Round 2 Team 8

[Silence Sei]

The team is The Mongrel and Erirag The Poet. Round starts at Midnight tonight, CST, and lasts for two weeks. Good luck!

[Erirag the Poet]

“N’ron tela rusverochor e’Alerar?”

Spoiler:

Don’t they shoot lame horses in Alerar?”

The two elves were huddled over a table at the first Lindequalmё checkpoint that led into the heart of Podё’s territory. Neither of them laughed at the joke. The table was long and narrow, meant to be a workstation for injured elves. The woman who lay draped across the solid oak was much taller and wider than any body the surface meant to cradle. Erirag was covered in sweat, her hands partially under her as they gripped the sides of the wooden trestle. She huffed with gritted teeth, grimacing through her tusks as they worked. At one point a helpful elf maiden reached up to mop the sweat from her green brow, but the bard only swept away the arm. She didn’t mind the sweat or the way her auburn hair was plastered to her face. Instead she was happier to focus on what the field medics were doing, if they could call themselves sharogen. As far as she could tell, they were more butchers. One of the healers, the tall one with a crooked nose and ice blue eyes who had been called Amaron, deftly moved a scalpel and cut away skin that had turned a glistening black. Erirag’s blood bubbled up on her thigh, and as the elves moved to clean and mop the area she kicked out as she roared in pain.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you’d taken the medication!” Amaron said, as coldly as the contempt in his eyes.

“Erirag not fool!” she hissed back, arching her back and tightening her grip as a wave of nausea and dizziness floated over her. “Tiny elf love poison orc! Erirag travel long way! Come to dumb place! Come help! You zanbaur not care.” She wailed then, miserable from pains both physical and emotional. How had it come to this? She’d never had an infected wound before and now her thigh was swollen, hot to the touch, in incredible pain, and the stench was unbearable. She was sure it was the fault of Ciato Orlouge. He had cut her while she slept but hadn’t had the courtesy to use a clean blade, she would bet on it. This was exactly why she never trusted a weapon. Her fists were so much more civilized.

“Re n’na atyaneire pilinie lye lavaya Lindequalmё sana he.” Amaron said, returning to the joke one of his assistants made.

Spoiler:

She is not worth the arrows. We could let the Red Forest take her.

This only earned a snort from the other healer, an older elf whose blonde locks were just starting to grey at the temples. He began to sew the incision, swatting Erirag when her leg twitched away from his sharpened needle. He’d been sewing bodies for too long now, especially with the Corpse War still so fresh in Raiaera’s memory. He hadn’t had a patient as annoying as the bard, but he had more than enough experience to work through her protests. He found himself shaking his head, glancing up with a verdant gaze at his young apprentice.

“Ikotane Podё caeluva he vee’mool? N’uma.” He said. After a sigh he quickly stitched the last inch of incision before tying off the knot. “Re n’aa atyaneire fallanelye ria.”

Spoiler:

So Podё can have her as a servant? No. It’s a shame. She’s not worth our healing either.

Now that they had finished, Erirag was leaning back on the board, her arms quivering and her moonshine eyes glazed over. The assistants were able to clean her of sweat and get warming lambskins to cover her up. When a particularly nervous elven maid brought her a cup, the orc could do no more than ask “What this?”

“Tea, white willow bark for the pain, ginger for your stomach.” The girl answered in a stronger voice than expected. Erirag had to give her some credit for her spirit. She stank of fear but one could hardly tell. Quietly, the orc accepted it and drank deeply. She was tired, too tired not to rest for a moment even if it meant giving these elves the satisfaction of seeing her weak. The healers looked at each other from over her legs, now relaxed and dangling from the table. The same thought was on both of their minds. What were they possibly going to do with the orc?

Finally, Amaron had the answer. “Ona he yassen peredhil.”

Spoiler:

Put her with the Halfling.

