Kaladin noticed, again, that his gaze had been drawn to the broken spear, and quickly tore his eyes from it. He was halfway tempted to leave this alley where he'd spent the last few days sitting around, to get away from the spear, but that would mean letting the storming old thing win.

He supposed it was just another way for him to take the path of least pain, now. Because he couldn't touch the spear, he wouldn't, but the thought of leaving the spear behind - even with its bent tip and splintering, moldy shaft - seemed nearly too painful as well. So he accepted his fate, as he'd finally learned to do after so long as a slave, and let himself sit near it, but never too close. The easiest, most wretched path. A perfect fit for him.

It really was ironic that he finally learned to be a proper slave once and for all the moment he was free.

"Kaladin? Do you… want to maybe try something new today?" He heard Syl's quiet voice from his shoulder, her voice thin and oh so lost in what to do to help him. She couldn't, of course. He was already dead.

Kaladin's eyes were back on the spear. Another piece of garbage in an alley filled with nothing but waste. He didn't bother to drag his eyes away.

What would be the point?

Kaladin had mostly gotten used to ignoring the other homeless of the alley. They mostly did the same to him, after the first day or two. At the start he'd thought, in an act worthy of becoming the eleventh fool, that he could still make it back to his men, that he hadn't failed so utterly so quickly, and had asked desperately about where he was, and how to get back to first the Sadeas warcamp, then the Shattered plains, then simply Alethkar, before finally asking if anyone knew what Roshar was.

None of it worked, of course. Because wherever he was, Highstorms certainly didn't exist. Because even a weakened highstorm would blow over the "Tower of Babel".

He honestly thought it was Urithiru when he first saw it. It just seemed like the best guess, given… everything about it. But apparently it was some sort of plug on "The Dungeon" whatever in Damnation that was, with its apparently infinite monsters within.

But all that was to say that he only ignored most of the other wretches, because one in particular he couldn't. The Old Man brought him food, after all, and Kaladin was too much of a failure to resist temptation and just waste away like he should.

So, the old man, his face a weathered thing of deep lines and furrows from sun and wind, and his hair white as snow and dark eyes, and short just like everyone else in this strange, strange place, brought him food every single Storming day, and Kaladin grunted to answer the mans questions at least a bit. He'd earned that much, even if he'd be better off not speaking with Kaladin.

After all, it didn't seem unlikely for lightning to strike down all the beggars in the alley if Kaladin ever said a word to them, at least not compared to how unlikely it was that he tripped and fell into another world, living once more so that he could fail once more.

Syl was talking again. He was getting better at ignoring that. Staring at the spear helped with blocking out her voice.

The Old Man sat down next to Kaladin, and Kaladin gave a grunt in hello. It was the most he could offer, but the least he could do. Syl was curled up, lying where his right pocket would be if he had them. She was growing more despondent, her small, blue form growing less and less radiant with every day that passed. Kaladin ached to help her, ached to do as she said, to reach out and try one last time. But he couldn't. He couldn't save her.

He never could.

"So, son, feel up for much today? Ready to take a swing at the world yet?" The Old Man said, his grin just as lined and encouraging as it always was, and Kaladin grunted back, just as he always did.

"Yeah, I get that, I'm never ready to take on the world no matter how tall and strong I am on an empty stomach! Maybe this'll fill you up this time!" The Old man said, his laugh a guffawing one, as he handed Kaladin another new meal of all the strange food of this world. He always brought something new. Apparently he was looking for the meal which could fill up Kaladin, so he wouldn't have to start life again on an empty stomach.

Kaladin grunted back, and started eating. It was certainly better than bridgeman rations, but the taste was… lost, somewhere. It just didn't reach Kaladin the way it had before everything, when he hadn't failed so completely yet.

Kaladin wasn't sure it was a grunt of thanks. He wasn't sure he was thankful for being kept alive.

The Old Man stayed around for a little longer, talking at Kaladin, interpreting his grunts of answer however he wanted, and Kaladin didn't mind so much. It wasn't like he knew what he meant with those grunts. The Old Man's guesses were as good as any.

Then he left again, greeting a few other homeless on his way, who actually responded to him.

Kaladin felt his eyes land on the spear again. It really was a pathetic thing. Broken, completely beyond usefulness, and just waiting to rot away.

Syl curled into a tighter ball on his lap, and started to shake as she cried silently.

Kaladin lifted his hands ever so slightly, his eyes drawn away from the spear to look down at her, before he let it fall back to the ground.

He couldn't save her. He couldn't even touch her to comfort her.

She'd just have to wait for him to die, and then go and find someone else. Someone better.

Kaladin felt his gaze draw back to the spear. It was a little more rotted than yesterday, and that would just continue.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Kaladin closed his eyes, and leaned back his head to rest.

Something, days later, prodded at Kaladin's leg, and after a few moments, and a few more prods, he finally opened his eyes.

Above him stood a girl in a strange sort of green uniform with an apron, and bluish gray hair and eyes the same color. He couldn't really tell if she was darkeyes or lighteyes - always depended on who the family was on these edge cases - but he was beyond caring. The worst she could bring was death. If he was even able to die without failing someone one last time.

