Ailing Aftermath

Five hundred and seventy-six years ago

—

Solinaraxl groaned softly, rubbing at his shoulder. The injury had mostly healed, but there was still an ache where the bone had been broken. After a few moments of simply massaging at the ache, his eyes drifted to the fabric garments that had been laid aside for him. For a moment he considered ignoring them, should he…

A soft sigh left his nostrils, and he grabbed the tunic and pulled it over his head. He had partially expected the tight fit, the garb had hardly been tailored with a saurus's physique in mind, but it wasn't so bad as he had been expecting. The previous owner must have been quite a large man.

Should be leaving. He had spent enough time here, in this warmblood's home. The unexpected hospitality was a pleasant surprise, and while he had been told that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed, it felt wrong to be in one place, to not be out hunting for threats to the Great Plan. He had to remind himself not to become complacent, that he was gifted with a purpose and while recuperating from his injuries was an acceptable reason to put his task on pause, now that he was able he should be leaving, should be continuing in his role.

He had probably lingered longer than he should have. He should go. But…

There was a light tapping on the door moments before it opened. His host entered into the bedroom, her eyes, milky from whatever ailment had afflicted her, but still capable of sight, drank in the image he must have presented to her. A saurus, mutant as he might be, dressed in a tunic made from fine materials. Cotton, one of those materials that was indicative of nobility. Honestly, why had she given him such a tunic? Surely she had something made of wool or linen she could have given him in place, something that wasn't so costly.

Had the robe he'd been wearing before his injury not been ruined beyond salvage, he would have refused to accept her offering. Her lips twitched upward, and almost against his will, his eyes narrowed into a smile in turn.

Without words, she managed to coax him into joining her and her two offspring—children, he quickly reminded himself, warmbloods refer to them as children—at the table where the day's lunch had been laid out ready. As soon as he sat down, the younger child, a girl, moved closer and started chattering about anything and everything with a wide grin.

Why were they so accommodating? In his experience, warmbloods did not often react well to those that were different. Even when the physical differences were slight, such as between elves and humans wherein the difference at a glance was the shape of the ears, there was always a measure of dislike. As a Child of the Gods, Solinaraxl was as far removed from the appearance of the warm-blooded races as could be, so why was this woman, and her two children, so accepting of him?

The question stewed in his mind even as he answered the young girl's questions, gave an anecdote to the slightly older boy of one of his more eventful misadventures—half an eye fixed upon the woman, judging where to censor himself—and enjoyed the lunch that had been prepared.

Finished the small meal, went to stand and politely vacate himself from the room. Found himself stilling in shock when the girl, toothy grin stretching across her face, wrapped her limbs around his waist and gave him a look which somehow made her eyes larger than should have been physically possible, asked him to follow her, she wanted to show him something. He gave his host a wide-eyed look, barely held in the panic. Found no help there, she was too busy laughing at him, but not a malicious laugh.

Swallowed, looked down at those overly large eyes and agreed to come with the child to whatever it was she wanted to show him.

#

Present Day

Middenland

—

In the time since splitting the battalions and parting ways from Boney, they had managed to reach their next destination in time to fully ward off raiding bands of Chaos and move on to the next village with time to spare, repeated the feat, and again. The unfortunate truth of travelling in number, the fewer there were, the faster they moved.

After travelling through four villages and a walled town, they had exhausted their list of destinations in their efforts to defend the people of Middenland against the marauding Chaos warriors. Since the Knights of the White Wolf were moving westward, Solin's battalion didn't need to go eastward as any eastbound marauders would be caught. That left Solin at a momentary pause in his regiments' travels, and they were now waiting for either a runner from any nearby settlements with news of Chaos movement in need of intercepting; or for a rider with news from any of the Legion's other battalions or other defending force.

It wasn't so bad, it was a chance for Solin's regiments to have some downtime, rest up and enjoy the moment. Enjoy the hospitality of a grateful town, the taverns of which had declared that for the night, drinks were on the house.

Which led to Solin's current position, head rested upon the palm of one hand, elbow braced against the surface of the table at which he sat. His eyes were drilling into the sheet of parchment he had laid flat, trying to gather his thoughts and consider what to write, what observations needed put to page, what hearsay and gossip he had heard from grateful villagers. And while at it, he read what was already scribed upon the parchment and reminded himself of what had already been noted down.

'Excuse me?' The two words were accompanied by a very light tap on his shoulder.

Solin looked up from the parchment and took note of the human. Despite having saved the human with the rest of this town, the warmblood had a look that was equal measures of wary caution mixed with confused gratitude. Not an unfamiliar combination, saving lives might earn some goodwill, but a lifetime of attitudes of fear and distrust of anything different was not going away just from a single act to the contrary of expectations. Still, the fact that the human had actually touched him in his effort to get his attention meant that, at least in this instance, the goodwill earned was overshadowing the wariness. For now.

'Yes?' Solin asked, confused.

The human, a fairly slight man, but with a thickness to his limbs that suggested he was a physical labourer despite being naturally slight of build, pointed to Solin's side.

'Is your sword supposed to be glowing?'

Solin's eyes darted to where he had rested his blade against the table. It had been at the edge of his peripheral vision, enough to see it if somebody dared try and move it or take it without his consent, but beyond his ability to have noticed the way the silversteel had subtly illuminated itself, not so much as to be a beacon, but enough that had he been paying it attention he would have gotten the meaning quickly. His hand moved to grab at the hilt of the zweihänder, but somebody else's hand darted forth and caught Solin's wrist.

'Let's not overreact now.' The voice that spoke was low. Low enough that even though the one who had drawn Solin's attention to the blade was right behind him, he gave no indication that he had heard.

