XXVI: Of the Living and the Dead (part two)

"…An' those mood swings! Argh!"

"Yeah? And you, men, have hair growing on your face!"

"Women too!"

"Dwarven women, you dumb - normal women do not!"

"Ye'r one to talk 'bout normal women, with yer horns an' tail!"

Adele blew out a quiet sigh, watching the two arguing figures sitting some distance away from where she stood.

"Your bet on how more long it'll take?" she murmured with the corner of her mouth to Casavir by her side.

The paladin, whose facial expression had already made all the transformations from uneasy and uncomfortable to a set stony mask of carefully kept apathy, shook his head. "I do not know. And I claim that with all certainty."

They had gone out of Duskwood more than hour ago, the forest growing thinner, lighter, until it had been left behind their backs, and it was like they had suddenly walked out of the evening straight into the day, overcast, but still fair. Grass underfoot gave place to rustling sand; trees – to the low scrubs littering the hills…

"Don't you happen to know some divine incantation for the case?" she asked just as quietly. "Like 'reverent silence' or something?"

Casavir glanced at her without turning his head, his gaze studying – but averted it before she could guess what it meant. "No, I'm afraid," he sighed. "Though it could have appeared helpful."

Her lips twitched in a small smile. "Sure. Better even something like 'awed reverent silence'. Or 'horrified' would do. Actually, I think Sand is already honestly contemplating that."

Another glance, which she didn't assert, starting to suspect what was the reason for it. It was that she kept talking. Couldn't shut up, really, for the whole time they were waiting for their tracker to scout the path ahead towards Ember. Both he and Sand didn't put it past Luskans to set some sort of trap or an ambush, even in a village already destroyed.

Don't.

Adele took a deep breath, using the air to try and fill the sucking emptiness that spread inside her stomach – but it brought no relief. Instead, again, she had the same nagging feeling, a feeling that she could catch the smell. Faint, distant, more of an echo tickling her nostrils, so weak that it was easy to think she had only imagined it… if it wasn't for Sand not far away from her, who was visibly wincing, his hand coming up from time to time to brush under his nose, obviously to banish the same trace of stench.

Gods damn my elven sense of smell.

She knew that smell, the bitter bile-rising tang of damp ash, of fire doused with rain, all of that covering (but not enough to conceal) the thick acrid reek of overcooked meat… It surely brought back memories - of fire devouring the wood, spitting with cracking sparkles, lashing from one roof to the other, of shadows moving and trashing in the smoke and darkness of the night, of a body being thrown away by the power of the spell, turning a living being into a charred scalded carcass, a crisp blistered frame that used to be her friend… And even now, after all the months that passed, every time she tried to remember Amie, her beautiful Amie smiling, talking, living - the first thing to come to her mind was always the seared blackened face…

Adele let the air out, not missing another intent gaze of Casavir, drawn by her too careful breath, by the tic in her face that probably turned her thorough smile into something hideous, and the woman had to fight the wish to go, to get away from him before he asked if she was alright and she had to lie.

Damn you, Bishop, - she thought angrily, glancing up the path, on the two sickeningly familiar hills walling it, no traces of the ranger still, - you're surely taking your time…

But Casavir chose to remain silent, bless him, and the woman darted her eyes around her companions, taking some comfort in their presence. Sand as well was watching the path, at the same time looking gone, probably managing to contemplate something in the meanwhile. Elanee stood father ahead, facing the hills, stiff-backed, unmoving; faint wind swept over the ground and fluttered the skirt of her robes around her legs. Grobnar took his journal out, but wrote nothing, didn't even open the folds, grazing his fingers absently over the leather-cover as if it were the strings of his lute, his gaze turned inwards. Qara nibbled at cedar nuts from her pouch – it seemed to be the only food she could stomach, still a bit ill after Duskwood – not minding Tamin stealing some of them right from her palm. The girl managed to look equally bored and annoyed, from time to time glaring at Neeshka and Khelgar, who went on arguing. Unlike her, and despite her own pretence at annoyance, Adele found it reassuring to hear their voices. More reassuring than the sight of Shandra, restlessly pacing in a small circle, her arms flying up to fold on her chest one moment and falling to her sides limply the next. Adele didn't know if the other woman realized this was the same road the gith had taken her by. She didn't even know whether Shandra had been led by the gith with her eyes opened or covered – it's not like she asked, it's not like it was a thing that should – could – be simply asked. In Shandra's place she would have done her best to close off any single memory of the abduction… probably, to no avail.

"We should go," she heard Elanee speaking softly, and looked the same way the druidess did, to see the gray canine standing on the top of the hill. Karnwyr. "He wants us to follow."

"About time," Qara grouched, slipping the remaining nuts back to her pack and wiping her hands clean of the crumbs.

The rest also straightened up from their places, readying themselves to go - and Adele suddenly found herself frantically thinking, looking for a reason if, perhaps, she shouldn't… wouldn't…

Denial no longer worked. Ember was there, just behind those hills, and if she crossed them, there would be no going back, no going away, and no Luskan or Neverwinter authorities would jump out of nowhere claiming it was all a big joke and present her with a paper fool's hat for falling for their sick jest…

Her mouth was so dry that her tongue nearly got stuck to her lips as she tried to lick them.

"…Adele?" Casavir spoke at her side, his deep voice rich and strong, but there was that unmistakable lace of concern to it, that nerve-cracking worry for her… and so she closed her eyes for just a moment, sopping up as much of his soothing aura as possible, and all but sprinted onwards…


He was wrong.

It did feel.

Crouching, Bishop scooped a handful of heavy conglutinated ash and rubbed it between his palms, slowly, allowing the most of it to spill back to the ground, then brought the hands closer to his face, taking in the scent. It smelled of soot and earth, of course, but there was more. Slimy greasy smell of burnt oil. Vinegary trace of alchemist fire.

He snorted, a sound having nothing to do with mirth, and dropped his hands, glancing around.

It wasn't the corpses that bothered him. He had seen so much dead during the course of his life that it hardly affected him anymore. Really, he could easily have his meal right on the pile of them. Just a bunch of meat-bags with faces after all, and the only way they could have stirred him was if their insides had been dragged out and hanged on the houses like a chaplet. But even then it would have only brought up guesses that someone from the Blades had been in a festive mood.

