathery, wretched asses and defend this stinking town you claim to rule," Cal snarled at her. "You want to give me a death sentence? My comrade and I just cleared out a theatre filled with your mortal enemies. I dare you to try."
"It's that kind of talk that proves your guilt!" the dark-haired witch shouted at her. "You would dare to speak to us so, when we're left with the injustice of your arrival and yet we still try to help? You ungrateful, vile little - !"
"Peace, Kazimika," the eldest silenced her before glaring back at Cal. "She is right, foreigner. I know that you are looking for Magda, for one reason or another, and I have wisely decided to keep her and her band safe from you."
"What?" Cal sputtered.
"How do we know that you wouldn't have slain Lienna yourself? How do we know you won't do the same to Magda?" Kazimika snarled.
"As I told you, foreigner, make your peace with Lord Okku. Then and only then will we allow you to meet with Magda," the eldest said, and Safiya watched with a note of dread as furious color rose into Cal's face. "No Witch may stand against the spirits of the land... but I will honor the debt we owe you, foreigner, for defeating the Red Wizards. Go to our prison, on the north edge of town. Any convict who is willing to stand at your side will be granted a full pardon."
"How generous," Cal spat after a long pause of wrestling with her temper. "Fine. I will free your prisoners and I will kill the bear god for a second time. And then I'll be expecting some answers."
"We will watch you from our high place, and we will receive you again when you return... if you live," the eldest's voice tapered off as the three witches returned to light, vanishing before them. A moment later, Cal spun around and nearly – and hopefully accidentally – cleaved Safiya's head off as she drew her greatsword and embedded it into the wooden door. The wizard had lunged out of the way, dumbfounded by the level of carelessness Cal displayed. Nearby peasants who had been watching quickly shut their doors and windows, drawing curtains or quickly returning about their business.
"How can they possibly be so disgusting?" Cal asked, pacing about the front of the theatre. The wood groaned as her sword slipped a couple of inches, but otherwise held its angle. Her hands clasped and unclasped, balling in and out of fists. "How can their peasants be content to be ruled by a trio of haughty bitches like them? Who cares if they can use magic if its an entire town against three old women? Pathetic!"
"Yes... their customs are quite odd to foreigners of Rashemen... and myself," Safiya said, hoping something to fill the silence might re-assure her and deplete her rage. "Unfortunately, Magda is our best lead for an answer..."
"I know," Cal sighed, sitting down on the steps. She put her face in her hands, balancing her elbows on her knees. The wood creaked and a moment later her sword clattered noisily to the floor. "Once we free Magda, I'll stick my sword right between the eyes of that Kazimika's mask."
"Perhaps we should focus on rallying a couple of allies before we plan a coup against Mulsantir's leaders," Safiya said, hesitantly – and awkwardly – placing her hand on Cal's shoulder. The barbarian glanced up, nonplussed. "Surely we'll find someone who will stand with us to secure his or her freedom from this wretched place."
"We couldn't help but overhear," a man interrupted them, and Safiya looked up to see two people approaching them – donned in full armor and laden of weaponry, her hopes soared before quickly pausing at the sight of their wings. They were half-celestials, but the wizard couldn't fathom why they were in Rashemen. "An army of angry spirits awaits you at the gates of Mulsantir. You will perhaps require more assistance against such a host. I am Efrem the Stag – and this is my sister, Susah the Crow."
"My bow and my brother's sword will aid you, should you agree to first help us find our lost sister, Kaelyn the Dove," the black-winged woman finished. Cal stared at them, clearly taken aback.
"Wh-where is your sister?" she inquired, clearly overwhelmed.
"Kaelyn came here seeking the abandoned stronghold of Myrkul, the Death God's Vault, which is in Shadow Mulsantir," Susah informed.
"Why can't you two find her?" Safiya asked, wishing to nip the errand boy routine in the bud before it developed into a habit. Surely they could find those with less pressing concerns to do their dirty work for them.