A glance over his shoulder revealed to Solin that the tavern had in the span of time it had taken for him to reach for his blade, the tavern had emptied. There was nobody left within but Solin and the one currently gripping his wrist.

Solin lifted his eyes, followed the arm of the hand encircling his wrist. It turned out the hand belonged to a tall man with noble features, platinum hair pulled into a ponytail, and a large aquiline nose. He was dressed in fine materials, a shirt that looked to be cotton and a waistcoat of light purple silk. He met the man's eyes, and after a moment he relaxed his posture infinitesimally. He craned his neck to look again at where the labourer had been, confirmed that he too had vanished, and felt the grip on his wrist disappear as he did so.

Leaning back on his seat, Solin tilted his head. There was no sound, not from within the now empty tavern, not from outside the building. Wait, that was a lie, there was a low creaking sound as the building settled. The lack of sound, the sudden absence of life was unsettling, where before there had been a dull throb of constant ambience vibrating the air, the suddenness of its lack was jarring.

The well-dressed man took a seat next to Solin and let out a sigh of contentment. Solin hesitated a moment, then shifted the brass tankard that had sat near his parchment, moved it so that it took up a space on the table that was technically between the two of them, and fixed his attention on the tankard rather than look upon the man next to him.

'Quintrix,' Solin spoke after a long bout of silence, uttered the name of the other with a sour expression, as if the mere word left a foul taste on his tongue. 'Give me one reason I shouldn't cut you down.'

The reflection of the one sitting next to Solin shuffled, and fixed his own eyes upon the tankard, met Solin's eyes through that reflection and grinned.

'That would be rather rude. I thought we were friends.' Quintrix didn't hide the amusement in his low voice. 'Not that it would achieve much, right here, right now. Maybe release some pent-up stress… do you and yours actually suffer stress?'

There was a moment of silence, and then Quintrix craned his head to stare at Solin dead in the eye, despite Solin's own attention being instead fixed upon the reflection on the brass tankard. The next words to leave the other individual were lower in tone, oozing with a sinister smugness.

'Besides, you've had your opportunity to kill me, and you passed it up.'

Solin narrowed his eyes. 'That was then.'

Quintrix huffed in amusement. 'Do you regret your actions, back then?'

It was a trick question, both knew the answer. Regardless, Solin answered with an honest 'No,' to which Quintrix chuckled dryly.

'That's what I like about you, young Solinaraxl. That rare knack for looking at the bigger picture.' Quintrix hummed in acknowledgement of Solin's words and his reflection rested his head upon his fist, angled so that he was looking at the zweihänder leaning against the table. 'That's new. Last we met you were still using a sabre.'

Solin didn't say a word, simply continued to glower at the reflection of the one sat next to him.

The other seemed to focus intently on the blade. 'A gift then.' He flinched back with a startled hiss, blinking his eyes rapidly. 'That's… quite the gift.'

Still, Solin didn't say a word, just stared at that reflection with narrowed eyes.

Quintrix hummed thoughtfully. 'Yes… Those Dawi don't do things by halves, do they?' He carefully moved away, slowly, and created some distance between him and the blade.

Solin didn't outwardly react, his crimson gaze remained transfixed to the reflection. He let a full minute pass before he decided to speak to the other, finally spoke up. 'What are you doing here?' he asked.

'Ah, that's the question, isn't it? Turns out that things have been happening. I will be honest, my scaly friend… I wasn't expecting a Chaos warhost in the Empire.'

Solin scoffed in disbelief. 'You expect me to believe that?'

The other shrugged in amusement. 'I don't expect you to believe much of what I have to say. Price of knowing my truth, it becomes harder to believe the truth when I utter such truths.'

Solin's eyes rolled upward, had to remind himself that the word "truth" was, in fact, a real word despite the rapid-fire use almost stripping it of meaning, then quickly returned to staring at the reflection of the one sitting next to him. 'Ok, I'll humour you. If you didn't know about the warhost, why are you here?'

'Ah,' the one next to him breathed out. He opened his mouth, but his breath stilled, and no sound came. After two repetitions, his shoulders slumped and his expression twisted into annoyance. 'I can't say.'

Solin's brow ridges rose in bemusement. 'Really?'

'It seems that, as much as I like you, there is nothing to gain from saying, so my tongue is stilled.'

Solin snorted. 'What, you'll not even get some sick amusement?'

'Not regarding this, I won't.'

Solin's brow ridges lowered again. 'The topic isn't going to give you amusement, or my reaction won't be amusing?'

The one sat next to him chuckled and made a show of thinking about that question. 'Yes.'

'Useful.' Solin rumbled sarcastically.

'Admit it, you knew that you weren't going to get much from me. And even if I had been able to speak of my business, you wouldn't have believed me anyway.'

Despite himself, Solin snorted in amused agreement. No, he wouldn't have, but he also wouldn't have disbelieved it out of hand either, because the other was well aware of the paradox of being considered to be untrustworthy and going unbelieved even if uttering a truth, so he mixed in truths with falsehoods intermittently with full knowledge that it was a gamble for the one being told as to whether to believe the opposite of what was spoken. It was a game for Quintrix, a source of amusement, watching as any that was aware of his nature tried to puzzle out and untangle fact from fiction, and even then work out which fact was pertinent, which truth wasn't itself obfuscated behind double meanings, which fabrication was in actuality a riddle leading to a gospel.

'So, why are you here, annoying me?' Solin eventually asked.

Quintrix's reflection shrugged. 'I was nearby, and I wondered. In its own way, the presence of the Warhost of Malice is a reassuring balm. I was actually concerned.'