[The Mongrel]

Siegfried used with permission

A Mousie scurries through spider webs,
She pokes through dust and beetle shells.
What does Mousie look for?
Does she seek Sparrow, who flies in the sky?
Does she seek Rat, who eats all the time?
Does she seek Spider, to confront her lies?
See the shape of truth, Mousie!
See though it hides in silk and shadow!
See that the Mousie and the Sparrow are the same.
Mutt’s Writings

It wasn’t exactly my intention, but I broke through the bloody foliage and into a camp little more than an hour after my group disintegrated. This one was different than the one on the edges; more elves rushed between tents with more purpose in their strides. The other mercenaries who filtered in wore masks of determination, rage, sorrow or pain. Those who had underestimated the forest or overestimated themselves would never see a camp.

I believed it likely that my cocksure companions were among the dead. I certainly didn’t see them getting their new assignments from the man who looked to be in charge. It brought me no grief; the clumsy fools had only slowed me down. Or perhaps I was simply ahead of them on the journey.

I could hear the screams and groans of the wounded who were lucky enough to make it this far and into the care of the healers. There were human whimpers, elven grunts, and… an orc? A she-orc. Either that or a large human of ambiguous gender who couldn’t swear adequately in any other language than Orcish (but Orcish is a great language to swear in, if you can hit the gutteral notes).

My head and shoulder throbbed in sympathy; I’d had a pretty good knock courtesy of a big Dur’Taigen. That wasn’t immediately going to kill me, so if I wanted healing, I would have to wait my turn. Considering I’m half Alerian and the healers are Raiaeran…

I didn’t really want healing. Not from those pompous assholes, anyway.

“Illara!”

A voice I barely knew but couldn’t mistake called out for me over the din of a few dozen shouts - the injured, the medics, the people in charge and the people who called for their newly-assigned groupings. A spectacularly shiny Bladesinger hurried to my side. His black hair had blue streaks in it, his eyes flashed hazel, and though his smile was weary, it looked honest enough. “Cormamin lindua ele lle, seler’ amin.”

“‘Quel andune, Siegfried.” His smile faltered a bit, and I’d kind of intended it to. After all, returning ‘my heart sings to see you, my sister,’ with ‘good afternoon’ is a little less than courteous. He’d written, I’d come, but that didn’t mean I was ready to reconcile.

My half-brother took my unenthusiastic greeting in stride, looking me over quickly when he reached me. I waved a hand, brushing off his concern as readily as I had his flowery words. I’d come to camp under my own power; I was fine.

“I apologize for not meeting you at the dock, sister.” I moved past green and white tents and suspicious elven eyes with him in step beside me. “Business in Eluriand held me up for ten days longer than expected.”

“The boat was five days late. We would have still been en route if you’d been there, and then how could either of us have had any of this fun?” A particularly visceral scream rent the heavy air, and I raised my eyebrows at Sieg, who winced. We were both aware that it could have easily been either of us suffering under the healers’ ministrations.

We were both aware we would have been lucky if that were the case.

Siegfried already had his assignment; he and another Bladesinger would be protecting a few druids while they worked to cleanse an area to the east. He stayed at my side while I awaited my instructions and tried to make conversation, but a few flippant responses persuaded him to stop.

Perhaps neither of us were really ready for me to be back. Neither of us knew how to act or what to say.

“Erirag Songcrafter,” I read when I at last had my assignment. “Erirag… that’s an orcish name.” The person I loved best in this life had been a half-orc, and I wondered how much orc was in my partner. In all my years in Corone, I found that I liked orc mixes a lot. They were rarely quick on the uptake, but they were incredibly straightforward. If they didn’t like you, you found out when they took a swing at your face, not when they slipped some poison into your drink after months or years of flattery. It made them easy to deal with.

Songcrafter… an orcish poet. Who would have thought the world had enough room for two? Mutt had written hundreds of poems in his lifetime. How much more similarity would there be between my lover and this new face I’d yet to meet? The thought brought so much warmth to my heart that I almost didn’t hear my brother fussing.

“I’ll have you reassigned to my unit immediately.” Authority permeated his tone; he had every intention of using his rank to ensure his helpless baby sister didn’t get smashed into so much meat paste by the mean green murder machine. For an elf who claims to have moved past the hatreds of his forefathers, I think he still has some hangups.