The Blades. That was what bothered him. The Blades and what they had done. Not the crudity of it, but the way it had been carried out. The all too familiar way. With the fires started by the perimeter to cut off any chance of escaping for those inside, with oil paths that made the fire encircle towards the centre, with alchemist flasks bringing flames to particular spots…

Wonder if they named that strategy after me.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised. It was much like the Blades to investigate the operation that had cost them an entire squad – and then, in unending common sense to mark it as efficient and take a note for future usage. Were he of a more sensitive nature, he would have been scared for his life – as they surely couldn't have missed that not the entire squad had been killed in the flames of Redfallow's Watch - but seeing that not a single assassin had come for his life, he had long figured they considered him dead after all. As for those he had stumbled upon by chance… well, if the wench could be proud of that single ring back from Solace Glade (earned by him, anyway), he surely had them enough to thread a pretty chiming necklace.

It still stung, though. The memory of that night, of the freedom just there, within reach, so close that he could feel it, touch it, taste it – only to be mercilessly robbed by the fucking smelly barkeep who hadn't been smart enough to simply go wherever the Hells he'd been going…

or, at least, to keep his mouth shut afterwards.

Crashing the thoughts, Bishop looked up, at the hill, figuring it was time to go and call for the misfits – but saw Karnwyr loping down the slope towards him. So it did work. The idiots followed the wolf. Which meant the bloody she-elf still couldn't miss a chance at reading his wolf's mind, still poked her nose to where it didn't belong. He would have to work that out with her.

In time.

For now he had a crowd to be conscious of, an investigation to play along, and an obstinate wench who would be the one to pay for Duncan's stupidity - and pay dearly, as soon as he figured a way.

For now he would be satisfied with the uneasiness his mere presence around the bitch caused to her uncle.

For now he would draw what little joy he could out of her.

For now…

He stood up, brushing off the dirt from his hands, and stepped over one of the corpses to start for the hill, where the rest of the morons appeared, coming up and simply freezing at the opening sight…

Showtime.


Adele wished she could have said that there was nothing left of Ember. No, the thing was that too much was left.

It was worse than West Harbour – back there had been a lot of people who survived, who preserved the feeling of life going on. It was worse than the caves under the Sword Mountains – back there the whole setting with necromantic arrangements and torches and darkness had been too surreal to truly frighten, most corpses old and kept in cold closed space, long ago loosing resemblance to beings they had once been.

This was… too simple, too real.

Scorched shells in places of houses, some walls crumbled to pieces, leaving only warped naked rafters; a lonely familiar street black with soot; dirty fritted sand that looked much like soot itself. The woman found the well with her eyes, the same well they had stood near to fight back the gith – it was smudged, too, its roof burnt, most of planks finding their end in the depths of the shaft. The fire had long died, nothing even smoldered anymore, and the only sound to cut through the silence was the creak of a single shutter somewhere in the heart of the site, followed by a tap every time it was thrown by the wind into the wall.

And the bodies…

She didn't even make them out at first, covered with sand and ash, tens of bodies, what seemed like thousands of them, strewn over the tiny street like pieces of some macabre jigsaw-puzzle. From atop the hill where she stood they looked like tiny toy-figures, scattered around by some huge ruthless hand. Men, women, elders, children, all unmoving, all bloody dead.

"By the gods…" Khelgar whispered, his palm curling around the handle of his axe in mortal grip. His burning eyes skimmed the remains, his whole body seeming close to shaking. "They… It… They don' even have weapons on 'em… It wasn't even a fight! They… they were jest cut down! Cut down like dogs!"

"That they were," Adele heard the voice, her own voice, reaching her ears as if from afar, quiet and alien. "It was…"

"…efficient." Oh, that voice she knew all too well, rusty, unconcerned…

She turned her head to meet him coming up to them, his face dispassionate, his gaze attentive, if not evaluating, as it swept over the remains.

"So?" Adele arched her brow slightly at him.

"Neatly done," he nodded. "No way could it have been a simple raid. Followed a prepared plan for sure. Luskans, no doubt. Their tactics."

"…How do you know?"

He shrugged: "You work along the border, you learn to tell eventually. Ruins like this are not such a rare sight," Bishop cocked his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "They took care to secure the perimeter first, then lit the fires and moved in, cutting down those who ran out of their houses from the smoke… You can tell even from here, from the position of the corpses," he lifted his hand and drew a quick sparse twirl in the air, picturing what he had just stated, then suddenly smirked, a thin crooked smirk of his that looked more like a chink that cracked his face. "The fools here never stood a chance. Seeing how they didn't bother to arrange watch-patrols or something, even after they had already been attacked once by the gith…"

"Leave the innocents out of it," she muttered.

"What?" he looked at her, his head still tilted in amused curiosity. "Being dead automatically makes you innocent?"

"Perhaps not," Casavir answered for her, his voice cold and sharp. "But the dead has no possibility to defend themselves against any accusations, so it doesn't-"

"Spare me the platitude, paladin," Bishop stared at him, any laughter or even mockery draining from his eyes, leaving nothing but contempt. "It stinks enough here as it is."

"Can we please track back in time to the moment where you had been telling useful things, ranger," Sand drawled, watching the exchange with dark but distant deprecation. No doubt he could come up with more important things to do than useless barking. Thousands of things, probably. "If you are able to keep the thought that long, of course."

Bishop regarded him up and down, wordlessly managing to accentuate that it didn't take a long stare to take in the whole height of the wizard. "And what else are you expecting me to tell you, elf? I've said everything. It were Luskans. They blundered badly here, though. Could have worked it out differently, really, but Luskans… they aren't really used to putting blame elsewhere."

"And you are ready to confirm that in court, dear ranger?" Sand wondered. He probably already knew the answer, simply wanted Bishop to voice it.

"Me? In court?" Bishop laughed. "No way in the fucking Hells. Wouldn't want stealing your bread, anyway."

"Just what I thought," the wizard concluded, looking away from him dismissively and turning to the village, his delicately-cut brows knitted slightly in aversion. "Then we are facing the hardest of tasks – to prove the obvious." He sighed deeply, then jerked his head towards the remains. "So why don't we proceed, then?"

"I second that," Neeshka grumbled, looking as uncomfortable as never, her tail sweeping nervously.