Remembering the nature of Malice, as far as the Legion had worked out, Solin gave Quintrix's reflection a narrowed glare.

'Why were you concerned?'

Quintrix huffed, then tilted his head in consideration. 'My attentions were upon a new daemon prince that was birthed recently.'

'A new daemon prince?'

'Created through a minor act of cohesiveness between the Four.'

That detail gave Solin slight pause, understanding then why Quintrix might have had thoughts regarding any show of force from Malice. But still no understanding as to why the other would find it reassuring.

Quintrix continued. 'Ironically, the prince was already a prince before becoming a daemon prince,' the reflection shared with a chuckle before turning serious. 'However, for now, he doesn't seem overly interested in following any edicts of the Four. He's too drunk on his new power.'

'You don't sound impressed.'

'He has been given power and is now acting on his own accord. Last I saw of him, he was arguing with Skarbrand while planning an attack on Kislev.'

Solin took some time to think about that. He had mixed feelings about the new piece of information he had received. And that wasn't just the usual confusion of how much that was just told was truth and how much was fiction. A daemon prince in and of itself was… bad news, certainly, but not unheard of. The fact that this new one had favour from all four of the Ruinous gods was considerably more concerning.

After a pause, the reflection showed the Lord of Change shrug. 'I'll just take my leave now,' the daemon said. 'You might want to check the farmhouse just outside the town, by the way.' And then, with those last words, the daemon was gone as though he had never been.

And Solin found himself reaching for his blade again, the labourer who'd asked about the weapon behind him. The background hum of conversations between tavern-goers returned as though there had never been an absence. A look at his weapon revealed that the blade's previous low luminescence had faded.

Solin pulled his arm back and turned back to the human. 'It was nothing. Must have been a trick of the light.'

The labourer hummed and cast a suspicious eye at the greatsword, but took Solin's answer at face value and turned, moved toward the tavern's owner and called for a drink.

Solin let out a breath he hadn't been fully aware he'd been holding in, quickly ran through the conversation in his head. None of what was uttered was believed, as Quintrix himself had said, the fact that Solin was aware of the true nature of the Lord of Change meant that nothing was believed at face value. For all that Quintrix claimed a fondness for Solin, that didn't change his very nature as a being crafted from a sliver of the Changer of Way's very essence.

For centuries, the Lord of Change had taken an interest in Solin, playing with him and testing him as if they were friends. Ingwel and Iycan—that was every Iycan'ceya up to the current bearer of that name—had speculated that the strange Greater Daemon enjoyed interacting with someone who knew his true nature. Despite never directly interfering with the Legion or the Great Plan—and had, in fact, been responsible for the Legion interfering with a Nurglish cult on one occasion—they would never trust the avian daemon. Eccentricities aside, Quintrix was still a daemon of Tzeentch, still one of the Great Enemy. Manipulating the Legion into attacking a mutual enemy did not make them allies.

Solin had never attacked him, because Quintrix was always careful not to put himself in a vulnerable position. He quickly reminded himself that the reason he had spared the daemon his blade that first time that he had had the misfortune of encountering him had been borne of necessity, had been the lesser evil.

It figured that it would have the feathered fiend pester him. What was that saying? No good deed went unpunished.

Solin paused, as the last words that the Lord of Change had uttered crossed his mind. What farmhouse?

#

Solin had taken the vague warning about one of the myriad of farmhouses that surrounded the town, and he set patrols to keep an eye out. Might not trust the source of the warning, but based on what he knew, there was no love lost between those that worshipped Malice, and those of the more conventional Chaos leanings.

And there was a turn of phrase that Solin had never thought he'd be thinking. "Conventional Chaos leanings", as if worship of the Ruinous Powers was conventional in any sense. But that knowledge that Malice intrinsically opposed the well-known entities of Chaos made the following of Malice an inherently unorthodox branch of the already twisted and unconventional worship of Chaos.

So, it wouldn't be a surprise if the only real catch to being directed towards a potential ploy of any lingering Malice worshippers by a daemon of Tzeentch, was simply that the enemy of an enemy was being sent to undermine that same enemy. Not every plot had some big goal, and if it was some link in a chain of events, the end of that chain was far enough away that Solin wasn't able to see any consequences.

It was an instance of picking battles. He could throw his hands up and refuse to track down any potential lingering traces of the marauders, but then any deaths that came from his lack of action would weigh on Solin's shoulders. Or he could do as he was, follow that warning, seek out whatever issue might be, and potentially foil whatever act warranted a warning from a Lord of Change that liked to claim fondness with Solin.

A shrill scream echoed in the air. Solin didn't hesitate, his hand came to rest upon the hilt of his sword and he charged toward the scream, distantly aware that the captain of the free company militia that was bolstering this town's defences was following behind, not nearly so fast as Solin but still at a respectable pace. The scream had come from one of the nearby farmhouses, and Solin charged at the door, slammed into it shoulder first, which forced it open with a loud crash.

It took a few moments for the scene to register, and every curse that Solin had ever uttered regarding Chaos in general—Nurgle in particular—came rushing back to the forefront of his mind.

A child, a boy, eight, maybe nine summers of age, screaming and crawling backwards from a man who was dressed in a simple garb and shared some likeness with the child. But the source of the child's distress was readily apparent in the pained groaning of the stumbling man, blood pouring down from his nose, flecks painted on his lips. When the man staggered and slipped, Solin could see the blood dribbling down even from the man's ears.