“No.” I turned toward the healers’ tents. One of the screams there could have been Orcish, so it was a good place to start looking. “I’d rather an orc’s honest animosity than an elf’s false tolerance. Don’t die out there, Siegfried.”

“Illara!” he called after me, worried and frustrated. When I looked back at him his jaw worked, a thousand words trying to speak themselves without reaching his tongue. After a moment he sighed and his shoulders slumped a little. “Tira ten’ rashwe,” he murmured. Be careful.

I nodded and left him.

Finding the orc took less time than finding out I was assigned to her, and she was one incredible mess. Her cheeks flushed purple with fever and her temples and forehead were nearly yellow with pain; whatever her attendants had done hadn’t been enough. I wondered if they’d even given her more than a crude bloodletting and a poultice. I doubted it; my mother’s race can be total assholes to those they deem unworthy. Orcs, Alerian elves, people who put the first course’s fork in the place of the second course’s fork, and so on. We aren’t people to them.

She glared at me. To her, I was probably just another one of those androgynous flower-blooded bastards who were giving her grief. No you don’t.

I stood as tall and straight as I could, puffed out my chest, thrust out my chin, and walked with as much force as I could manage. “Kon,” I growled, thumping my chest. “Ashdautas Erirag Vrasubatlat.”

As far as Orcish goes, that was a polite greeting. I gave her a word to identify me by and told her I would kill her someday. Hopefully she’d be equally courteous with her reply.

[Erirag the Poet]

Kon. Erirag regarded the elf for a moment. The thing with dogs was that they came in many flavors. Was this grey-tinted mutt a stoic guard dog or a yappy annoyance? For now, Erirag had to admit she was equal parts impressed and suspicious. She’d never been hailed in her mother tongue by an elf, and while there was something not quite right about the way this one looked she was still an elf. Erirag hauled herself up to sitting with a grunt and nodded her head at the elf who seemingly knew the Black Tongue.

“Nar udautas, Kon.” She said warily, giving the newcomer a quick look over. She gave her the standards courteous reply but something didn’t feel right about bringing her into the orcish fold just yet. She was at least honest when she told Illara that she would not be killed this day. Erirag tried her best to speak in Common, letting her clumsy words spill from her mouth like ale overflowing a shallow cup. “Zanbauri send Erirag this Kon? Send Kon with Erirag name? Why?” Her leg throbbed as she slid off the trestle and stood, still two heads taller than the half-breed despite hobbled from pain.

Erirag shook her head before she let Illara answer her questions and held out her hand in a gesture of silence. It didn’t really matter how she knew her name, or why she was here. She figured the tea she’d been given was probably poison. It wasn’t doing a damn thing for her pain, after all. However, she’d been injured worse, and she’d known countless fools who’d been no worse for the wear when wounds got infected. If it came to it, she’d set herself on fire and roll through the Red Forest, setting her path ablaze on the way to the witch within. She’d cauterize this cursed land, just as sure as she’d cauterize herself. It may have been the fever, but it didn’t sound like too bad of a plan.

Smoothing down her grass and leather skirt, Erirag began to push past the swordswoman but paused and looked down her broad nose at the woman and sniffed. Her brow furrowed as she was reminded of the check in to the tent when she first arrived, and the elves fussing over her and what role she had to play for the glory of Raiaera. At the time she could only bemoan how everything was about glory with this lot. Didn’t they know the dead were rising up amongst the trees?

“We together?” she asked Illara, gesturing between the two bodies. “We go fight?” There was a lilt of hope in her last words. Surely the best remedy for her pain and samund was found in the fury of her fists.

[The Mongrel]

“We together,” I told her, honestly glad that she spoke Trade. I knew a few hundred words of her language and had a loose grasp on grammar and syntax (which made me about as fluent as the average orc, really), but I have a delicate elven throat. A day of choking on those rough and barbed consonants would rip it to shreds. Even if she knew some of my native tongue, she’d never get the subtle intonations around those huge tusks. Trade was a good compromise.