"Entering Myrkul's sanctum would be a violation of our faith to Kelemvor," Efrem said.
"Would Kaelyn be violating her faith by entering Myrkul's vault, then?" Safiya asked.
"Kaelyn has... abandoned her faith in Kelemvor. For this she was exiled from our grandfather's court. She now follows Ilmater, god of martyrs," he explained and Cal's eyes lit up. "We hope to find our sister and convince her not to become a martyr herself..."
"Why did she turn to Ilmater?" she asked and rose, somehow enraptured now. Safiya almost groaned; she had little patience for people of faith and did not know what she would do if Cal began to sing Ilmater's praises – let alone if she did it in tandem with a half-celestial.
"That is an excellent question, I have a theory..."
"Sister! Let us not entertain these "theories." If you want the answers, seek out Kaelyn and ask her yourself," Efrem turned his gaze upon Cal once again, who jumped slightly.
"I'll find her," she settled.
"Thank you. We will be very grateful once we lay eyes on our beloved sister," Susah smiled at her.
"Go on with care. Kelemvor's blessing to you," Efrem nodded to her, and the siblings went on their way. Cal watched them go and confirmed her fears a moment later as she returned her sword to its holster.
"I want to know more about Ilmater."
"Did you worship him?" Safiya asked as the two girls began to make their way the muddied road leading through town. The rain had become a fine mist, gradually dispersing as the mild warmth of the sinking sun split the sky. It cast an ethereal glow over their surroundings, the fog a blooming orange as the sky lingered with a muted crimson and indigo. Cal shrugged.
"I don't know. He said the name and I had a rush of deja vu. It feels... right?" she tried for words, but ultimately lapsed. Safiya frowned, but was at least grateful that her ally was taking a scientific approach to a spiritual.
"Ilmater is the god of martyrs and suffering. He brings solace to those in pain - or to those who feel... incomplete."
"White hands bound by red rope?" Cal asked, frowning.
"One of his symbols."
"I've heard of him. I studied him. I can't remember where or why, though," she said. "I guess it doesn't matter, but hearing his name triggered something."
"Triggered what?" Safiya asked. They stood at the threshold to the prison, and the empty gallows swung gently in the breeze.
"Hope," Cal said before pushing the door open, leaving Safiya with her curiosity. The girls stepped into a dim room lit only by a few candles. Two jail cells sat side by side and beside those, an alcove where an old witch dressed in white sat.
"As you have disturbed the spirits, you also disturb me," she growled, turning to rise and meet them. "For what reason are you here?"
"I guess you weren't aware that there's an army at your gates."
"Of course I am aware! You're – oh, you're that one, aren't you? The cause of all of this? I should hang you myself!" the old witch shouted and Cal folded her arms.
"You might break a hip in the process."
"Have you only come to incense me? Get out, get out if you have no business here!"
"But we do," Safiya interrupted, meeting Cal's side. "Your sisters promised us the freedom of any prisoner who will stand with us to face Okku's army."
"Help? From this lot? Trust in their "help" and you'll find yourself alone when trouble comes," the witch was incredulous, though she seemed to resign herself. "But if you wish to persist in this foolishness, you may speak with the prisoners. Be warned: two you need not fear, but as for the third... guard your thoughts."
With that she stepped back, allowing Cal and Safiya entrance. The two girls exchanged glances and went. The first cell towered beside the old woman, holding in its midst a gigantic mass of muscle with blue-gray skin. Cal approached the bars and the creature within turned slowly, his face a hideous assortment of jutting fang, brow and jaw. He stared at her with sunken eyes.
"You want something from me?" he rumbled thickly.
"I need warriors to fight the army at the gates. You'll be granted a full pardon if you join me."
"I have no interest in your offer. I am done with killing," he replied, clearly catching her off-guard. Cal's brow furrowed in confusion.