Solin took in these details, hissed angrily, and turned enough to see the door through which he had entered. On seeing that the militiaman was about to enter the open doorway, Solin swung his tail, slammed the thick appendage into the human and sent him stumbling back, then hurriedly moved to slam the door shut again. There was a startled shout from the human, but Solin was acting quickly, grabbed at a nearby table and pulled and shoved it so that it blocked the door.

'What in Sigmar's name are you doing!'

'Don't come in,' he shouted, then cast a sympathetic look at the ailing man, whose eyes had risen from the child and took in the lizardman who had just forced his way into the building. Solin sighed and cursed again, his second look not doing anything to dispel the initial assessment he had come to. 'We have a pox in here.'

He didn't say, didn't have to, that if this was indeed a pox, then it was entirely possible that Solin was now infected.

There was a moment of silence, then the free company captain's voice cut through that stillness. 'Damnit. Are you ok?'

Solin barked out a sarcastic laugh, then cast his eyes to the child, whose screams had stopped, was now sniffing, tears rolling down his cheeks. Solin shook his head, even though the militiaman couldn't see. 'I've been better. If we're lucky, this won't spread.' He paused a moment, then let out another breath then called out for the saurus scar veteran who had been with them when they'd heard the screaming. 'Captain Mex, I need you to set up a guard, keep this building quarantined.'

The saurus scar veteran hissed out an affirmation, and then his voice was faintly heard shouting for the attention of any nearby Legionaries.

There was a pause. 'We should burn the building.' The free company captain at least had the decency to not sound overly eager with the idea.

'At least wait for us to already be dead before casting us to the flame,' Solin snapped irritably. 'Just keep your distance.'

His eyes moved to the blood-soaked man, and the child, and another sigh escaped him. He moved closer, head tilted in consideration.

'What are the symptoms?' the militiaman asked after a drawn-out pause.

'Bleeding.' Solin answered while he stepped closer to the ailing man. 'It's coming from the nose, and the ears. Looks like he was also coughing it up.' A closer look, and Solin found his gaze drawn to the eyes, whereupon he swore softly. 'Also bleeding from the eyes.'

'Sigmar damnit.' The voice on the other side of the blocked door cursed. 'I've heard tell of this pox. There was a similar outbreak earlier this year.'

'How bad was it?' While Solin asked, he moved to the child and gently turned him away from the sight of the bleeding man.

There was a mumble that was indecipherable through the door, then a muttered comment that began with 'Well, for every hundred…'

Solin's eyes rolled briefly to the ceiling, and his voice turned sharp as he realised what the man was doing. 'I know how percentages work! We are not backwards, uneducated dullards! Just tell me the mortality rate.' At Solin's tone, the child flinched, the act of which had the oldblood make soft sounds of reassurance.

A pause. 'Ninety-five percent kill rate. Once the infected was coughing up blood, death was certain.'

Solin heaved a deep breath, eyes rested on the boy, who for the moment seemed to largely be in a state of shock, reacting to sounds, but the eyes were blank and unseeing. That wouldn't last. But while the boy was in such a state, it meant Solin had time to move the man. With a grumbled curse, he grabbed at the man.

#

Solin managed to move the bleeding man to the bed that he had been assured by the boy was the man's. A quick examination didn't give Solin any good news regarding the bleeding and feverish man. There was no way for Solin to work out how long the man had been pouring his life liquid from every natural opening his body had, but it had been long enough that the human's breaths were coming out in quick shallow breaths that couldn't be doing nearly enough to fuel the body, while pressing his fingers against the arteries on the man's clammy wrist revealed a heart that was beating rapid melody.

If there was anything that could have been done to save the man, it was too late. Maybe somebody particularly talented with magic powered by the Winds of Ghyran, but even that wasn't a certainty, Nurgle's poxes usually had some resistance against such attempts to remove them. The man had lost so much blood that even if a miracle cure was presented, it wouldn't heal the damage caused by the pox. Solin would consider the man lucky if he lasted another hour.

Whether or not that was lucky in a good or a bad way was up for debate. Maybe it would be a kinder fate if the man passed away right that second, so he would no longer be suffering.

Once Solin had finished making the man as comfortable as he could, he had to coax the boy from the room. Nothing would be gained letting the child watch as his father died. There was a slim chance that the boy hadn't been infected yet, but the longer the child was by his father's side, the more likely it was that he was going to catch the ailment.

After that, Solin was left at a loss. What to do? He couldn't leave. The message shouted for him to hear had been clear, he needed to wait inside this house for at least two weeks, lest he carry the plague with him to other victims. And unlike the boy, it was almost certain that Solin was carrying it, he was coated in the man's blood from carrying him. Couldn't even chance leaving the house to go to the nearby well for water to wash from. Had to keep himself confined until either he passed away from the pox himself, or there was a reasonable chance that he was no longer a risk to anybody he neared.

Damn.

It was a simple thought, but one that didn't feel out of place.

Damn, damn, damn!

It was a thought that repeated itself when he took note of the boy's skin, flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the late summer's transition to fall. However, it could just as easily be the situation cementing itself within the boy's mind as he came out of his shock and regained mental faculties. Eyes were wobbling, unshed tears pooling up… humans had so many tells regarding their emotional state.

With a sigh, Solin pulled the boy, held him at his side, and lowered himself to sit against a nearby wall.

'What's your name?' Solin asked after a minute of silence where he struggled to think of what he could potentially do to distract the child from what was happening.

The boy shivered against Solin's side, but he eventually answered. 'Karl.'

'Oh, like the emperor?' Solin injected as much calmness as he could into his voice.

He felt the boy nod. 'Papi always says it is good… lucky, to have the name of an emp'rah.'

'I wouldn't know. My people don't have an emperor.'