I stepped past her, deeper into the tent. The rancid stench of pus overlaid the bitter tang of medicine, drawing bile up to my throat. I forced it down; I’ve lived in worse and I needed to know just how bad her care had been. Blood-soaked rags told of crude surgery, a cup showed they’d at least tried some sort of remedy for either her pain or her fever. The dregs were a greenish-brown color; it was indeed a painkiller. Hell, a cup that size would knock me on my ass.

Neither the dose nor the actual medicine were anywhere near sufficient for an orc. “We go get clean water,” I answered her other question, nodding at the frustrated growl. Yup. Bitch work. I didn’t like it either. I was willing to bet that my brother had arranged for me to have something simple, close to dozens of warriors bristling with weapons, and relatively safe. They’d probably put the orc with me because they didn’t trust either of us and if we went and got ourselves killed (or killed each other), they really didn’t care.

I grabbed a couple of empty pails on our way out, leading Erirag toward the forest and digging into a pouch at my hip. I brought out two pieces of rough bark, each as big as my hand. I offered them to her. “Willow bark, from Corone. To help with pain. Good for fever."

Though using Trade, I still spoke like an orc, a little low, a little harsh, with very simple words and barely-there sentence structure. After all, if I were half-crippled by injuries and infection, I’d appreciate someone who used language I could understand, especially if I were going out of my way to speak their tongue.

We left the camp behind, letting its clamor and bustle slowly dim to nothingness beneath the forest’s sinister rustles. White tents and colorful pennants gave way to crimson foliage and a sea of thorns. When I could no longer hear the snap of orders or the screams of wounded, I dropped the buckets and turned to Erirag.

“Fuck those bastards and fuck their horses for good measure.” Both the expletives and the suddenness of them brought a smile to my companion’s face, but nowhere near as much as my next words did. “How would Erirag’s blood sing to smash Pode’s teeth down her throat?”

She wanted to fight. I wanted to fight. Together we were going to kill.

[Erirag the Poet]

The delight Erirag felt was tangible. She huffed happily and stood just a bit straighter as she hopped over one of the fallen buckets. Her clenched fists rose to beat on her chest a few proud thumps. She was relieved that the elf didn’t want to play it safe or coddle her. Her glee was only magnified by her new companion’s spirit. It almost didn’t feel as if this Kon was an elf at all.

“Erirag sing from ancient blood,” she said with a guttural laugh. The chuckle both rumbled and lilted, as if the shuddering of a mountain could hide a schoolgirl. Her lute was in her hands from her back, her fingers stroking the stretched elf hide that covered the rosewood body. As a makeshift tune peddled around them, the forest grew thicker. The thorns beneath their feet were growing thicker, with game trails less noticeable as they traveled though they stuck to a main avenue likely forged by deer or dur’taigen.

“Art!” she sang, the tune slowly turning to a jovial jig. “Lulri ongob, bajat zahovar farkishi – hodhat jashat drautan afar flak!”

Spoiler:

Fortune! Roses of iron, created like a diamond by the forge – thrown out to shine by the flame!”

After a moment of strumming the tune again more thoughtfully, she looked down at Illara. The visceral joy in her words as she suggested they forget the water and go for Podё. The Iron Rose was an apt title for the Kon, she decided. She wondered where all that iron came from. After all, Erirag had never met an elf who wasn’t as snooty as they were disposable.

“You elf? But you not lulgijak. Kon more like uruk. Erirag like it. But not know why?” She made a face as she glanced over the woman again. “Kon look different than lulgijak too. Just little amount.”

As they had walked, Erirag had the presence of mind to sweep the brush under their feet for signs of the more dangerous flora of Raiaera. She didn’t know enough to track anything here, but she at least had some knowledge of blood vines and soul flowers. It was enough that she was wary of any vine that moved beyond the wind, thorns with suckers, and flowers too beautiful for their own good. However, she never saw the gleam of light ahead through the trees.

[The Mongrel]

“More than a hundred winters ago, Alerelf man force his shati on Raiarelf woman. Kon born before next winter. From first breath, Kon lost, Kon trash, unwanted by tribe, unwanted by gods, unwanted by memory.”

