Chapter 25
The way Datura presented himself and his two most important subjects could be best compared to a mother dragging her sullen children out to the temple for service, smiling all the way. Dahlia was aware of his disgustingly superficial air and excessive cordiality long before the Twisted Sage spoke his first word, but Nihilus didn't seem too bothered by it. Rather, her commander seemed quite pleased with the old man and his triumph, the east-khan, whom he also presented, looking "chuffed as chips," as she imagined a companion of hers might have once said. His death remained lamentable, if only that Nihilus had one fewer protector now, but that only meant she had to be prepared twice as quickly. The cold air rushed over her shoulders and blew locks of her pink hair forward. She put her back directly to the wind.
"Well, Lord Datura, it seems you've done all that I asked of you, not a single doubt about it," Nihilus nodded, his voice quick and clerical.
"Naturally, milord," his subordinate replied, "It was a simple matter, really. Patience was all that was required."
"Indeed," the amethyst-haired man agreed, "I did well to trust in you and your nephew. You played your role convincingly too, lad."
Vlasis's eyes were pinned to the snow and dirt at his feet.
"I take your arrival as a good omen," Datura continued, wringing his hands in a way that made Dahlia want to slap them.
Nihilus shook his head, "I wish it were so. In truth, our situation has gotten ever the more dire." Their commander pulled a vial from his pocket and imbibed more of his medicinal black water, "Exalt Chrom has escaped my grasp. Arc, Cyrus, and, most recently, Argent have all fallen, as well. I've come to Ferox to ensure that the rest of our plan will play out as proscribed."
"Well, not to worry there, my lord," Datura smiled, "The Feroxi are entirely at our disposal, and are marching to eradicate the Ylissean capital as we speak. Another group has already dispatched with the exalt's daughter, as well as his sister, brother-in-law, and nephew; there is no hope for the Ylissean throne."
"Really?" Nihilus cocked an eyebrow, "And have you heard confirmation from that latter division."
"Well, no, sir," the sage admitted, "but the task was—"
"Incredibly difficult and significant in its purpose, therefore not to have its result assumed?" Nihilus glared, "Please, don't be so hasty, Lord Datura."
"Yes, my lord," he shrank a bit.
A faraway look glazed over Nihilus's eyes as his mouth moved back and forth but did not produce sounds for several seconds. He gazed down at Datura and Vlasis with a certain condescension, then added, "Just one other thing, Lord Datura."
"Anything, milord," he agreed.
"Are you quite sure you've control over all the Feroxi?"
"Oh, of course."
"That's interesting. Then why did I meet a group claiming to be rebels against the Khan Regnant who hailed from the free west?"
"Hm? Bah, scoundrels. A few dissenters, nothing more. They aggrandize themselves to make their struggle seem less fruitless."
"They spoke of civil war."
"Lies and buffoonery; the Feroxi are entirely beneath my heel."
"Lord Datura, are Khan Lon'qu and his wife dead?"
"Yes. That was simply a matter of necessity. The Feroxi killed him in a show of spite for their old ways and love for their Khan Regnant."
Nihilus's eyes turned into fine needle points, "Lord Datura, I will ask you but once: who killed Khan Lon'qu?"
"Milord, I haven't the faintest idea—"
"I shan't repeat myself."
"It was the Feroxi, as I said."
"And you're certain of that?"
"Entirely."
Nihilus sighed loudly and shook his head, "I suppose I never will learn my lesson. Trust is ill placed in the hands of anyone outside myself. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the corpses piled up as I arrived, Datura?"
He hesitated, "I don't understand—"
"Indeed, you do not," the amethyst-haired man concurred, "When I give you the explicit order to 'manipulate the Feroxi without instigating violence,' what ambiguity do you see in that statement?"
"Have I violated milord's command?" Datura's eyes swelled to pleading.
"Don't be so gods-damn pretentious, you snake!" Nihilus shouted, "How stupid are you?! Rather than crush the Ylisseans by turning their ally completely against them, as I ordered, you broke them into factions! You've spurred their resolve for action! The western Feroxi will do anything to oppose you now! And suppose Khan Lon'qu's son returns, what then?"