The boy, Karl, made a sound of confusion. 'So's you have a king? Like… Bretonees?'

'Bretonnians,' Solin corrected, then registered the comparison, stuck his tongue out and made a gagging sound in an exaggerated expression of disgust. 'Ew, no. Do I look like I go bothering ladies while swimming in lakes?'

His light tone and words did the job that Solin had strove for, Karl giggled. It was quiet, clearly reluctant, but it was there to be heard. Solin narrowed his eyes into a grin, pleased that he had managed that much. Managed to distract the child.

'No…' Karl said through his giggling. 'They prob'ly run away from you.'

Solin's hand came up to press against his chest, over his heart, and he gave a faux-wounded sound. 'Oof, hitting where it hurts, kiddo. But I'll have you know, they don't all run away from me.'

Unbidden, his mind recalled that time so long ago. A soft exhale of air was blown from his nostrils, a weight forming in his gut. For a moment, the boy huddled at his side changed, another boy taking his place, but a blink later and the scene returned to normal.

'I knew a boy like you, once,' Solin mused aloud. 'A brave boy who grew up, became a knight. Fought to defend the Empire.'

'What happened to him?' The question was asked after a long pause, the boy, Karl's, mind torn between accepting the distraction that Solin was offering versus getting lost in the reality that was his father dying but a single room away.

Evidently, Karl had chosen to take the distraction, and Solin was willing to offer that reprieve from the cold hard truth of reality. Though Solin didn't answer the question right away, as his mind lingered for a moment on the memories of the distant past. Seemed that today was a day of recollection, of old memories and faces emerging.

'Got married, had kids of his own.'

He didn't add that it was so long ago that the boy that Karl reminded him of was long dead, had been the first time that Solin had ever seen somebody he had known die from old age. Before that moment it had never truly dawned on Solin just what a saurus's natural lifespan meant when it came to interacting with the warmbloods of the world. The mother hadn't hit the same way, Solin hadn't been there, so that connection hadn't been made within Solin's consciousness.

And then three summers later, the sister had likewise passed. If it hadn't been rooted into Solin already, that was the one that cemented the realisation, that Seigfried hadn't been an unfortunate victim of the whims of fate, had actually been fortunate to have lived so long when he had been a knight who had fought alongside the Reikland state troopers through war and strife.

Call Solin a coward, but the idea of going through that same pain again and again had guided his decision to cut contact with the family. It might not have been the reason the majority of his race kept warmbloods at arm's length, at best, but it was certainly not a detail that would convince any to change that habit of aloofness.

But a moment of remembering helped distract this young boy, keep him from dwelling on the fate of his father. Tell the story of a brave knight and how he had come from a modest background, throw in a few anecdotes, the ones that in hindsight were amusing, and for a moment Karl was giggling, mind well and truly shielded.

It wouldn't last forever. But for a moment, he would let the boy pretend that all was well.

Eventually, he turned and noticed that the boy had fallen asleep. Solin narrowed his eyes into a frown of concern and raised his hand, pressed his knuckles against the child's forehead, and felt the heat with a sigh.

'Well, that's a fever right there.' The back of his head connected with the wall with a light thump.

Memories continued to rise up from the places where they had been buried away, deep in the back of his mind. He found himself humming a melody from centuries past. Couldn't quite recall the words.

Slowly, carefully, he climbed to his feet, did his best not to disturb the child. Once he had managed to untangle himself, he quietly stalked to the bedroom where he had laid the boy's father.

Solin had been somewhat expecting what would be found. That didn't make him feel better about finding the dead body. By all appearances, blood loss had caught up with the man. With a heavy sigh, Solin carefully closed the body's eyes and stepped back. From a distance, if one ignored the blood, it was as if the man was simply sleeping. Too bad that the blood was impossible to ignore.

After that, Solin carefully checked over himself, careful to note any feelings that he might have which could potentially be a symptom of having caught this same blight. Children of the Gods didn't suffer fevers, so sometimes it made checking symptoms trickier than it was with warmbloods.

No fatigue. No aches that couldn't be accounted for. No blood coming from any spare openings. Not even a cough. Unfortunately, the lack of any symptoms didn't mean he was in the clear. Could be a slow-acting affliction, the man and his son could have been infected days ago and only started to show the symptoms today.

If fortune smiled upon them, the boy wasn't infected, the fever was simply another less serious issue. The realist in Solin didn't believe that for a moment, as much as he wanted to. The boy didn't deserve to suffer through such.

Sometimes, Solin wished that he was just as cold and impassive as he and his kin were often accused of being. Maybe it would be easier, watching as a literal child was to waste away from a blight that had Nurgle's dirty pox-ridden hands all over it. Wouldn't it be better to just be able to dismiss the event as an unfortunate event and move on?

He quickly felt guilt at the thought. No, while it might be easier, it wouldn't be better.

#

It was the morning of the next day when Solin was jolted awake from where he had slumped against the wall. His eyes blinked blearily as he tried to puzzle out what had awakened him. Then the trio of sharp thuds, a fist slamming against the wooden door, made themselves heard again.

'Colonel,' a voice on the other side of the blocked door called out. 'Are you awake?'

'Well I am now,' Solin answered irritably, the voice having removed all traces of drowsiness from his body.

He clambered to his feet, eyes automatically scanning the room to find the boy. His eyes narrowed in concern once he spotted Karl. The child was curled up on the floor, still asleep, but his skin was flushed and slick with sweat.

'This is Healer Eilswel,' the voice on the other side of the door spoke again.