Adele nodded and stepped forward to make her way down, to follow the tiny fair-haired figure in the distance – Grobnar, who had already went half-way towards the village, silently and firmly, on his way shooing the crows pecking at the cold stark corpse of a woman. Swallowing hard, the woman glanced at Shandra, who was standing aside, blissfully unaware of the whole conversation. Her eyes, unblinking, empty, were on the ashes. Adele reached out to touch her elbow, and the farmer nearly jumped, her head swiveling around to face the other woman.

"We need to go," Adele said softly.

"Yeah, sure, I just… I was…" she suddenly chuckled, the weak quavering sound Adele didn't like, and waved her hand at the remains. "I mean, I was just travelling through here last season," she muttered in a barely discernible mechanical voice, sounding unbelieving, and pointed somewhere in the distance. "There… there was the quartermaster's house… And Alaine's home… And…" her body suddenly shuddered, paled face distorting in-between horror and rage. "Gods, how…? How could someone… simply come and… do this?" she turned to the rest, demanding. "How?"

"With oil," the ranger drawled, fixing her with an irritated glare, and Shandra's wide blank eyes snapped to him, uncomprehending. "With oil, torches and fire-arrows. Then blades at close quarters. Need specifics? I'd say it was-"

"Be silent, Bishop," Casavir's tone came out a low deliberate growl, his equivalent of shout.

The ranger spared him a tad of his glare. "Well, she asked."

"Shut up," Adele cut off without any feeling whatsoever, in the back of her mind wondering at how drained she felt that she couldn't even muster proper anger, and eyed everyone else who showed inclinations to amuse the ranger further. Even Khelgar looked like he was surely getting enough of Bishop. "Everyone shut up. We'll get to killing each other later. And not here."

With that she turned to Sand, motioning for him to go first. The wizard inclined his head in relieved agreement, and she went on, not checking if the others followed. She simply knew they did.

The burnt ground under her feet was unyielding, parched sand so solid that every step nearly hurt.

"It's like during Wailing Death," Neeshka murmured, walking by Adele's side. The tiefling's face appeared frozen, feverishly sparkling eyes moving from one body to the other, careful not to linger on any. "You know, they burnt the dead in Beggar's Nest right in the streets… The smell alone… " she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing the shoulders to banish the goose-bumps, and paused, seeing Adele staring at one of the barns. "Del? What's up? Saw anything?"

"…No," the woman raked her fingers through her hair and snapped her eyes away from the wall of the barn. From the pitchfork leaned against it. Charred, sooted, but otherwise intact. With a long handle that would have given its wielder a good range of attack or defense. Except no one took it. "Just…"

"Sick, huh?" Neeshka gave her a grim understanding smirk, then put her arm around the other woman's shoulders. Adele couldn't tell whether the tiefling did it to steady her or herself. "I can't even… By the Hells," she groaned in disgust, her hand falling to her side as her gaze got locked on something Adele didn't see. And was sure she didn't want seeing it. "Cats… What kind of a sick bastard would go and make sure to kill cats?"

I don't know, Neesh… I don't know…

Adele didn't say a word aloud, stepping over yet another corpse – a boy in his early teens, with his head tilted at a strange angle, nearly severed by the too deep gash in his throat; wide-opened eyes, powdered with sand, stared into nothing. She spared him a glance before turning her eyes away. It were never children, never – but if to put aside the age definition, she was fairly sure she had done worse to people.

But not these people, dammit! Not unarmed people! Never!

Double standards, huh?

Behind her, Casavir lingered, bending down and lowering the lids of the deceased. His own eyes were hard, with a cold shimmering gleam to the iris that made them resemble pieces of ice even more - especially on a face that pale, his lips pursed so tightly they almost disappeared, turning into one thin line that looked more like a scar.

It must have been hard for him. Or wasn't it? At least he knew – believed – that something lay there, beyond, that those above cared enough to provide people with an afterlife. She never found it within herself to believe that. It seemed… too good? To have a lifespan, and then another? Endless, shiny, in the realm of a god… No, she didn't believe. If she did, it would have turned the life here and now into nothing more than a stupid rehearsal of a life to come, into nothing more than a way to earn that another life. Adele didn't want belittling her existence like that. There was one life, one and only, life of flesh and blood, of breathe and heartbeat, of feel and pulse… Everything else just seemed a perversion, no better than undead.

One life - and for those in Ember it had ended.

Another faint gust of wind blew over the valley, crashing the accursed unseen shutter against the wall and rising dust from the ground, making Adele's throat tighten. The woman screwed her eyes, praying that she wouldn't cough. Or retch. Or cry. Or scream. Or simply grab that damned pitchfork and run around, poking it into the corpses, kicking them, for not taking it, for not taking anything, because by the fucking gods, people, these were your children dying!

With grains of sand stinging the insides of her eyelids (was it sand at all?), she stopped, reaching for her belt-pouch, took out the bag of wyrmsage Nya gave her and turned to face her companions, easing the ties on the sack and holding it out silently. Glancing shortly into her eyes, Neeshka scooped the powder and slipped away, cautiously sliding between the bodies with her noiseless catlike step, as if afraid to disturb something. Khelgar was the next to rush up to her, still muttering strings of curses, and shoved his hand into the bag almost up to his elbow, clutching a handful of wyrmsage in his huge fist and stomping away, not noticing that the powder was spilling between his fingers. Qara didn't come, didn't even seem to notice what was going on, looking around, careful to keep her distance from the bodies, eerie quiet and obviously disgusted. Grobnar, too, paid little attention to others, wandering among the burnt houses, his lips moving mutely as his eyes took in whatever he came across, and Adele really didn't feel like calling out for him. Instead she turned to Casavir, meeting his gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something, but had no time to – Elanee came up to them, reaching for the pouch without looking, her eyes scanning the fire-site. Adele held the wyrmsage out for her, and the elf dipped her fingers into the sack, slowly, mechanically, as if not fully aware of what she was doing, more concentrated on gazing around.

"Do you feel anything?" Adele asked, her voice only a pinch higher than whisper. "Any… dark feeling? Shadow? Like in the mountains?"

"…No," the druidess shook her head, ruefully, without relief one would have expected. Because any necromantic taint, as disturbing as it was, would have added at least some sense to what had been done at the place. Turned it to something other than a simple slaughter. Elanee's eyes were dark, clouded as she looked at Adele, her tone so quiet that Adele saw her speaking rather than heard: "How are you?"