"I fail to—"
"Clearly," Nihilus folded his arms, "I have a mind to kill you this instant, but I can't abide my options being further limited, so here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to make my way to Ylisstol, and you're going to remain here. You will continue to utilize the Feroxi forces to do my bidding along with Khan Vlasis until such time as my goal has been achieved, and then, based on your performance, I may lessen your punishment. If you fail me again, however, and violate the exact and deliberate parameters established by this order, I will end you so quickly and horribly, your ancestors will collapse in agony. Am I completely, unflinchingly, unmistakably understood?"
The Twisted Sage swallowed, "Y-Yes, milord."
"Good," the clairvoyant turned and walked away. Dahlia watched the move, scowled contemptuously at Datura, frowned pityingly at Vlasis, and then followed her lord.
Preparing for the miles yet to come on their journey to Ylisstol, Dahlia and Nihilus lifted themselves onto horses, drew shawls over their heads as the snow picked up, and spurred their steeds, as well as their men, forward once more.
Tharja emerged from the hovel in time to see the source of the cacophony that had roused her. She detested the cold unimaginably, but she decided peeking her head out of the small dirt installation was necessary to continue her vigil for the tactician, especially given what she had learned: she was convinced he would return any moment. The view she received instead, however, chilled even her black heart in the midst of the snow and ice: an amethyst-haired figure rode atop a horse, accompanied by a rose-haired woman at his side and several thousand men—an innumerable amount with such a brief glimpse—kicked the snow up behind them. Tharja predicted that this was not a sign of good fortune. She ducked back into her hole, praying the troupe would not notice her, and her hope was validated. When she heard the thunder of footsteps subside, she poked her head out again and saw a sea of footprints flattening the snow. At that moment, she made her decision: she would follow those prints, for whatever lay at the end of them was surely of great significance, and could lead to her lost tactician.
In Ylisstol, ballistae were being readied in preparation for the assault of King Henry.
[...]
"I don't think even I or your mother will ever understand how you manage such things, Steven," Robin admitted, looking at the ship's aft.
"I know a guy," the orator concluded simply.
"Apparently," his father concurred, "All we need now is someone to captain the vessel. Which could be me, if your mother would only—"
"Oh no," Anna shook her head, "I'm not making a losing investment without changing anything, that's sheer insanity. We're finding someone who can properly take control of this thing and bring us safely to shore or we're not taking it at all."
"I really think that's an unnecessary step," Robin sighed.
"And I really think I didn't ask," his wife answered.
Steven rubbed the back of his neck, "Well, there's no sense squabbling at this point, is there? We might as well just relax and wait for Morgan to sort this all out."
"I also feel like I should have come with her," the Grandmaster added.
Anna frowned at him, "Are you kidding? You've been on your feet for weeks with hardly any rest: you've got callouses on your callouses! You're going to sit down here on this pier with me and your son for an hour or two until your daughters, son, and son-in-law secure some professional assistance for us, got that?"
"I could do without being treated like a child," he griped.
"Just as soon as you stop acting like one," she returned.
Steven hoped his sister's expedition was going better than this.
The sunlight belied the fact that the streets of Valm Harbor's commercial and residential districts were eerily silent, such that Morgan, her fiancé, and her siblings could hear every footstep they made and believe that it had emanated from elsewhere in the way it reverberated off the walls. The soft rust-orange and dull gray of the many single-story buildings in the town seemed even more empty by virtue of their being illuminated by the sun, as no figures could be seen within the translucent, grimy windows. Noises from the sea still echoed into the town, and seagulls still flocked above it, but there were no human voices within. It was a town populated by shadows.
"Are those perceptive eyes of yours seeing something I'm missing, Leo?" his eldest sister asked, noticing him straining his his brow against the sunlight.
"I'm trying, but no," he huffed, dejected, "I keep looking, but nothing strikes me. I get the sense this could be a waste of time."
"That's impossible," Morgan decided, "There were plenty of people here when father and I came by not more than two weeks ago. Sylvie, Inigo, you were there, back me up."
"It's true," the Ylissean prince nodded, "It wasn't what I'd call a thriving metropolis, but it wasn't so... deserted, either." Sylvia expressed her agreement.
"Maybe they caught wind of the war and all scattered to other parts of the continent," Leo supposed, "I've seen it happen before."
"There's no way the entire town just disappeared," Morgan disputed, "I refuse to believe that."
"And what's your suggestion?" the assassin returned.
Morgan took a moment to consider it, cupping her chin, "Why don't we go to a tavern?"
"Do you fancy a drink?" Inigo's eyes widened, "I thought you didn't care much for the stuff, Morgan."