Solin instantly placed the name to a face in his mind. Eilswel was a skink who had joined the Legion strictly as a healer. He had some talent with the Winds of Ghyran, which was why he was strictly a physician, and the second-most authority on the physical health of those in the Legion, only outranked in that field by another skink physician called Spicra, who was the official chief body-healer of the Legion, in much the same way that Muja was considered to be the chief mind-healer.

Solin hesitated a moment before replying, took in the tone of voice, as well as the fact that Eilswel was addressing him by rank. That informed him of the tone that the conversation was about to take.

'What news, healer?'

Eilswel answered swiftly. 'First, checking on you and the two humans in there with you.'

'The adult that was infected passed last night.' Solin was quick to reply. 'The boy is currently fevered. As for myself, give me a second…'

The saurus quickly checked himself over yet again for any hint that he was less than well. Same as last night, he found no signs of aches or pains, no fatigue, none of the usual signs that a Child of the Gods would show if their health was impacted. Despite his certainty, he then went through the process again to be certain.

Despite Eilswel's typical impatience, the healer was silent and let Solin take his time. Whether that was actual trust in Solin to be thorough, or resignation to the fact that he was unable to do the check himself Solin wasn't certain.

'I'm not showing any signs of infection or illness, and I still feel perfectly able,' Solin answered.

There was a sigh from the other side of the blocked door. 'I had a feeling that would be the case.'

Solin let out a sound of curiosity.

'We've actually seen this pox in the past,' Eilswel explained. 'We're immune, the pox seems to only infect humans. But we can be carriers. You're going to be trapped in that building for… two weeks after the boy passes.'

'You're…' Solin trailed off, eyes narrowing in frustration. 'I'm going to be locked in here with dead bodies?'

Eilswel allowed the no-nonsense tone to drop in favour of sympathy. 'I can have the guards widen out and allow you space to leave long enough to give them last rites, fire does burn away the pox, so cremation is a safe way to put them to rest.'

'How does it spread?' Solin asked after a pause.

The professional tone returned to Eilswel. 'From what we saw last time the Legion encountered this pox, it is mostly through contact with contaminated blood, or sweat during the fever stage.'

'We don't sweat, and if we're immune, I'm not about to bleed on any humans.'

There was a tutting sound from the other side of the door. 'I said mostly. None of the Legion are experts in diseases—so few actually affect us unless they're Nurglish in origin—so I won't make claims I can't back up. Maybe breathing too close to a human could spread it. I do know that this plague has its origins with Nurgle, so I can't purge the pox from you with magic. As such, I would prefer that you keep yourself quarantined for the full two weeks just so that we can be certain you aren't going to cause a full plague on the Empire.'

Solin hissed out a string of vulgarity that would make any skink proud to hear. 'Do we know how this pox started?'

The skink outside hummed, and Solin had a feeling that the healer was considering if he should be giving any information that Solin was unable to actually act on. After a while, there was a sigh. 'Captain Mex and the free company captain both found some evidence of a Malice worshipper still in the town. They've been working to find them.'

Solin could see why Eilswel had considered whether to tell him or not. This was something that Solin would have involved himself in, tracking down and rooting out a Chaos worshipper who was scheming and plotting. But locked in this building as he was, he was unable to actually contribute.

'How is Mex doing?' Solin asked finally.

'Muja says that he is doubting himself, but by all accounts, he is proving that he has earned his recent scar veterancy and the position of captain that came with it.'

'That's fair. He was supposed to spend more time as a sergeant, but after Kro-Loq…' Solin trailed off and shook his head even though the healer couldn't see. 'Pass on a message that I trust him?'

The healer let out a huff. 'Will do.'

Solin listened to the footfalls of the healer outside fade away, then turned. His eyes turned to the boy and noted that he was shivering, despite the warmth that was radiating from his skin.

#

Two days. Captain Mex was getting irritated, it had been two days and while he had found evidence to suggest that the Chaos cultist who had dropped the pox was still in the area—there had been a second instance of a human found infected with the blight, which was quickly quarantined—but Mex was still unable to find the one responsible. And he was now starting to take this as a personal insult.

Mex was a hunter, had been before his decision to join the Legion, and he had remained as one for the first half of his career within the Legion. Unfortunately, Mex had been noted as having potential in leadership, which shifted him away from his preferred role, and Kro-Loq's recent death had left a void that Mex was the one tasked with filling, but that did not change that Mex was first and foremost a hunter. That this Chaos cultist had managed to evade him for so long was a challenge, a taunt, one that he felt an obligation to answer.

So, before he set out for the third evening's prowl, he was in the room that he had been given at the town's inn, considering his prey and how best to find and remove the blight upon the land.

'How likely,' Mex began, casting a look toward Sergeant Vhix, 'is it that this cultist knows anything about our kind other than what they might have seen here?'

Vhix, a skink who before volunteering to join the Legion had been something of a scholar back home—his reason for volunteering had been a desire to learn about warmbloods up close, to satisfy a near insatiable curiosity—hummed thoughtfully. 'That is a good question. I think I remember hearing that the Norscans have managed to get a colony on Lustria, but whether they've really learned anything about our cousins is questionable.'

'And this cultist may not be Norscan, even if they have,' Mex said thoughtfully.

Vhix hummed again, rubbing the underside of his jaw while he considered the question that had started this conversation. 'Even these Empire humans aren't that learned about our kind, and they, alongside the Tilians and Estalians, are the ones with the most presence on Lustria, the most likely to actually be learning of us.'

'So,' Mex trailed off, trying to articulate his thoughts. 'How likely is it that any warmblood in existence is aware of just how impossible it is for one of our kind to be corrupted by the Ruinous Forces?'