"What are you?" she asked without an ounce of tact. Before the creature could respond, a treble pitch from the other cell spoke up.
"He's hagspawn – mother was a hag, father was some unlucky fellow."
"Quiet, small one! I can speak my own words," the apparent hagspawn growled to the cell beside his. Safiya stepped over to the cell, looking for whomever was inside. "He does speak true. Because of my heritage, I am an outcast."
"If you're going to ask me what you asked Groznek, I've got the same answer: no," the voice piped up. Inside was a halfling, eying her dubiously. Safiya glanced back to Cal, who promptly returned her attention to Groznek.
"Is that why you're in here? Because of what you are?" she asked, but the hagspawn slowly shook his head, his eyes never straying from her face.
"No. There were three who taunted me into a rage. My blade was first to leave its sheath, so here I wait."
"Wait for what?"
"His hanging, what else? Or they might toss him off a cliff. I'm not sure how it works," the halfling said.
"Enough, small one! Do not speak my words for me!" the hagspawn shouted into the nearby cell before turning slowly back to Cal. Safiya was made uneasy by the situation; there were only three prisoners and thus far two had denied them. Empirical evidence was enough to tell her they would not be so lucky with the third, unless they created a better bargaining method. But Cal seemed more interested in discussing Groznek's fate than inspecting what was behind door number three. "I am trapped in this existence as an outcast through no fault of my own. I will gladly accept my fate since it will bring me the peace which has eluded me."
They stared at each other for a long pause before the hagspawn backed away and turned. "Go now. I do not wish to speak to you any longer."
"Wait - !" Cal said, and Safiya was surprised to hear her voice break. She rushed to the door of his cell, grabbing the bars, but Groznek had already turned his back to her. He had become only a shape within shadow.
"Leave me to my fate," his voice rolled out from the cell, but Cal didn't release the bars. Instead she stood, staring into the darkness, and grimaced slightly. Tears welled up in her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks, though eventually she backed away from the door without another word. Safiya was shocked. Yes, the hagspawn's story was terribly bleak and depressing, but he was only a stranger to them and nothing more. Cal glanced around the cells, noted the small one shaking his head, 'no,' and turned to the witch.
"And the third?" she asked angrily, dispelling the pleased look upon her wrinkled face.
"I leave you with a final warning, the wretch inside this room is not to be trusted. Heed his words at your own discretion," the old woman said and gestured to the door near the halfling's cell.
"And you expect me to trade words through a fucking door?" Cal snarled. Any humor or sarcasm left in her had drained completely. The old witch shot her a look.
"If you value your mind, you will!"
"Open the door!" Cal, out of patience, very nearly roared and Safiya wondered if the day would ever end.
"Do not even begin to think that you can command me, young woman!"
"I'll use you to break it down!"
"How dare you threaten me!"
"Mistress," Kaji said, and Safiya glanced his way. The little homunculus hovered at the door's handle, having just finished picking the lock with one of his claws. It was ajar.
x x x
Gann could not remember a time when there had been such excitement among the spirits and peasants alike. Not even celebratory festivals or harvests riled them to such an extent, and perhaps their fury was something to do with that. But he had not felt such a terrible force in many years – if ever.
"Shaman," a long-known acquaintance had come to him during the early hours of the evening of the prior night. The spirit of wolf he seldom interacted with, as the creature was pointedly disinterested in him – save for when it needed something. Or had some obscure bit of gossip to barter. Gann usually cared very little for gossip, especially when it concerned the living, but being trapped in a cell with nothing but the rage and rumor on the wind to entertain him left him starving for information. "I trust you're aware of the storm that comes."
"As a hound might sense it – or any non-blind, deaf or dumb creature can see the clouds and hear the thunder," Gann returned, peering up at the face that slipped through the tiny, rectangle window at the ceiling of his cell. "Care to enlighten me? I hear the spirits crying for vengeance, but their rage and confusion makes them impossible to understand."