The redheaded thief rolled her eyes, "I mean we should look in the tavern for other people. It's likely at least a few people will be around there." With a shrug, the remainder of the group agreed and allowed themselves to be led through a few streets until they finally happened upon a sign for a tavern, accentuated by a pyramid of barrels labelled "rum" sitting outside the shop's window. They walked inside.
Quickly, their collective attention was drawn to a single man, sitting, wearing a long, coal-black, mud-stained coat as he slumped over the bar, protectively clutching a small glass. "Uh, pardon me..." Morgan took a few steps toward him. The figure made no response. The redhead drew closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Sir?" Still no answer. Finally, she shook the shoulder and shouted, "Hey!"
The man's eyes parted and his head slowly rose, "...Wha?"
"Sir," Morgan inquired, "do you know what's going on? Why is the town empty like this?"
"He's a drunk, Morgan," Leo folded his arms, "We'll be lucky if he knows what day it is."
The figure turned, "You... want to know what happened?"
The thief drew near, "Yes, please. What do you know?"
"What happened," the man coughed, "is that this place went to hell. A demon came through and stole the souls of everyone around."
"He's just spouting nonsense now," the auburn-haired assassin rolled his eyes, "Let's go, Morg."
"Leo!" Sylvia jabbed him with her elbow.
"Sounds like he's giving us a riddle," Inigo chuckled.
The redhead tried again, "Can you be a little clearer, sir?"
"I can tell you there's no one living in Valm Harbor right now," he said, "No sailors, no lawmen, not my wife... not even I."
The thief blinked a few times, "Maybe I'm just being dense, but I don't think I follow."
In answer to her statement, a groan sounded out from behind the bar. Morgan peered over to see a pair of pink eyes gleaming back out at her. She yelped as a man bearing a knife burst out from the doorframe leading to the kitchen and swiped at her. She kicked the man once she had created significant distance and stabbed him with her sword quickly. "What the hell was that about?" she demanded.
The figure was back to staring into his glass, "There's no one alive here. And if you are, that'll change soon enough."
Leo stepped forward and seized the man by the arm, leveling a knife at his throat, "Tell us something that means something, stop with all the stupid double-talk!"
"Are you going to kill me?" the figure sighed dryly, "That would be a relief."
"I thought you said you and everyone else here were dead," Morgan noted.
"I still have flesh," he sipped from the nearly empty glass, "It's just that my soul has been absorbed by the all-consuming, nebulous black void that is an empty existence."
"A real ray of sunshine you found for us, Morgan," Sylvia said.
"Not exactly my choice, Sylvie," her sister replied.
"Could you please either shut up or leave? I'm trying to wallow in nihilism here," the figure muttered.
"I guess that means we're not finding any captains here," Inigo concluded.
Morgan nodded, but paused a moment more and glanced at the man bent over the bar, "Hey, are there any more like you?"
"Like me?" he repeated, "You mean..."
"Living but soulless," she finished for him, "We need somebody, anybody."
"I know of no others," he shook his head slowly, "I'm sorry."
"Thank you," the thief patted his shoulder. He made no reply, and the group exited the tavern.
Steven busied himself by listening to the gentle rocking of the ship as it was caressed and cradled by the incoming waves. He had his eyes shut, listening, as the simplicity of the sound gave him a profound sense of serenity, far removed from all things save the most basic of rhythms. In this way, the orator could balance himself, center his thoughts, and be calm.
Of course, this was also how he coaxed himself to sleep, and the processes sometimes crossed over. He felt his head dipping back as he sat on a bench until he heard his father's voice beckon him softly. He roused himself, vision still faded, "Hm? Uh, what?"
"Sorry," his father chuckled, "didn't mean to interrupt your nap."
"Oh, no," he yawned, "I'm all right. Did you need something, father?"
"Just a chat with my son," he smiled, "I haven't heard much since your last letter."
"Ah," the silver-haired man nodded, "Well, I hadn't been doing much until this whole debacle began. In case mother didn't tell you, I conducted a little investigation into the East-Khan on Lon'qu's behalf."
"A source I've been studying myself," Robin nodded with interest, "What were the results of said investigation?"
"Inconclusive," the orator frowned, glancing at the ground, "There's an older man, a 'Lord Datura,' if memory serves, who has intimate knowledge of and relation to the Khan Regnant. The poor boy may simply be a puppet, but that's only conjecture."