Vhix opened his maw, paused, shut it and tilted his head in contemplation. 'That… is an interesting question. And even if it was a known fact, would the arrogance of Chaos accept that as a fact?'

The fact Vhix asked that question was proof to Mex that the skink was aware of what Mex was planning.

'It's risky,' Vhix said in a gentle tone. 'They might not fall for it.'

Mex gave a single nod and shrugged off his coat, carefully folding the garb and putting it upon the room's cot. 'What's that quaint Empire saying? "No risk, no reward"?'

'I think it was actually "no pains, no gains".'

Mex paused in his unbuttoning his waistcoat, blinking at Vhix dumbly. 'How does that work?'

Vhix's eyes crinkled. 'Human muscles ache when exercised to the edge of their limit, but doing so allows those same muscles to regrow stronger than before.'

Mex stared at Vhix, considered what he just heard, then shrugged and started to ruffle up his shirt and waistcoat, deliberately creasing the linen and cloth garments. 'That seems… strange and counter-productive.'

'They aren't like us,' Vhix reminded the saurus. 'They don't just keep gaining strength as they age, they need to actually work for what they get. And they can lose strength through inactivity.'

Deliberately rumpled and looking very much like he was done with everything, Mex cast one last look at the skink. 'No wonder humans are so susceptible to Chaos's corruptions. Why'd the Old Ones put that kind of weakness in them?'

Vhix spread his arms in a gesture of confusion. 'You'd have to ask a priest about that.' He then peered closer at Mex, assessing the haggard appearance that the scar veteran had adopted. 'Ok, you look sufficiently like somebody that would be open to tempting whispers.'

Mex looked down at his crinkled clothing and narrowed his eyes in distaste. 'I feel like a vagrant.'

'I'd suggest pouring cheap alcohol over yourself, but…'

'No.' Mex didn't hesitate to shoot that idea before it could really form.

Vhix raised his hands into a gesture of surrender and stepped back. 'You know the others will start wondering?'

'Good,' Mex said. 'It'll help sell the image.'

One last check over himself, had to fight to prevent the grimace that wanted to form up. When he'd joined the Legion, he hadn't anticipated just how attached he'd get to the uniform and wearing warmblood style clothing. But now? Deliberately messing up his clothing as he had felt like he held no pride in himself, even if he was doing it for a purpose.

He suppressed a shudder and quietly slipped out the door. Once he had exited the inn, he began to mutter vague words of dissatisfaction.

#

'In the quiet hush of twilight's embrace,' Solin softly recited the previously long-forgotten words, rocking his body back and forth with Karl wrapped in a tight embrace. Yet despite literal centuries since he'd last even given any thought to the old song, he found them at the forefront of his mind, as if he had never had a long hiatus in uttering the melody. 'A melody rises, filling the space,

Through whispers of wind and sighs of night,

It weaves through the darkness, bringing light.'

A pause to take breath, and to double-check his recollection of the words. It was a pause that was broken by Karl coughing. Solin didn't curse out loud, but it was a near thing when he spotted the flecks of crimson staining the child's lips.

It had been a single day since Eilswel had given Solin the update, and Karl's fever had worsened. The coughing had started the noon just passed, and any hope that might have been had that the fever was unrelated to the pox which had afflicted the father was lost when Karl had lowered a hand spattered with blood. And the child's condition had only worsened.

The poor boy wasn't even able to sleep through the illness, the constant coughing kept forcing him back to wakefulness the moment it looked as though he were about to doze off. If Solin hadn't been told that this particular illness had its origins rooted in Nurgle, this would have been its own form of confirmation. Nurgle would never tolerate somebody sleeping through one of his "gifts", so having a racking cough that would force one to stay awake was almost a taunting signature, a mocking "this is mine, you don't get a reprieve so easily".

'Mmm…' Karl mumbled wordlessly, trying to steady his breathing even after the coughing fit had passed.

Solin continued to recite the old song, gave Karl something to focus on. Karl's eyelids drooped but didn't fully close. Solin noted the trickle of blood leaking from one of the boy's nostrils.

There were moments, times that Solin, that anybody with even a modicum of compassion, would be torn between the kindness of a quick death versus the knowledge that in doing so they'd be staining their own hands. This was a nine-year-old child, a boy who hadn't yet truly lived his life, there was no way that anybody could say that he deserved to die, and certainly not through a disease crafted by a malevolent entity such as Nurgle.

But mercy, sparing the suffering, still meant killing.

There were times Solin wished, so, so much, that he wasn't burdened with emotion. The warmbloods, those who were actually educated, had a common misconception about the Children of the Gods, had a belief that they weren't feeling creatures. That they operated purely on logic and the will of the Old Ones. Would that have been the case, maybe this pain wouldn't exist. Muted as it may be for the Children of the Gods in comparison to the warm-blooded races, they still felt.

Thumb lightly traced circles on the boy's back, held him as another fit of gut-aching coughs shook his body. A second trail of blood slowly leaked, this time from one of the boy's ears.

He knew that his previous thoughts were wrong, that emotion wasn't a burden. But it was hard to remember that as he watched this innocent child slowly waste away, life liquid leaking away until there wouldn't be anything left but a hollow husk of a body.

He remembered where he had left off, and for lack of anything else he could do, he continued the song he had learnt those centuries again.

'O, weary soul, in shadows deep,

Find solace in this song's gentle sweep,

Let burdens lift, let wounds find rest,

In the melody's embrace, be blessed.'