"…Me?" the woman echoed, lifting her brows in surprise, then allowed her eyes to travel over the carnage and chuckled bitterly, shrugging: "Better than them, that's for sure."

She felt Casavir shifting at her side, felt his hand come to rest upon her shoulder, but neither brushed it off nor accepted a silent comfort. Elanee looked at her for a fracture of moment, searching her face, then also stared at the village. Others had already moved deeper into the ruins, each one taking their own path – to sprinkle the powder or to simply look around. Adele saw Shandra coming up to Sand, asking him something – and getting the answer she didn't like, if her crossed arms and set jaw were any indications…

"Beasts kill for food," Elanee muttered, "to protect their territory, out of fear or self-preservation…" she shook her head. "I simply cannot understand what this was done for."

"Me?" Adele said once again – and regretted it instantly, for the paladin's grip on her shoulder tightened. Not that it was painful, but she winced nonetheless, stirring the bag with wyrmsage, her arms already tired of holding it up. "Let's just sprinkle this thing and get to helping Sand, because I honestly don't-"

"It was not your fault."

She glanced at him shortly, his gaze steadfast on her face, and stared into the opened bag…

Should have seen it coming…

"I know," she answered softly. "But it's not like my knowing will make them all jump up and go back to their lives, huh?"

His face didn't waver, neither did his gaze. "It was not your fault," he repeated, concern and firmness weaving together in his voice.

"I know," Adele echoed, her fingers clutching the linen of the sack almost painfully. "Might as well blame the gith for choosing this village to-"

"It was not your fault," his every word was hard, suddenly scratching something inside of her, sending a crack to run up the smooth surface of her shield. "And do not even think otherwise. I shall not have you blaming yourself for what these dogs had done."

"…Just take the bloody herb, will you?" she hissed, glaring at him. As if it mattered what she thought. As if it could be as simple as guilt.

Casavir met her glare with the same resolve and determination. She felt that he was ready to say something else, just like she was ready to snap at him in return, just like Elanee was about to interfere – but none of them had the chance, distracted by the noise behind them, and Adele turned in time to see Qara, pale as a sheet, dropping her staff and doubling over in qualm.

"…Damn," Adele breathed out, pushing herself between the paladin and the druidess, darting towards the girl, who staggered hastily away, not able to straighten herself.

Another fit of sickness rent the sorceress before she could reach her - but no vomit came out, only dry convulsion turning her inside out. Qara hadn't eaten much in the last two days, but still everything caught up with her - magical damper of Duskwood, the stench of decay, the lingering smoke – and her stomach no longer cared that it had nothing to throw out.

"Hold on," Adele whispered, catching the girl by the waist to steady her, but Qara wrenched herself free, barely managing to limp towards the nearest house as the next wave of sickness raked through her.

"Get away from me," the sorceress gasped, grabbing the scorched windowsill for support, bending down, and coughed, purposefully, to force at least some bile out. None came, and her coughs slowly grew into hoarse helpless sobs, just as dry and gut-wrenching.

Adele looked back, waving away everybody else as the girl made several unsteady steps further, to hide behind the building, and crouched on the ground, burying her face into her hands, painful humiliated snuffles seeping through her fingers. Her weasel scattered to the ground as well, circling his mistress and poking into her lap.

"…Qara…"

"Don't!" the girl shrank back from her hand, almost falling over. Her reddened eyes stopped on the bag of wyrmsage that Adele still held, and the sight of it seemed to send a shudder through the sorceress. "I'm not touching them," she whispered heatedly, angrily, glaring at Adele as if daring to force her. "No way in the Hells!"

"…Sure," Adele nodded, feeling herself suddenly helpless, in her mind turning over everything she knew about how to ease the sickness. "Try taking a drink."

Qara sniffed, resentfully, studying her hands: "Is that your solution to everything?"

Somehow, but Adele found it within herself to actually smile a bit. "Mostly. The gravity of the problem just dictates the strength of a drink."

The sniff this time was easier, even though still pained.

"Oooh, and here I am," Grobnar suddenly sneaked past her, towards Qara, dropping something he was carrying to the ground. It appeared to be several flasks, some of which Adele even seemed to recognize. That battered cork one surely belonged to Neeshka. "This should be enough," the gnome assured, waving at his luggage, not minding – or not noticing – Qara's watery glare. "Drink as much as you are physically able."

"I'm sick already, you idiot!" the sorceress snarled. "It'll come out the same second I drink it!"

"Well, yes, I see that. But that's the point, miss Qara – it'll cheat your stomach. You'll throw up the water, and your system will decide that the whole job with vomiting is done – and you'll feel better," he grinned. "Otherwise you are free to beat me for appearing a fool."

"You are a fool," she grumbled, but fetched one of the flasks nonetheless, looking at it gloomily before taking a gulp, almost sputtering it out in another cough, but managed to swallow. Waiting for a second to make sure the water stayed inside, she wiped off the moisture from her cheeks, then glared up at the two of her companions: "It's over! I'm fine, nothing hilarious to goggle at. Or you need to see how exactly I'm going to puke?"

"…Don't be stupid," Adele shook her head, glancing back, at the patch of burnt ground behind the house. "You have no idea how gladly I would have joined you."

"Suit yourself," the sorceress snorted, nodding at the spare place near the wall grimly, and turned her face away, taking another swig of water to hide that her lips were quavering.

"It usually works," Grobnar looked up at Adele, sounding almost apologetic. "Messy, perhaps, but works. All better than to swallow potions, concoctions and questionable mixtures at every tiniest occasion," he shrugged, his grin becoming just as pleading, "…I guess."

"We'll see," Adele muttered, watching the girl carefully as she swallowed down another mouthful of water. "Stay with her, will you? I have to…" she didn't finish, motioning away with her head.

"Of course, of course," Grobnar nodded quickly, then offered her another guilty grin. "I… I seem to be better coping with the living than the dead, anyway."

"…So am I," she sighed, running her hand through his hair. "Thank you."

"Oh? For what?"

Adele didn't answer, leaving the gnome and the sorceress alone, on her way picking up the staff Qara dropped, and propped it to the wall, giving a small nod to Khelgar who stood not far. The dwarf let out a grumbling sigh:

"Not surprisin' fer a thin slip of a lass she is," he muttered into his beard softly. "'Tis a wonder she hadn't snapped in halves yet."