"Very interesting," the Grandmaster scrutinized, "and you met up with your mother after that?"
"Correct."
"Anything interesting before that?"
"Did I tell you about Sophie?"
"Votre 'belle dame d'or?'"
"I'll take that as a yes."
"How's she doing?"
"Splendidly. I should like to introduce her to you someday... once all this unpleasant business is settled, of course."
"Feeling homesick at all?"
"Hah! Father, you know very well I'm not inclined to such things. My home is wherever I choose it to be, ergo I am always there. I've learned to live on the road."
His father gave him a reticent smile, "If you say so."
"Are you implying something, father?" his son wondered in a smile that mixed with indignity.
"Not at all," he shook his head, "I'm glad to see you're doing well. You make your father very proud, I hope you know that."
The silver-haired man hid a blush, "Er, thank you, father."
"Very touching," a scratchy voice from elsewhere mocked. The pair rose.
"Show yourself," Steven commanded calmly, "Wait a tick... That voice... but..."
"Something the matter, boy?" the same voice called. With it, a man with leaf-green hair sporting an eyepatch stepped out of an alleyway and stared directly at the silver-haired man, grasping the hilt of a sword.
Steven continued to stutter, staring back at the figure as his father roused his mother, who had nodded off. When she awoke, she mirrored her son, leaping to her feet and stammering incoherently at the menace. "What's got the two of you so rattled?" Robin wondered.
"That's what I wanna know," the mysterious swordsman gave a faint smirk, "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"You're not real," Steven decided, "I killed you. With my own two hands. I electrocuted you in these very waters. There's no way for you to be alive."
"And yet, here I am," his tone suggested mirth, but his face presented no such indication, "You didn't kill me, boy, but I won't deny that you hurt me. Rather badly. In fact, maybe you did kill me, but in any case, all I know is that I've returned, and I want to pay you back, twice over."
Robin stepped forward, "You might have them frightened, but your talk of resurrection doesn't frighten me. I've seen monsters far more menacing than you be reborn before my eyes."
"Father, be cautious..." Steven breathed.
Without another word, the swordsman leapt forward and slashed at the Grandmaster, who blocked the swipe with his arm, but received a nasty gash as a result. The cut bled quickly. Robin drew his sword in his other hand and pointed it at the green-haired man.
"Amusing," the swordsman jeered. He jumped forward again and slammed his blade against the well-timed guards of his opponent.
"Steven, Anna," Robin strained, skidding back with each strike, "A little help, perhaps?"
"Right," Steven opened one of his tomes and lifted his hand. It was sliced in half in a moment by a flash of his foe's sword, which narrowly missed the orator's fingers. Anna took a swing while the enemy's back was turned, but this was parried over the shoulder. Robin aimed at his flank, but was also blocked.
The swordsman kicked the silver-haired man to the floor, swung his arm around to smash Anna in the cheek, and drew his sword across the Grandmaster's chest, opening a sizable cut. Being the only one not incapacitated by the attack, Robin took a few more swings at the enemy, but these were easily parried and, after a moment, the green-haired man punched Robin while gripping the pommel of his sword, drawing blood and bruising the tactician's face. He fell to the ground as a result.
Momentarily satisfied, the green-haired man walked over to Steven, who was scrambling to get back up and retrieve another tome, but a boot was planted squarely on his chest and squeezed down on his ribcage, pushing the air out of his lungs and bringing a hollow feeling to his stomach; his vision became tinged with black wisps as the foot crushed down harder and harder.
Anna jumped back up, a cut bleeding over her eye, and took a swing at the swordsman, ripping through some of his clothes before he had the presence of mind to spin and thwart the rest of the attack by guarding with a vambrace and punching the redhead in her stomach. She spit and groaned before falling to her knees and tumbling over. With that threat removed, the swordsman returned his attention to the silver-haired man and pointed his sword so that its gleaming surface reflected Steven's face. "Now, I'm going to do what I came here to do. And when I'm done, and you're drowning in the infinite depths of perdition, I want you to remember this face. The face you failed to erase. The man you can't kill."
"All right, but whose face is that?" a voice from behind them called. Robin was slowly bringing himself to his feet, "All I see is a stubborn fool with a grudge."
The swordsman smiled, "You... you're the worst of all. I could say the same thing about you, old man. Nihilus told me everything about you. In fact, he never stopped talking about you. But now I see the legend in person... I'm disappointed. You're not so special, not so invincible, you're just a sad old dotard who's too dumb to quit."