"A living creature escaped from Old Father Bear's barrow," the wolf said, "a prisoner, a monster. It was meant to be kept there, but a Thayan stole it away. They vanquished the king, and killed Faithful Nakata before sneaking into Mulsantir."
That certainly explained a lot, though it also beckoned a number of new confusions. A living prisoner monster, stolen from the bear god's barrow by a Thayan? Who dispersed a shade of the king himself in their escape? Gann decided that this was certainly the most juicy bit of information the wolf had ever dangled before him, though he wondered what the cost was – and why it had even bothered to tell him.
"Would you like to redeem yourself?" the wolf asked. It was an undisguised question, conforming to the creature's nature. Wolves, Gann had found, were sober and honorable creatures, just one temperament away from many of the bears. Gann didn't much appreciate it – neither the question nor the sentiment, and smirked at the spirit before turning away.
"Redemption? In what sense? Are you asking if I would like to appease Okku, or martyr myself? Or is it both?" he tapped his chin, feigning contemplation. "So many double words and standards in your ancient hierarchy, spirit. You'll forgive a mere dreamer for needing a bit of clarification."
"You know what I ask, Shaman. I ask that you would stand with us against this creature, as once again an ally to the spirits. You would be freed from this cage, if you pledged your loyalty to the kingdom's plight."
"So, I will be trading one cage for another?" Gann asked. Spirits often requested his aid with their worries or goals, and he often supplied it for a reasonable price – information, food, shelter, whatever he may need at the time. But the improvised kingdom was something he had made a point to stray from, after it had become clear that the two could not peacefully coincide. "How convenient it is that you would accept me as an ally only when you need something from me."
The wolf opened its mouth – something he'd read as a grin – before promptly shutting it and tilting its head. "I am playing by your rules, Shaman. I assumed you might appreciate the sentiment, but it is, I suppose, lost in your hypocrisy."
Gann laughed. "And the sentiment is reflected much in yourself, friend. You're asking if I will trade my life for my freedom? I think not. Your idea of redemption is not quite the same that I picture."
"Are you capable of only serving your own needs? Does your ego still need to be fed?"
"I think we are done here, spirit. At least in this cage, I am free to pursue my own interests. And I am uninterested in being a soldier."
"May that pride keep you warm and safe when we tear down these walls, Shaman."
He probably should have expected the drama to increase within the following day, but he had occupied himself by altering the runes the old prison matron had drawn around his cell, being sure to alter them just enough to keep the spirits at bay. The old women had a terrible hand for drawing them in the first place; shaky and poorly-crafted, they would have kept him trapped just as well as a rotten wall might hold the weight of a storm. But with his skill, they would – if not stop – then at least slow anything that might try to enter his cell rather than dispel his influence from spreading.
Once he had finished, he had settled for the night, keeping to the corner to avoid the rain that washed in through the small window and listening in the dreaming plane. The spirits had stopped at the gates, waiting and discussing and arguing different strategies. Many of them seemed to want to tear through the city, destroying anything in their path that might have been the prisoner they loathed so terribly, while others – more logical, fresher deceased than the ancients were more diplomatic. They wanted to wait to allow the town to regurgitate this foreigner – or have them turn themselves in, without causing more bloodshed than what was already necessary.
He could only listen for so long before growing bored – if not for a strange influence he felt growing near. Or, rather, a lack of an influence may have been a better term, as for what rivaled the power and energy of the spirits at the gate was a deep void. It was a cold and uncomfortable tear in the energy of Mulsantir – which did not have the most consistent aura to it in the first place. But this was darker. This, he felt, was an ancient hunger, a nothingness that had come from who-knew-where to do who-knew-what. It was directionless and empty – and it was getting closer. It made him nervous.