"She'll be fine, she just needs some time," Adele pursed her lips, staring pointedly at him. "And not to be reminded of that in future."

"Pff, lass, whom ar ya takin' me for? Ya'd better watch the gnome with his blabbin'," he glared in the distance. "An' that this ranger of yers keeps his mouth shut. He surely has problems with that."

She followed his gaze to look at Bishop, who made his way through the site, studying the corpses and the chaos of tracks under his feet. Karnwyr was at his heels, taking time to sniff around, but thankfully showing no carnivore interest in the bodies. Adele flinched at the opposite image.

"He'd better," she murmured.

Handing to Khelgar the sack of wyrmsage so that he could take some more, she took a handful herself, spilling it on the first body she came across – that of a young woman, hardly older than Adele herself – and tugged down the woman's skirt to cover her cold bare legs. The body was followed by another, then another, until Adele found some sort of calming rhythm in her skipping from corpse to corpse, not staying for long near any of them. Standing up from yet another dead, she brushed off the hair falling into her face and looked at Sand perched on a burnt bench, flipping through the pages of a dirty thick journal.

"What's that?"

"Quartermaster's log, it seems," the elf answered without lifting his eyes from the book, hastily running his gaze from one line to the other. "Ciphered, yes, but can be made out quite easily."

"And it helps us how?" Adele frowned.

"I am just about to find that out, my dear," he glanced up for a moment, squinting deeper into the ruins. "We didn't come here for nothing, I assure you. What I found are scraps, of course, but useful ones."

"Like what?"

He closed the journal, hiding it in the folds of his robes with ease of an experiences illusionist. "Some of the corpses are unusually discoloured, much different from the usual decay."

"Are they?" Adele shivered. "I'm afraid I didn't look at them that close."

"Well, trust my eyes, then. Add to that wounds not deep enough to kill, and the scent, coupled with the discolouration of the skin…" noticing her puzzled expression, he sighed. "They died from poison, and an unusual one at that. You won't find it in any of the apothecaries or potion shops in Neverwinter. But it is a local favourite among several of the less friendly assassins' guilds in Luskan. I've taken a sample from some of the bodies - I think it will serve as a valuable piece of evidence."

"If you say so," she shrugged. "…Just let me know when you think we are done. Considering how much time it'll take us to bury them, I'm afraid we'll fumble until dark…" she stopped, seeing Sand heave another sigh, this time a doomed one. "What? I bet there's plenty of shovels in the barns…"

not to mention that one can crack a skull with a shovel easily…

Don't.

but that requires taking it, of course, which no one did…

Don't!

"As I have already told our dear Shandra," Sand pointed out, "we cannot bury them."

"…What? Why?"

"We are in Luskan grounds. It is their territory. Any… interference on our part can be easily made to look like a trespass and violation."

Adele pursed her lips, doing her best to stomach his words, and scowled at the crows that took their place on the leafless tree nearby, clearly waiting for the people to leave so they could go back to their feast.

No wonder Shandra looked so murderous.

"So we… we shall just leave them like this?"

Sand studied her, not answering straight away – and when he finally did, his voice sounded uncharacteristically gentle. "If you decide we shouldn't, I would not stop you. But please, my dear, contemplate your position. I know Torio. She senses mistakes and slips as good as a shark feels a tiniest drop of blood in an ocean. Not to mention that, technically, you – the accused – are not even supposed to be here."

"…Damn, a day full of revelations," she threw her head backwards, blinking at the bright sky, and rolled it from shoulder to the shoulder to ease the tension. It didn't help. "Nevalle hadn't mentioned that."

"Oh, I'm sure sir Nevalle failed to mention many things to you," Sand answered dryly. "So what I was saying, is that you should be cautious in every way possible," he allowed slight amusement to quirk up to corners of his mouth. "I know I don't want an infuriated Duncan on my head. He tends to be too loud in that state."

"Because of what?" she chuckled, playing along with his lightness. It did help. "Because you hadn't allowed me to tend to the bodies?"

"Were you to do so and be cleared of the charges nonetheless, he would surely be proud of your caring heart. But if Torio managed to use it against you and get you shipped off to Luskan…" he shook his head, "He would hardly appear understanding."

"Fine, we'll leave them to rot, then," she shrugged with feigned easiness, turning away not to see Sand wince at her assumption, and looked around in search of a blonde head, but saw none. "Where is Shandra, by the way?"

"I believe she took it upon herself to check the houses."

Or took that as an excuse.

Closing her eyes, Adele rubbed them, ignoring the pulse ticking even in her eyelids, but forced herself to drop it and go back to sprinkling the wyrmsage. Though now, without the future burial, it seemed useless, sort of a fool's job done only for the sake of clearing the conscience. The first rain would wash the powder away. The first wolves or jackals to come from the nearest woods and hills would eat it away together with flesh.

She froze, sitting on her hunches at the next body, and for a second allowed her head to fall down, before jerking it upwards stubbornly, and glared at the dead face. The crunch of dried blood covering it was so thick that it was impossible to make out gender or age.

Why the Hells haven't you done anything? – she thought desperately, the vehemence of her mulling doing nothing to reduce its painfulness. – How many of them had it been? A dozen? What, a whole mob couldn't do anything to a dozen of bastards? If not, then why the Hells haven't you run away at least?

don't...

Why the Hells have you made me go through this?

She wanted to smash something. With a loud enough crack preferably, something that would shatter to small-small pieces. Wanted so badly that her nails were already mining their way into her palms, breaking through the skin by familiar route, opening barely healed crescent scars that were left in places of their previous digs…

For all the bloody gods, get a grip of yourself, girl! Screw the dead. You've got those alive, sick or desperate, to trouble about. So get through this as quick as possible and get them the Hells out of here. You can lament over your miserable ass later.

Something crashed behind her back, and Adele snapped her head around, looking at the doorsteps of the nearest house. It was Shandra, coming down the stairs, dragging a huge bundle of grimy half-burnt blankets and rugs – probably all of those that she had been able to find inside. Her movements were sharp, abrupt, her breathing haggard, and she was still trembling, but at the same time looked determined enough to send shivers down Adele's spine. Piling all the rugs on the ground, she recovered her breath and wiped the back of her palm against her mouth, leaving a smear of soot. Noticing Adele staring at her, she jerked her shoulders in a shrug and gestured at nothing in particular.