#

Captain Mex stared down at the scarred body, eyes instantly locked on the eight-pointed star carved into the man's flesh. Four days he had spent hunting this quarry. And now it had come to the inevitable conclusion. The cultist had fallen for the ploy, for the exploitation of the lack of knowledge that the warmbloods had regarding the Children of the Gods. Two nights Mex had taken to stumbling about, clothing deliberately ruffled and creased, all while muttering about the futility of "fighting for uncaring gods" and other borderline blasphemous words. First bait set.

The next day, Mex had staged an argument with Sergeant Vhix, the skink having been told ahead of time what the plan was. Second bait set.

A third bait had been planned, but it hadn't been needed. Night had fallen, and the cultist had foolishly revealed himself, intending to recruit Mex into service of Malice. A follower of Tzeentch this was no. No Tzeentchian would have fallen for that trap. Not with only two of the deceptions set up.

Mex paused in rebuttoning his waistcoat, eyes drawn to a shadow that appeared to move of its own volition, but when there was no other sign of movement, he shrugged and continued to tidy his clothing. Wished he had his coat, but that had been left in his tent, as the most recognisable part of his uniform, not wearing it had been a deliberate part of making himself look unsatisfied and ready to defect. Remove the most recognisable symbol of allegiance, that was more than half the work of making one look ready to turn against one's own.

Another human appeared, this one dressed as a member of the free company militia in town, a pistol held in one hand, a blade in the other. Mex paused in his act of tucking in his shirt, eyes fixed upon the militiaman. The militiaman in turn eyed Mex, pistol pointed at the saurus, but then looked upon the body, looked past the bloody neck, blood that matched that which was dripping from Mex's right hand—a reminder that even without weapons, a saurus was never without means of killing—and focused instead upon the aged scarring on the corpse's chest, identified the self-mutilation.

'Damn, this the one who dropped the blights?' the militiaman asked after a drawn-out pause.

'I believe so,' Mex answered.

The militiaman paused again, then huffed out a laugh. 'You was deceiving him, wasn't you?' the human asked with a sharp voice, almost annoyed but almost impressed in equal measure. 'I was following you because the captain was concerned after you was spotted stumbling about like you was two steps away from deserting.'

Mex took a moment to consider that, then huffed out a laugh of his own. 'Good, if I fooled you. That helped fool him.'

'Nah, I geddit. A secret is naw a secret if ev'ryone knows an' all.'

Mex nodded, but didn't say anything, still wasn't versed in conversing with the warmbloods. The militiaman hummed, lightly kicking the corpse as if expecting the act to prove the cultist was merely faking his death. Nothing, the body stayed just as dead as it had been previously.

'So, a Nurglite?' the militiaman mused, then shook his head. 'Naw, nawt a sign of having been infected 'imself.'

Now Mex did answer. 'I've noticed that these Malice cultists have no issue using the methods of other Chaos cults. Needlessly bloody execution methods, magic, and now plagues.' He paused a moment, remembering the failed defence of the Feyerabend Keep. He hadn't been in a position to get a good look at the exalted champions who had led the warhost to victory, but… 'Huh… something to discuss with the colonel, once he can leave quarantine…'

'Eh… about that.' Mex turned to look at the militiaman, eyes narrowed, and the militiaman took a started step back at the abrupt movement of the larger reptilian figure. 'I think 'e's setting a funeral pyre. Yer quarantine guards all moved to give 'im space to leave the farmhouse but still be distant from ev'rybody else.'

Mex cursed softly. 'That means… the child?'

'Yea, dead.' The militiaman had the sense to lower his tone mournfully. 'F'ck'n Chaos bastards. What does killing a child gain?'

Nothing, Chaos is just a malicious force in general, and this warhost seems to relish in being even more so than the usual suspects. Mex didn't say what he was thinking, didn't feel the need to. It would probably just be preaching to the believer.

Without another word, Mex pushed past the militiaman, left cleaning up the body to the human, and not-quite ran to the outer edge of the town, towards where the farmhouse that Solin had been locked away stood.

When he arrived, the pyre had already been lit, two bodies—carefully wrapped up in whatever fabrics Solin had doubtless been able to scavenge from the building—were rested in the centre of the pyre, slowly being kissed by the orange flames.

Solin himself was slumped against the wall of the farmhouse, far enough from the pyre that the wooden building wasn't at risk of catching the flame. The oldblood sat with one knee drawn to his jaw, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

'Hey, colonel,' Mex called out.

It took ten seconds for Solin to react, but after those seconds passed, the oldblood turned his attention to Mex. Mex didn't say anything, let his eyes do the talking for him. Solin appeared to understand the unspoken report, he breathed in deeply, let out a sigh, and then nodded in acknowledgement, eyes steeling as Solin managed to lock away whatever emotion was stewing in his mind, and he clambered to his feet.

'Captain,' he called back, voice raised to be heard clearly over the distance. 'Continue the patrols, but get everybody ready. Unless a runner gives us cause otherwise, once I'm free to leave, we are going to be marching back westward.'

Mex was a little taken aback at the tone that Solin spoke with, but his eyes drifted to the pyre, easily recalling the most oft-used joke the Legion liked to utter regarding Solin's habits. He silently promised to himself that he would make certain that everybody was aware to put a pause on those particular jokes for the immediate future. He also told himself to make sure that Muja was sent Solin's way. Other than that, there was little else that he could do. Maybe if he were one of those that were close to the colonel, but Mex's interactions with the oldblood were, while largely positive, minimal and far from enough to consider them to be close enough for Mex to even consider getting involved in the older saurus's personal affairs.

'Colonel.' Mex rumbled, acknowledging the order he was given. It was all he could do.

He looked again at the pyre, then turned. Behind him, Solin spent another minute staring at the pyre, before he too turned, and entered back into the building which he would be spending the next two weeks.