"You're with Nihilus?" the Grandmaster stole a few breaths.
"Of course," he grinned, "the greatest swordsman in the world can only have one master: the strongest man in existence."
"Is Nihilus really so powerful?" Robin panted, "If so, he should have beaten me without issue back in Lieben."
"Right," the green-haired man nodded, "Your war games... Do you know about what is called 'human error,' tactician? Nihilus spoke to me of it many times. That's why my master was forced to flee: he wasn't defeated, someone just didn't follow the script."
The Grandmaster chuckled, "That's a pretty convenient excuse to distance oneself from failure. I could say I'm perfect, too, if I blamed my every mistake on someone else."
The swordsman shook his head, "You don't understand him. Nor do I, truly... but none of that is of consequence now, because I'm going to crush this little bugger, and then I'm going to rend you and that redheaded bitch to scraps and catch a boat to join my comrades."
A sudden wind threw the swordsman off his feet. Steven moved his hand from the green tome, "No... I'm afraid you're not."
"You little prick!" the man growled. He hopped back to his feet and, baring his teeth, kicked the silver-haired man in the head, causing his eyes to roll back into his head, which fell to the side. Robin had jogged over, but was moving slowly and still bleeding from his abdomen. He tried to slash the swordsman as he settled back following the kick, but the move was anticipated and halted with his own sword. "You want to play this game?" the man snarled, "Then let's play!" He swung his blade fiercely and with a speed that made it seem to bend in midair as it split the wind around it. It was all Robin could do to raise his arms and repel each strike, though he could hear the gravel grinding under him as he was pushed back by each successive swipe. Fearing that he would soon lose his ground entirely, the tactician looked for an opening to counterattack, even the smallest chance. He found it. It was dirty and precise, but it needed to be done in order to salvage this fight. When the swordsman's hands came up for an overhead slice, Robin leaned to the side as quickly as he could and extended his sword so that it drew across the man's exposed side: his left hand dropped off with a light thumping sound. "Son of a whore!" the swordsman screamed, throwing a final stab at the Grandmaster, who backed off quickly.
Robin pointed his sword, "Enough of this. You've been fighting long enough, I can see it." The tactician took particular notice of his opponent's eyepatch, "Just put down your sword and walk away. Neither I nor my family will pursue you if you do."
The green-haired man laughed as blood dripped steadily from the stump of his arm, which he buried in his chest, "You think you understand me... that you know my motivations, right? You think I'll slink away because the fight isn't worth it anymore? You don't know a gods-damn thing."
"Then tell me," Robin panted.
A smile appeared on the swordsman's face, a profound smile that stretched his cheeks, "Maybe you are a different sort. Yes, I can see it in your eyes now, as I look. You're dying slowly, just like me, but you feel the same sense... And in that case, I shouldn't have to tell you why I fight on, and why I'll keep fighting."
"For your house, perhaps?" the Grandmaster suggested, "This is beyond a matter of nobility now. If it helps, you're the most powerful fighter I've ever encountered, stronger even than General Argent. I couldn't hope to beat you in an even fight, so there's no damage to your name if you step away from this."
"My name?" he sighed, "To the bloody wind with my name! Don't be so stupid! You know exactly the reason! We share it! Look at me!" The green-haired man leveled his sword, "See here, I fight, and go on fighting, because it's the only life I've ever known. I had to fight to live, and so I did, and now... Now nothing else matters. At the end of the sodding world, I'll still be fighting because it's the only thing I can do. The only thing I know."
"I see," Robin tried to stand taller, wincing at the pain in his chest, "So... there's no convincing you, then."
"Only one of us is leaving here alive, old man," the swordsman reaffirmed, ready to spring forward. Robin nodded and took his stance. The wind off of the sea rose and buffeted the pair, spraying salt and foam onto the docks and through their hair. At the first drop of the winds, the swordsman flew forward, aiming directly at his opponent's heart. And when the sounds of pouring globs of congealed liquid echoed off the slate walkway, he felt his vision fading.
The Grandmaster had sidestepped him.