"To cover them at least or something…" her voice was hoarse, strained, and Adele brought herself up, coming up to her. "So… you spill that herb first, then I… I pull it over, and… and that's it."

Without a sound Adele did, sprinkling the wyrmsage on the chest of the nearest corpse, and Shandra threw one of the blankets over its head, almost hurling it, then moved further. Adele followed, on her way dropping a pinch of powder on a coaled dead dog. Somehow, but it was easier to do it together with someone. Glancing to the side, she noticed Qara joining the others as well, her head held high, her eyes still red, but already promising death to anyone who dared a comment. No one did, even Bishop took no notice, occupied with his tracks. He stopped, though, peering at something underfoot, studying, and Adele found herself watching, waiting for him to actually find something worthy, trying to figure out if he did – by the tilt of his head, by the turn of his shoulders – and felt her heart jolt when he moved further, slightly, following something, came upon one of the bodies blocking the way and shoved it aside with his boot…

"Careful," Shandra growled.

The ranger glanced at her, questioningly, with an annoyed 'what's-wrong-now?' air, then back at the corpse, unable to grasp what the matter was – then, realizing, snorted:

"Blast it, farmgirl, don't cry, he's dead already, he didn't feel a thing."

"Can you pretend to show at least some respect for the dead?"

"There's not much worthy of respect in being dead."

Shandra inhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring in barely contained anger. "You just reached your new low, you animal."

He shrugged with the same irritated wry smirk. "I have the right - I'm alive, so the advantage's mine."

Any answer Shandra could come up didn't matter to Adele. Blind white-hot fury frothed up, robbed her mind of any sort of control over her body, and before she even realized her feet had already carried her half-way towards him, covering the remaining distance in long hard strides. She didn't look underfoot, even when her sole landed on something soft, everything in the world fading and blurring save him, and so she went on, keeping her eyes on him, keeping her hand away from her rapier – as impossible as it seemed – keeping her steps firm and fast…

She wanted to hurt him. She needed to hurt him, for being here, for simply standing here with that insolent smirk of his, for being alright with everything, for saying all those things she didn't allow herself to even think

He moved his gaze from Shandra to her, his smirk sharpening to that knife-like edge, his upper lip crawling upwards to bare a slice of his teeth, as if he was glad she was coming, as if he waited for her to – and if anything, it only fanned the pyre of her rage. Who did he think he was, presuming to know her, to guess her, to solve her? He was no one, he was nothing, his place in the dirt under the feet, toppled over and trampled down into the very ash and mud he was standing on…

She didn't slower her pace, the need to hurt him clogging her throat, depriving her of the last bits of reign over her senses, and even her darkvision sprang forward, flooding everything around with blinding shades of crimson. She didn't care. She had to hurt him. Because he was the only one here she could hurt without remorse or guilt. Because he was the only one here who deserved being hurt… deserved as much as she did.

With the slightest of moves Bishop shifted his stance, to meet her on equal grounds, his hand falling to his own scabbard, not touching but close enough to, were it to come to that. But she was no fool to run into him straightforward like this, and deftly stepped to the side, circling him, nearly cooing in glee upon seeing him tense, whirling on his heel to face her still, his eyes narrowing at the smile that spread slowly over her face. She stopped as abruptly as she started walking, tossing her head up, folding her arms – and noticed how his hand moved faintly in the air, with the corner of her eye seeing Karnwyr freeze in his tracks mid-trot at the silent command, even though his whole furry carcass trembled with the wish to move, to jump, to protect…

"Something you need?" Bishop purred lowly, quirking his brow.

Her anger found the way out of her throat, in a fit of short cutting laugh. "Me? No. Do you?" she arched her brow, mimicking his expression. "Really, lovely, you want you face broken – just crash it into the wall."

"Oh, and in what way exactly had I failed to please Her Highness this time?"

"…Fine, Bishop, you despise them for being dead, we all got that. But they are already dead. Whatever flaws or shortcomings or stupidity they had in your opinion, they had already paid the price. And your despising and desecration won't make them any deader, no matter how much you seem to want to," she smiled again at the nearly imperceptible tightening in his jaw, not knowing what chord she had struck, but glad there was a chord in the first place. "So keep yourself in hands, ranger. I need your cold head here."

For a moment she thought he would loose it. But only for a moment, because the next one he sighed, shifting his weight to his heels lazily, and stared her down, his face arranged back into its indifferent bored mask.

"…And here I had a present for you," he chided and clicked in his tongue in disapproval. "But seeing your behaviour, I don't even know if you deserve one anymore."

Adele eyed him carefully, not taking her gaze off his face even as he stared pointedly underfoot, then back at her, inviting to follow his stare. It could be a trick, one of his unpredictable backheels…

"Come on, princess, you can look," he murmured, his eyes glinting with sudden amusement. "I won't jump on you while you are not watching."

She did. Stared at the dark burnt ground, crisscrossed by footprints, traces of something being dragged and deep ruts from the wheels of some wagon, half-hidden under sand and soot.

"…Ooooh," she breathed out in mock rapture, staring back at Bishop wide-eyed. "Tracks!"

Irritation rippled his features. "Are you really this blind and stupid or are you just pretending?"

She would have been angered - but she already was, to the depths where hardly anything else could make her angrier. And even in her seething mind she understood all too well that Bishop wouldn't have bothered with attracting her attention to something unimportant. She took a moment, though, to glance around in exasperation – only now noticing others staring at the two of them, at the scene they had thrown in the middle of corpse-littered street, completely forgetting about surroundings – before glaring back at the ground.

Tracks, indeed. She could even make out his and hers footprints, those were fresh, overlapping and smearing older ones, partly wiped off, but still discernable…

She blinked, her anger slowly draining to cold dread at understanding. She wouldn't have noticed, really, if it wasn't for her own feet and prints being there, close enough to compare…

"…My size," she whispered.

"But too deep for your weight," Bishop added, his voice floating after her as she slowly dropped to sit on her haunches. Her fingers were trembling with a totally irrational wish to touch those footprints, but at the same time afraid to, as if they could bite her. "So? Should I fetch the wizard?"