The real commotion started not long after he felt the void descend. Someone had entered the prison and was speaking to the matron – well, not so much speaking as they were shouting. Rather, the old woman was shouting. The other two voices were fairly soft spoken, so much that he could hardly hear them. His interest piqued and he wondered what was going on. He heard the old matron threaten to hang the visitor, and then demand them to leave. An enemy to the witches had come calling, and he shut his eyes, trying to pinpoint the different energies he felt. One, he noted with pause, was the void. And the other was... strange. Normally his thoughts might have been more eloquent on the matter, but strange was the only way he could sum up the foreign presence. It was split, yet whole – and it confused him.
He heard them speaking to one of the prisoners – the hagspawn. Now they were near enough for him to gauge the depths of their voices, though he heard only one. It was female, and quite young by the sound of it. She was recruiting warriors.
Suddenly, it made sense. No local would raise a hand against the spirits, unless they had no choice. This girl, he doubted, was a local – the way she spoke to the witch made that clear as day. Was she the one the spirits were waging war against?
The girl had started shouting at the prison matron to open the door. They traded incensed threats, much to Gann's baffled delight – when he noticed the handle of the cell's door turning. It stopped suddenly and silently opened, revealing an oddly-shaped, little brown face. Two colorless eyes blinked at him before it grinned and turned to tug on a red sleeve... and the door opened and there was a horrified gasp from the prison matron.
"Stow that abomination! You have just freed a prisoner!"
"Stow your miserable tongue, all we did was open a bleeding door!" the young voice shouted back. Gann peered up curiously as his door opened, and a Rashemi peasant stood in the threshold. He was taken aback by her beauty – most of the Rashemen woman who reached adulthood did so worse for the wear, wrinkled and pale from a life of cold and difficult work, but this woman was an exotic blend of tattoo and sun-kissed skin. Her large, almond eyes held a fierce intelligence unlike any other he had encountered in the waking world.
"It is an act of treason to disobey the word of a witch!"
"Oh no! You mean treason like, everything I've done leading up to this? What ever shall I do!" the voice spat before suddenly the door slammed back on its hinges and cracked against the wall. The peasant woman jumped back slightly, and the voice had revealed itself to be... nothing like he had pictured. Well, it wasn't as though Gann had a clear image to match the voice, but the girl standing before him didn't exactly summon up imagery of rebellion and viciousness. She was nearly a head shorter than her tattooed companion and was paler than even the Rashemi locals – from he could tell of her beneath her green hood, anyways. And... she was blind. Or so he had thought until she pointed at him. Gann wondered if his eyes were merely playing tricks, or if her eyes were slightly glowing in the shadow of her hood.
"You, prisoner," she snapped, "do you want to get out of this miserable sty?"
What a loaded question, that one. He had a feeling this would be a less than pleasant encounter. But his arsenal of wit had failed him. His only visitors had been spirits, and usually they did not meet to shout questions at him. He'd rather be careful in this verbal duel with a temperamental void and her exotic companion, but appeasing the demands of others wasn't on his agenda. He had already denied one who might send him to his death in exchange for his freedom and wasn't about to jump onto the opposing side's sinking ship.
"I think you'll find anyone who considers themselves a benefactor to be another sort of jailer," Gann spoke evenly, studying the stranger. He noted the gigantic sword strapped to her back, and the leather armor. A peasant and a warrior, rallying soldiers. He supposed that peasant wasn't quite a peasant, either. A very strange trio indeed. But Gann wanted no part of it, no matter how bored he was. "Whatever they are, go offer your benedictions elsewhere."
The stranger scowled at him before turning, about to take off – likely to brawl with the old matron – when the not-quite-a-peasant's attention snagged in his room. She stepped inside, scrutinizing one of the walls... or more accurately, something on it.
"What are these wards around your prison?" she asked, using her staff to casually gesture to the runes at the base of the four walls. Gann felt himself raising an eyebrow – he had not expected either of them to take any notice – but he quickly regained control of himself and glanced to where she had gestured. He tilted his head, feigning bemusement before glancing back to her and shrugging.