She was peering down at him, though, and Kaladin couldn't help but feel that there was something strange about her presence. Something off. But before he could do anything with the sensation, it was gone, and he was left looking at the beautiful young woman in front of him, who was looking at him curiously.

"Who were you, before you came here, I mean?"

Her voice was nice and pleasant, and before Kaladin really thought to do anything, his voice croaked out, hoarse and unused.

"Kaladin Stormblessed. A spearman. A sergeant. A slave. Worthless. Never good enough. Never saved anyone. Always worthless."

A beat passed, and then Kaladin snapped his mouth closed. What had that been? Why had he talked? He was supposed to die, as alone as he could make himself, so that whatever curse was on him would just see that he couldn't fail any more people, and would finally take him to damnation. He scowled and turned away from the girl, hoping to drive her off before his luck got to her.

He ignored Syl's desperate, hopeful pleading to just keep speaking, to please not rebury himself, to try again.

Kaladin shot her out. He heard quiet footsteps leave, even as the other homeless stared at him, both for speaking, and probably for who he spoke with.

Then he was surprised, as Syl whispered something he didn't hear as well, and flew off with the wind. A sharp pang of sorrow and longing bored into his being, as he turned to look at where she left. In the same direction as the girl. Maybe the girl was better than him? Oh well. Good for her. He could only recommend getting away from him.

And so he pushed down the sadness, and returned to staring at the spear.

He wished it would rot faster. Then it would at least be over and done with.

Kaladin felt the cold stone beneath him as he sat, the way he always did for the last few… weeks, he supposed, but there was something different. It was harder to ignore his surroundings. Harder to ignore the quiet conversations of the homeless of the alley, harder to ignore everything than it usually was. Because he was hungry. Truly, honestly hungry in a way he had not been for at least a little while. All because the Old Man had not come with food for a few days. Not terribly many days, Kaladin was pretty sure even if keeping track of time wasn't his strong suit.

Where had the Old Man gone? At first Kaladin had just thought he had finally understood that Kaladin refused to rise again just to fall once more, but that made no sense. The Old Man didn't only come to the alley to feed Kaladin, he also came at times to speak with the other homeless, exchange words and shoulder claps and whatever else, before leaving to do whatever he did. He wouldn't abandon that simply to avoid Kaladin.

So where had he gone? Was he hurt?

But did that even matter? Even Syl had seen that moving on was for the best, because Kaladin did not save people.

Yet even so, Kaladin felt an energy he had not felt in… weeks. Months, even, rise within him as he fought back the urge to stand and act enough to simply lean forwards a bit, and look to see if he could spot the Old Man.

Yet there was nothing. Nothing other than the strange girl from a few days before, that was. She didn't walk closer. She just stood there, waiting. Why was she here, and now of all times? And where was Syl, if not with her?

He was pulled from his thoughts, though, as Syl spoke right next to his ear.

"Please, Kaladin. Please do something. She knows where he is! But she won't come closer than this. You have to take the first step, Kaladin" Syl pleaded as she floated in front of his face, her eyes pleading, begging him to do something as her small blue form floated in the air.

And so Kaladin stood up, his gait unsteady, as he walked slowly towards the strange girl. The Old Man and Syl had both done too much for him to not be willing to do this for them.

The girl spoke as soon as they were both away from the other homeless, and he was right in front of her

"Your friend, the old man, went to the Dungeon, you know? I think he heard about you being a spearman, or saw you staring at the spear, and decided to spend a few days scraping together enough to go and try to get enough money for a proper spear for you from the Dungeon. Very nice of him, right?" She said, her grin bright as she finished her explanation, and as Kaladin's mind whirled. The Old Man was old, not as old as he looked, but old still and not exactly strong. And the girl put a voice to Kaladin's thoughts seconds later.

"Still though, I don't think he'll make it far. A floor or two, sure, but he wants to go deep enough to get you a decent spear in one go. That's pretty dangerous, without a Falna and all."

A mischievous smirk appeared on her lips then.

"If only there was a strapping young spearman out there who cared, and was ready to charge down to save him, ey?" She said, elbowing him in his side playfully, "and if only the spearman knew a beautiful young maiden, who could get the spearman a borrowed spear super quickly, letting him succeed in his charge of rescue," she said, holding her hand to her chest, her nose slightly in the air, and her face set into a slightly smug, but mostly proud look.

Sadly for her, Kaladin was too busy to care about her plan, or whatever it was, for getting him into her debt.

Damn Lighteyes.

No, because he was feeling the fire in his veins again to move, he was feeling the urge to do, to save, to protect, and it was a rolling storm within that could not be slowed for even a moment when the old man needed his help.

He spun on his heel, walked back deeper into the alley, until he stood above the old, wretched, rotting spear with its bent and chipped head, and its moldy shaft. It should, by all rights, be left to die in this alley. But it was needed. And by the Almighty, it would hold together for one last fight. He swore it.