Adele made an uncertain affirmative gesture, realizing she couldn't take her eyes off the prints. Revulsion rolled up her gullet, and she flinched, suddenly feeling dirty, violated, a feeling so real and tangible it turned the one she experienced back at Port Llast to a pale shade. Her gaze skidded around, finding the same prints, picking them up with mesmerized and disgusted fascination, following to where they led – and went there, not even straightening her legs fully, not giving herself time to think why on the face of Toril she was doing it at all, concentrating only on her own feet, careful not to place them by accident in one of those prints. The mere possibility of stepping into them made her sick.

It was not me, it was not me, it was not me…

A dark-red blotch stopped her, and she drew in the air through her set teeth, finding herself almost poking into a purplish flesh of a neat smooth section that was the end of an opened neck of a corpse. She recoiled, but didn't avert her gaze, sliding it over the shoulders and back of the beheaded man, his legs curled under him…

quartermaster begging on his knees…

Adele grinded her teeth against a wish to whimper over the memory of Alaine's voice.

"It takes much strength to slice off the head of a full-grown man," she heard Sand above her, but didn't look up at him, "especially in one motion."

"What does it mean?" Shandra, her voice still coarse.

"That our dear girl could not have managed such a blow even if she wanted," his words were accompanied by rustle of fabric, and Adele found the elf squatting at her side, also peering at the body. "And the killer was obviously wielding a broad flat blade, which you, my dear, don't resort to, am I correct?" he glanced at her for confirmation.

Adele gave him none, licking her lips, and narrowed her eyes at the cut. Something was wrong. Wrong even for the whole overwhelming wrongness of the deed in itself. Cocking her head to match the angle of the slice, she swished her palm absently through the air, repeating the motion that separated the man's head from his body.

It didn't match. She would have done it differently…

"Right-hander," she hissed the word like a curse, rising to her feet abruptly, making Shandra reel backwards not to crash into her. "Right-fucking-hander."

"…My dear," Sand drawled warningly, but Adele no longer listened, frantically looking around.

She couldn't find the traces anymore, partly because of people coming up, trampling the prints with their own.

But she needed to, didn't she?

She turned around on her heels and gave a start as she ended up facing her own reflection in the dull steel surface of a breastplate. With pains, but she managed to glance away. The reflected woman didn't look good for sure.

"Adele?" at least he didn't touch her anymore, she gave him that – she wasn't sure if she would have broken into tears or slapped him if he tried. Lifting her head up, she stared into his darkened eyes, pained wrinkles cutting their way in their corners… "Adele, please… Stop torturing yourself like this."

"…I will," she nodded, cracking a small smile. "I will, Casavir, I promise. In time."

Not giving him a possibility to answer, she darted her gaze around, over the eyes of the rest of her companions, dismissing them in search of those only ones uncaring:

"Can you track him?"

Bishop smirked: "You mean 'her'? I believe it was still her when escaping."

She cringed, but went on, clinging to his matter-of-factness with force that made even metaphorical knuckles turn white. "Him, her, it, whatever. Lorne. Can you track him down from here?"

"All the way to Luskan?" he shook his head. "They had enough time to make it back to the city by now. You don't really need me to find Luskan, right?"

"That's not-"

Her words were cut short by Sand suddenly throwing his hand up, demanding silence, and her mouth snapped shut with almost audible clank. The wizard was staring behind her, and so she turned – but saw nothing but the same destroyed village.

"What is it?" Neeshka hissed not far from her.

"Heard something moving in the well," the wizard murmured.

"I heard it too," Elanee nodded.

"Someone survived?" Shandra asked hopefully, eyeing the blackened stone-laying of the well.

"…Or some of the assassins were stupid enough to wait," Bishop added, reaching for his bow.

Exchanging quick glanced, they moved towards the well, not saying a word. In the established silence the lonely shutter still clattered in the distance, and the wind rustled through gaping holes in the houses. Adele was the first to reach the well, staring into the darkness of its opening, and switched to her darkvision, this time consciously. The shaft was grey, cold, without any traces of red that would have indicated the warmth of someone's body – at least, nearby. Unsheathing her blade, she cast a considering glance over the winch and shadoof, scorched but otherwise undamaged – and before anyone could stop her grabbed the rope and jumped down.

Twisting her arm, she twined the rope around her wrist to stop her lowering, flinching when the cord dug into her flesh, and froze hanging just above the water that gleamed under her feet in the column of light from above. In any other situation Adele knew she would have made a perfect aim of herself, but scanning the stones and the passageway more thoroughly she saw that no one was around for an attack. Easing her hold on the rope, she slid slowly, without splashing, into the water – and had to bite back a gasp when the freezing liquid flooded her boots. Stepping to the side to melt into the shadow and keeping her weapon at ready, the woman glanced around once again and frowned, spotting what looked like a stone door deeper into the tunnel. Pursing her lips, she made a move in that direction, but lingered, a flash of pink on the side, in an alcove to her right drawing her attention. Waiting for a moment and making sure that whoever was there didn't mean to spring forward, she skirted the pool of water, advancing the niche…

…and stopped dead.

A boy… the boy raised his huge black eyes to look at her, and a shadow of a smile slipped over his death-pale face.

"I knew I'd see you again," he said, "and you're finally here."

"…Gods," she whispered, scurrying up to him, then threw her head up, towards the opening of the well. "I'm fine! Shandra, drop down one of those blankets you've fetched!" she grasped the boy's shoulders, rubbing them violently to warm him up a bit. His skin was hardly much warmer than the moist stones around him. "Are you alright?"

He nodded calmly. "I'm hungry, but I'm okay."

A splash of water announced someone's heavy landing, and within a few moments Casavir stepped to Adele's side, holding out a dirty blanket.

"That rope could have snapped under the weight of your armour," she hissed at him, "and you could have broken you damned neck!"

"And you could have landed straight to your death by assassin's hand," the paladin replied, the evenness of his tone poorly concealing his thick reprehension. She flashed him a glare, but he held it easily, suddenly gracing her with a rare, even if grim, smile. "Let us not start enumerating."

Despite everything, but she found herself grinning back, turning back to the boy and wrapping the blanket tightly around his frame. Casavir frowned:

"Is this…?"

"Marcus," the boy nodded again, not minding that he was being shaken like a ragdoll while rubbed over.