"Oh, those?" he asked. "I hadn't noticed. Did some child come by with a handful of chalk and scrawl them on the walls?"
"Possibly, considering the skill," the woman continued, glancing back to him. "I thought they may have simply been reversals of binding wards, but they've been altered."
"Hmm. A mystery indeed. Who do you suspect of altering them? Not me, I hope. I have an alibi," Gann waved her off, though had the impression that regardless of any suspicion, it was of no consequence. The most he'd get was a verbal thrashing from the matron – which he was not opposed. He would win, and enjoy the show in the meantime. But he assumed her aggression would be trained moreso on a certain foreigner before himself.
The robed woman rose an eyebrow as she stared at him. "If you did this, you are extremely skilled with runes and wards."
Impressed, Gann grinned. He supposed there was nothing wrong with entertaining a worthwhile audience for a short time. It may be their last night among the living, afterall. "Ah, the sweet arrows of flattery have found their target. You may actually be worth speaking to for a time. But I have forgotten what precisely it is that you want. I am not a reader-of-minds, you know, so out with it."
The warrior girl had paused at the door and glanced to her companion. They shared a discreet look and the girl entered his cell. She glanced over her shoulder at the witch lingering in the background, hooked her foot around the door and kicked it shut before turning back to Gann.
"What have you been jailed for?" she asked, instead.
"My crime?" Gann paused, taken somewhat aback. But then, the old matron did make something of a fuss over his imprisonment. He sighed, feigning remorse. "It is a serious one. You see, I am too handsome to look upon."
The girl didn't have much of a reaction, but her companion made a point to roll her eyes. Gann smirked, and continued. "It would not be the first time I have had to place myself behind bars to keep admirers at bay. If that's why you're here, you'll have to wait in line like the rest of them."
Finally, the girl glared at him. "I'll restrain myself. Somehow."
"Good. I would not want you to embarrass yourself. I may be a "criminal," but I demand that visitors observe a certain decorum in my presence – otherwise chaos ensues," he continued, delighting as he watched angry color fill the girl's face. "But come now, this banter is delightful but something else must have brought you here other than the chance to converse with me."
"My ally and I are meeting the bear god and his army tomorrow. I intend on killing him for a second and hopefully final time," she said, serious as the grave as she stared down at him. Gann tilted his head as he listened, bemused by the entire situation. So, she was the monster the spirits wanted dead. He knew he was not going to receive the full story from either side, and so he listened more carefully to everything the girl didn't say. Her name, for one. "The witches will grant a full pardon if you stand with us."
"That is because no Rashemi will stand against the spirits, and the witches are well-aware of this," Gann said, but he had a feeling the girls already knew – or at least suspected as much. If one did not have allegiance to the spirits, he would at least need be suicidal to stand against them. "You have come to the wrong cell - I am neither foolhardy nor desperate enough to fight barbarians or Thayans. Go find a poorhouse and scatter a few coppers - that might yield better results."
That seemed to incense the girl. Quicker than he had expected, she met the distance and leaned over him, her palms on the wall he sat against. Though he showed no outward reaction, inside he had to consciously stop himself from becoming hostile on reflex. He had been stripped of his artillery, but this girl was not the only warrior in this cell. She met his stare, narrowed her eyes and hissed. "You prefer a cage?"
Gann, cold in his anger, smirked and shoved himself up from the ground, forcing the girl to back off. He neared her, though she stood her ground, staring angrily up at him. "No one cages me against my will – I am sheltering here by choice, stranger. That braying legion at the gates will be hard-pressed to reach here."
"Those who sacrifice liberty for safety deserve neither."
"Is liberty what you offer? It sounded to me that you're merely looking for foolhardy suicides," Gann retorted, likely just as angry as she. "That's no "ordinary," band of spirits out there – that's a hornet's nest of beasts. They're screaming so loudly for blood I can hear it in my dreams... and I do not think I am wrong in suspecting that the blood they seek is yours. Graverobber, are you? Tsk, tsk. One should leave sacred barrows of the ancient bear god alone, lest he come for you in his garishly-colored furry rage."