The green-haired man turned to face his opponent, who scowled at him piteously. He took a look at the remains of his amputated hand and saw the blood draining quicker and quicker. It was only in this instant that the swordsman took notice of the rest of his body, of his tattered clothes now smeared with dirt and crimson, the strange sensation in the muscles where his hand no longer responded, how his hair was damp and sweaty and riddled with salt, and the unbelievable throbbing sensation still reverberating from his eye, as if it were a door pounded upon by some beast. His muscles, arms and legs, felt heavy and dry, like they were burning, and his breathing was ragged. He realized, too, that his breaths were no longer regular: he was gulping air intermittently, and it never seemed to enter his lungs. He heard the terrible spilling noise of piles of his blood constantly spurting red stains onto the ground in front of him, like the regurgitation of some demon. It made him feel ill, and he collapsed.
Robin sighed and fell forward.
[...]
The sounds of armor clanking seemed to be coming from everywhere as Chrom and his Shepherds once again found themselves racing along the Ylissean plains. The exalt might have felt nostalgia if not for the terror implicit in the situation. He had to be prepared for anything, it was impossible to know what the Feroxi had done with his capital after their ambush, but he knew he would make the perpetrators answer for their actions. In truth, the sapphire-haired lord was a bit concerned that he was missing a certain someone who could help greatly in the upcoming struggle, but that man might be an ocean away at this point, and there was certainly nothing guaranteeing he'd be as happy to see Chrom as Chrom would be to see him.
The exalt had to try to focus on other matters, like the absence of his son and the presence of his daughter and what his next move would be when the company returned to Ylisstol. Hopefully, King Henry would be there to greet them with much of their army still intact, but there could be no promise of that. The irony of his needing to join Plegia in combatting Feroxi insurgents was not lost on the sapphire-haired lord as he began to consider what he'd say to King Henry, and how this would affect relations between their nations in years to come. That assumed Ylisse still existed as a nation after all this, Chrom recalled, having seen little of his country in the past few weeks. After a while, the exalt simply attempted to mute his thoughts, for they were too numerous and too complex to consider in the midst of his current endeavor.
Ylisstol was in a dire state. That was the first thing that came to Henry's mind upon seeing the shining palace, desecrated as it was. He had never been on a formal visit to the Ylissean capital, but he could guess that it displayed none of its original splendor, holes and collapsed bricks spewing forth from ceilings and scorched walls, Feroxi and Valmese banners raised sporadically in place of the Ylissean colors, and a pulsating mass of soldiers in various states of refinement passing in and out at will. Henry had fought the enemy's commanders a few times now and had seen that they were really nothing special. Determined, certainly, but powerful enough to overwhelm Lucina and the Shepherds? It seemed impossible. Henry guessed there must have been something else behind it. And his foes' incompetence wasn't the only reason for that belief: there was a bizarre air around the palace, with dark greenish clouds beginning to fill the air. The purpose with which the soldiers marched seemed unwarranted by their weakness, and the whole region seemed to buzz with that quiet sense that gives one a shiver when left alone. It was overcast in Ylisstol, and the dark didn't seem to be breaking.
But with some ten thousand or more troops behind him, it was difficult for Henry to feel afraid of the treasonous men who stood in his way. He wished he could understand why these proud Feroxi had chosen to strike against their staunch ally. Then again, it was almost equally shocking that Plegia had come to Ylisse's aid, but that could be ascribed to a change in management. That thought led Henry to the mysterious East-Khan of Ferox, the Nameless Khan, and to Steven's investigation, which had prompted him to look into the affair to begin with. He also thought about Tharja, but she was off in one of her moods. Then he thought about Noire, because he could hear her shivering beside him, "Everything okay, honey?"
"Y-You waited until we were hundreds if not thousands of miles away from home and embroiled in an international conflict to ask if I'm okay?" she cried.
"...Well, are you?"
"I've been worse."
"That's the spirit!"
"I wish mother were here... she always seems to know what to do."
"I know what we're doing."
"Are you sure it's going to work?"
"No, future-sight spells don't work very well. They can be really unreliable."
"Father..."
"But I'm sure you'll be fine, because I'll rip anyone who comes after you into tiny little chunks of watermelon-colored flesh that will be happily gobbled up by all the little crows! Even if I get cut in half doing it! Ooh, wonder what that'd be like..."
Noire fainted and her face pressed into the neck of her horse. "Whoopsy-daisy," said Henry.
An icy wind blew across the valley that led into Ylisstol and its palace. An army of black-clad soldiers, a group of heroes-for-hire in a disparity of clothing, and several columns of mercenaries sporting armor with purple tinges all began to converge on that point.