"I'm Adele," the woman answered, still grinning, then jerked her head at the paladin. "The stubborn tin-head is Casavir." She secured the blanket around the boy, then rummaged through her belt-pouch, taking out a lump of slightly dry bread, and handed it to him. "There you go, eat."

The boy grabbed the bread, nibbling at it with readiness that seemed startling after his previous tranquility, and Adele looked at Casavir:

"We need to get him out of here."

The paladin looked up, then back at her, not voicing his thoughts – but Adele understood them nonetheless.

Whether the kid ought to see what was left of the village.

Adele spread her hands helplessly, indicating that there was nothing they could possibly do to avoid it, and Casavir, giving her a gloomy but agreeing nod in return, gathered the boy into his arms, stepping back towards the rope. Adele followed, her eyes glued to Marcus' pale face above his shoulder. The boy gazed at her in return, just as frighteningly calm, stuffing the last crumbs of bread into his mouth.

Khelgar caught the kid above, dragging him out of the well onto the surface, and Casavir stepped aside, letting Adele up first. Climbing out, she recovered her breath and had to smile at the sight of Shandra and Elanee, both women instantly fussing around the boy, bungling him tighter into the rag.

"He had been down there for the whole time?" Neeshka asked in unbelieving tone.

Adele shrugged: "So it seems."

"Gods, you soaked to your bones, poor thing," Shandra muttered, wrapping another blanket around the boy's bare feet.

"There was no place for me to hide, except in the well," Marcus explained. "when those men came, I knew they were the ones who would kill everyone. So I hid and watched them kill all the people," he sniffed back a sigh, looking at Adele. " I… I didn't want to look, but it felt important for me to see what happened, so I could tell you."

Adele nodded, feeling her insides clench painfully. The boy's face looked even paler in the daylight, but his dark eyes regarded everything with the same calmness, distant and attentive at once.

Sand settled to his heels in front of the boy, mechanically sweeping up the hem of his robes not to brush the ground:

"…I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Marcus."

"So what did you see, young Marcus?"

"Men came. There were twelve of them, I think. They had dark armour, and…" he shifted his gaze back to Adele, "...one of them looked like you. But I knew he wasn't."

"And how did you know that?" Sand asked.

Marcus stared at him again, chewing his lip while trying to come up with words. "I… When I looked at her, really focused on her, she… started to look differently. I saw a man. He was huge and mean, like an ogre," he ran his hand over his hair, probably not even aware of the gesture. "And bald."

The world tilted to the side.

Sand was nodding, telling her something about how it must have been exactly the executor, the one who had stuck a deal with the dryad, about how useful Marcus' testimony could prove for the trial – but Adele didn't hear that.

It can't be…

her own fingers, but much softer, without any calluses rubbed by the hilt of the rapier, sliding tentatively over a clean-shaved scalp of the man…

long-dead man!

"Del?"

her own voice, with a still-childish peal ringing in it, laughing softly…

it can't be him, he is dead…

"Lass? Hey, lassie?"

…"Lorne, damn, why did you do this? It makes you look like an angry egg!"

It can't be! It is not!

"…My dear?"

She blinked, staring right into the eyes of her lawyer, who was looking at her suspiciously.

"Um… what?" Adele shook her head and smiled, "I'm afraid I lost it."

"I said we should take Marcus with us back to Neverwinter," Sand repeated, his eyes still searching her face thoroughly.

"…Yes," she glanced at the boy, who did not object, looking back at all of them. "I mean, of course, we are not leaving him here at any rate," she turned to Casavir. "Look, take him with you to the cave we've spend the night in. You and Shandra should be enough protection for him. Will you lead them back there, El?" the druidess inclined her head in agreement. "Good. We'll meet you, guys, at camp, then. There seems to be a passage leading further underground in the well, I want to have a closer look at it. Then we'll join you."

"You sure?" Elanee inquired softly.

"Yes."

"Very well," the druidess held her hand out for the boy to take and smiled at him. "You must be tired, spent so much time there…"

Marcus moved his bony shoulders in a shrug. "I knew you would come, so I simply waited. Oh, I almost forgot," he dove under the hem of his dirty short, towards the belt of his trousers, and took out a knife, turning to Bishop, unmistakably finding the ranger who chose to stay back, behind the others. "Thank you," the boy said, handing him the dagger. Bishop quirked up a surprised eyebrow, but smirked, grasping the hilt:

"About time I got it back."

"It helped me to survive," Marcus nodded, staring deeply into Bishop's eyes – when suddenly his pale lips twitched in another faint ghost-like smile, as if he and the ranger shared some sort of secret. "Stabbed one in the leg."

For a fracture of moment the ranger's hand lingered in the air, still holding the knife, his narrowed eyes locked on the boy, but then he drew back, sliding the blade into its customary noose on the belt of his quiver, and stepped away from the well. Marcus followed his move, but his stare soon left Bishop and came to rest upon the remains of Ember. He frowned, but otherwise didn't change in his face.

"We need to go," Elanee put a hand on his shoulder, gently trying to turn him away from the sight.

Marcus nodded, this time slowly, and sighed. "I told them to leave," his tone was devoid of any emotions even as he looked back at them. "They didn't listen."

"…I'm sorry," Adele whispered.

"They never do," Bishop grated out, eyeing the remains, then turned to the rest. "So what, are we moving – or is it time for another requiem mass?"

"Moving, moving," the woman answered quickly before any fight could start and smiled down at Marcus. "Everything's gonna be alright. Ever been to Neverwinter?"

"No."

"It's pretty there, you'll see…"

She watched them go, Shandra and Elanee flanking the boy protectively, Casavir leading the way, then eyed those who stayed.

"So… you all are going down?"

"Sure," Khelgar snorted. "What did ya think?"

"Khelgar, you are limping."

"And?" the dwarf gave his head a final shake. "Lass, with yer luck, I bet ya'll make two steps and get attacked by… dunno… giant glowing spiders or somethin'."

Adele grinned her defeat and ushered them to the well. Bishop slid down the first, followed by Neeshka, Grobnar, Khelgar, Sand – who managed to shoot another calculating glance at the woman before descending – and even Qara, her face thankfully gaining back its colour. The woman was the last, lingering a bit to cast another long stare over the remains, suddenly feeling like she should do or say something – but there was no one to see her or hear her, not anymore, so she just shook her head and grabbed the rope, slipping into the darkness…