He grabbed the spear, and turned to stride out the alley, his steps sure, his face set.

"What are you doing? That spear isn't good enough! Come on, it'll be super quick, I promise, and then you can actually save your friend!" The girl said, trying desperately to keep up with him, his long stride eating distance beneath him as he walked towards the tower. Her voice panicked, as this clearly wasn't what she planned, but Kaladin didn't care, and he continued his march.

There was someone he needed to save, after all.

The Guild hall was quiet, as it always was a few hours past noon, when most everyone was already in the Dungeon if going in was their plan, or done with their business at the Guild if they weren't going in. Well, maybe quiet wasn't exactly right, Misha thought, given that people still went for a quick delve to get some money on the first few floors every now and then, or people came up after taking wounds forcing them to retreat, or any number of other reasons.

But it was as quiet as the guild could be here at the Dungeon entrance, and that was worth something, she thought.

And she was just considering whether or not to strike up a chat with Eina, when the doors slammed open, and a man, tall and unkempt, very tall actually, strode inside like a storm, heading straight towards the path to the Dungeon entrance, the - well, the just horrid spear in his hands clutched with easy grace.

He was also shirtless, and while his physique was nice, what really drew the eye was the utter and complete lack of Falna.

Oh no. He was one of the homeless delvers, wasn't he? The Guild tried to stop them, they didn't have any chance of surviving the Dungeon after all, but when they snuck in with the morning rush, they never caught them. But this guy? This guy wasn't killing himself if she had anything to say about it!

His walk was quick, though, so she jumped over the counter, and ran to stand in front of him, arms and legs spread out to block him.

"Whoa whoa whoa, buddy, you aren't going down there with that spear and no Falna, okay?" The man stopped, looking down at her with a scowl, as all the people who happened to be in the Guild at the time turned to stare at the show as well. "Now, why don't you just calm down, and explain why you're doing this?"

He looked at her for a moment, before starting to speak. His voice was hoarse and rough, like he barely spoke at all in… forever.

"I need to save a friend. He might still be alive," he said, his voice filled with determination.

Misha winced at that, because, well, adventurers knew adventures, and the desperate knew the desperate. The two sorts of people who entered the dungeon.

… with a concerning amount of overlap.

Still though, whoever this guy knew was probably already dead.

"Still, why are you going down there?"

And he just tilted his head and scowled at her like she was stupid! Then he just tried to walk around her! But Misha wouldn't be played that easily, and lunged forwards to tackle his waist until the other people around here got their heads out of their asses and helped keep this idiot alive!

… Well, she tried to tackle him. Turns out, he was muscled, tall as Ottar, and barely grunted in annoyance without even stumbling. Oh well. She could still hold on to him and keep him from going in, even as he grunted out a response.

"Because," he grunted as he twisted, and pulled her off balance, "fighting is one of the few things I can still do right."

Wow, he sounded deeply annoyed with her. Still, it was for his own good, no matter how awesome he thought he was at swinging his rotting stick.

"Still, why are you going down there! Without a Falna or a proper weapon, it doesn't matter how good you are!"

Misha grinned in satisfaction as he halted, pausing his steps, and she tried to use the chance to pull him backwards further as he stared into nothing.

"Because…" Oh, no, he was coming out of it already. "Because if I am going to die a failure either way, then I may as well fail at the right thing one last time."

He said, and Misha couldn't help but feel slightly strange at the serenity in his voice, as he said something so utterly depressing.

Then she thought she was crazy, because as the man looked back at her, a small smile on his lips as though he was realizing something, she could swear that a tiny, blue, transparent woman appeared next to the man's ear. And it was only because she was so close, clinging to his waist as she was, that she could hear the soft voice of the woman as she spoke.

"These words are… accepted." The… fairy? Said, though she sounded deeply strained at the last word, like it was harder than beating a minotaur.

Then Misha let go, and fell backwards onto the floor in shock, as the room, who had been snickering at the entire exchange, was silenced in an instant.

Because the man shone with iridescent radiance, his skin glowing, his eyes shining blue and clear as the midday sky, sharp and determined and with a burning fire within as burning, glowing mist leaked from his skin mouth and nose even as all that he was glowed and burned. More shocking than all of that, though, was what Misha was in perfect position to see, as a Falna blazed into being across his back, a strange rune as the centerpiece, a thing of flowing, beautiful lines, with something of an flanged arrowhead shape to it, except at the center bottom, there was a pointed line which almost looked like the blade of a sword. All of which was without describing the lines themselves which made up the symbol, of course, but it was pretty beautiful.

Which was, really, all secondary to the fact that a strange homeless man was blazing with magic to the point that he glowed, and had, seemingly to spite her and her logic, given himself a Falna spontaneously.

Then he just shrugged, bore a little smile on his strikingly handsome face, turned and walked into the dungeon, down the stairs, his glowing form shining against the darkness as his hair - formerly scraggly and unkempt, flowed behind him like a windswept glorious mane as he strode into the darkness, a now-glowing spear in hand.

"What the hell was that guy?!" Misha yelled, confused, into the silence of the Guild.