They glared at each other for a moment longer before the girl's anger seemed to drop, all at once and she blinked in surprise – moments before she smiled. She promptly covered her mouth with a gloved hand, but had uttered something of a half-suppressed laugh. Bemused, Gann felt his own anger draining; he had not expected to amuse her. Clearly, she hadn't expected to be amused, as he saw her eyes dart off to the side as her face flushed with embarrassment. She quickly scowled and turned, stalking away from him as he grinned.
"Look, I didn't rob his grave. I don't even know how I got there. But he was going to kill me to make sure I didn't escape. If Safiya hadn't helped me, I'd be down there still," the girl explained, pacing and talking with her hands, nearly feverish in her exasperation. "He's challenging me and everyone's acting like I'm some... some kind of monster when I haven't even done anything. If you're not interested in helping me out, then fine, but for the love of the gods, don't give me anymore reason to let this miserable town burn."
"Why not?"
"Why not what?" the girl asked after a pause, glancing back to him.
"Why not let it burn? You're clearly not a local, and you don't seem to agree with the... customs," Gann observed, only half-delicately. The girl only blinked at him.
"I don't have a choice. The witches imprisoned someone I need to talk to." Her companion met her palm with her face.
"And you think killing Okku will free this prisoner?" The logic wasn't very clear. The girl sighed loudly.
"It's a long story, okay?" she said, and beat, she pulled her drying hood down. Her hair was a pale, short mess, cut into asymmetrical tatters as if she'd lost a battle with a torch. And on further inspection, he noted that both girls were covered in burns. Not terrible ones, but their clothing was singed and dark here and there with blood. There was a story somewhere here – a very strange and potentially fascinating story. He supposed he might learn a part of it from the spirits, and a part of it from the girl – but as he speculated earlier, there would never be quite a whole. But that didn't quite dissuade him. Afterall, he had been paying attention to what hadn't been said. The girls had only recently arrived, had crossed swords with some sort of threat (or had that been Okku's handiwork?), offended the witches on multiple accounts and now resigned the evening to rallying up a defense against an army.
He wondered where they came from.
"Well, if I may say, you are rather brave to marshal an army to meet them," Gann rubbed his chin. Under less extreme circumstances he might have been offended by her apparent disinterest in him as anything more than a soldier, but rarely did the cerebral concern itself with two mysterious women. Nor did it tie itself together so neatly whilst still demanding answers, one riddle twisting into another and leaving him hungry for more. "So entertain me then, brave one. Why would one such as I follow you into such a hopeless battle?"
The girl slowly turned to him. The fact that it was a reasonable opportunity to convince him did not seem to have been lost on her. She stared at him for a pause before answering.
"It would be more exciting than prison."
And people accused him of being a reader of minds. But he wasn't ready to let go quite yet.
"Oh indeed? And how is it that you can promise such things?" he asked with a lingering smile, waiting to be underwhelmed.
"I promise nothing," the girl said, the gravity returning in the stead of her fluster. Gann hadn't been expecting brutal honesty, and stalled. She continued in the pause, "I offer you a chance, and nothing more."
Much more honest than the spirit had been. Gann was not one to pick sides – namely because he had never found a side worth standing on that wasn't entirely his own – but also because each had their own agenda. They could deny it all they like, but Gann knew the selfishness of a living heart, and the hypocrisy of a dead mind. This girl, at least, didn't deny anything; she had her own agenda and was upfront about it, though seemed to know as little about her involvement with Okku as he did. Gann was a Spirit Shaman, and had only ever named allegiance to the spirits – some temporary, some long-standing allies, but he had never stood for the cause of the living.
And yet... a terrible ennui had been encroaching upon him for the past several years – maybe even for as long as he could remember. And... of course, he valued his freedom. It had never been his intent to remain imprisoned, but he had been at something of a loss of how to escape reasonably. And finally... he was not particularly opposed to meeting Okku in battle. Gann had never met with the spirit, but he had heard enough stories of him to last a lifetime and longer. He could admit to being a little curious to know the fabled 'king' of the spirits... and letting the spirits know exactly his worth as an enemy, should they continue to forsake him.
Gann grinned, and chuckled. ""An excellent rebuttal."
The girl's eyes widened slightly.
"I think this bodes well for our travels."
"You mean?" she asked, the faint mark of hopefulness in her voice.
"I admit - both your presence and your request intrigue me. Slightly. But that's a slight more than most," Gann grinned. The girl squinted slightly, as if she was not quite sure what to make of the sentiment.
"I suppose I'll take that as a slight compliment," she finally said. "Assuming that means that you're intrigued enough to stand with us tomorrow."
"Indeed, you have a willing soldier at your side. Shall we be off?" he nodded as the quiet woman – Safiya – opened the door. "And, please, let us visit the witch warden on our way out, so I can pay my respects to her gentle, loving soul."
The old witch met them with a scowl, taking a few steps back as the mismatched trio made their way across the room. Gann couldn't deny the surge of just pleasure he felt upon reflecting that he was walking out a free – well, somewhat free – man, and there was nothing the old bat could do to stop him. The girl seemed to share that sentiment and tilted her head back, smiling as they neared.
"Ah, at last my eyes fall upon your beauty again, my matron-of-the-cell," Gann said, tuning his voice to the most charming degree possible.
"This one is cursed for taking you, spawn of hags," she said, pointing to the smug girl before gesturing back to him. "I shall be glad to be rid of you. Nothing but trouble for me, for this city, you are."
"Shall you be glad to be rid of me, beautiful matron? Do not think I did not see the longing eyes you cast at me as you drew your runed circles on the floor of my cell."
"What lies are these? Eyes of shame are the only eyes I have for you! Shame!" she snarled at him, quickly working herself into a frenzy.
"Now, now – there is no need to mask the feelings I stir in you, and your age makes you only seem wrinkled like a prunefruit. I see what dances in your thoughts as you dream the slow hours here away in this prison. In the golden woods of Urling, you once sang for an hour a hymn to the sun and dreamed that it was a shield carried by a warrior who watched over you. And such passion in that song. Why, it gives you strength even now," as he finished, the old woman's wrinkled face had turned a deep purple beneath her mask.
"You are a dangerous creature, dreamwalker. The tales of you all speak such, and many are those you wound with your arrowflight of words and humor," the witch growled, withdrawing slightly. "Do not think us deaf to those who suffer because of your careless footsteps in their thoughts and dreams. Get hence from my thoughts, I warn you!"
"Dreamwalker? Is she mad?" the girl asked him suddenly, raising an eyebrow. Gann smirked.
"She speaks truly. I am that which all farmers with ripe daughters fear – the masked brigand who dances in the fires of their sweet children's minds and leaves footsteps that no wind nor time can erase..." he said, adding certain theatrics here and there to carry the image. Gann had long-since fancied himself a figment of the dreaming mind, an outcast to the waking world. Why not exacerbate the rumor and whimsy of the Rashemi legend? Gannayev-Of-Dreams was whomever he wished to be – and often times, he found, he was exactly what they wanted. He was a self-fulfilling prophecy and the influence he had commanded as such was profound, and sometimes terrible. There was a deep fear he inspired in others, just as he inspired... less cerebral passions. He turned his attention back upon the old witch. "... and old mother, do not think your mind has not laid down paths for me to stroll. Such thoughts in a woman your age – it would put even a farmer's fieryloined daughter to shame."
"You are a thief, a twister of words! Go meet the spirit army, then, but you will not have my blessing upon you, now or ever!" the old woman cried out.
"No kiss for you, then."
And as they took their leave, the nameless girl burst into laughter.