That answered Erirag’s questions about my looks, with the easily understood subtext that my only choices in life were to be strong – be iron – or to be dead. I’d even managed to translate Unfounded’s mantra into orcish concepts. I was actually proud of myself at that moment; usually I needed weeks to convince half-blooded orcs that I wasn’t the same sort of flowery snit as the rest of my pointy-eared race, but within an hour, a full blood had not only freely granted that I had some iron to me, she’d compared me favorably to one of her own race.

I suppose the situation had something to do with her quick acceptance of me. I was probably the first person in Raiaera to treat Erirag with any sort of respect. I not only saw her needs, but I rose to meet them, and it wasn’t with a dismissive ‘you go, you smash.’

I think that’s the problem with most of my race; they’re so busy finding insufficiencies in people who aren’t like them to see that they really aren’t so great, themselves. Me? I’d rather an orc than an idiot – and the one I walked the Lindequalme beside was no fool.

"Why Erirag hunt in Red Forest? Why Erirag answer call? Lulgijakri deserve no orcish iron. Did Erirag come for Erirag?"

We stalked through the Red Forest, pressing deeper into its bloody brambles. Erirag kept watch around us for carnivorous flora and other unpleasant surprises, so I let my senses roam farther afield. My ears filtered out my partner’s heavy breaths and listened for crackling steps in the dead leaves or claws scraping in the branches above our heads. My eyes pierced the foliage, seeking shapes and colors that didn’t match the surrounding trees or temperatures that glowed too hot or too cold.

As such, I saw the light breaking through leaves and branches ahead of us. I suspected that it was once meant to shine soothing silver, but corruption or magical decay had turned it eerie blue. It called to me, murmuring assurances of vindication and validation, of power and freedom. It hummed, it sang, it mesmerized me, and I walked toward it.

At least, I walked until a massive paw grabbed me around the shoulders, hauling me back and up. A thorny vine whipped through the area I’d stood an instant before, little mouths gaping with bloodlust. It swung back at me, but my sword flashed out, finely-forged mythril that still glowed with starlight. The severed rusilek fell to the ground with a gory spurt of crimson juice, writhing weakly toward Erirag’s feet before it stilled.

The orc and I looked at each other for a moment, eye level for the first time. She held me like a rag doll, and I doubted she could tell the difference in weight. I’ve got iron to me, but her bicep was still almost as thick as my waist. “Nice save.”

“What Kon do?!" She set me down gently, letting my feet touch the ground before releasing me instead of just dropping me. If we weren’t on genuinely good terms, she’d have slammed me down or flung me. I really like how straightforward orcs are; it lets me know just how delicately I need to act around them. Right then, I was at a point where I could probably survive a mistake or two, but I wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking we were truly friends yet. We had yet to shed blood in battle together.

I pointed. “Light ahead. Blue. Magic. Erirag want stay here and Kon go scout ahead, or Erirag want go together?”

[Erirag the Poet]

“Together,” Erirag said in a grunt, nodding her head. Something wasn’t quite right. If the orc had to guess which of the two of them would be captivated by some magic in the woods, she wouldn’t have guessed the healthy, stealthy halfling. She was loathe to take her attention away from the brush and trees after Illara’s near-miss with the blood vine, but as they moved down the lane to the clearing ahead Erirag began to see glimpses of light. The bard fell out of step with her shorter compatriot, stopping to scratch the side of her neck as she stared through the dark copse of trees that massed before them. There was just enough space between them for the game trail that they followed to birth a true path, sheaves of slate stone erupting from the thick forest floor like nails clawing their way up to the surface.

It was fitting that the path leveled and led to a small mausoleum. The circular building was formed in marble and glass, catching the pools of light that spilled from the russet canopy like wine on a mirror. It was blush and blood, and the closer they got they glimpsed the dark lines of lead along the glass that traced out a scene. The color had long since faded from the glasswork, leaving only a vague outline and the barest hints of detailing that had once told a story in stained glass.

You’ll never tell that kind of story. You are so small compared to the epics. You’re nothing but an insect.

The sudden upheaval of criticism stopped Erirag in her tracks. She stood at the edge of the steps of the tomb, staring at the Raiaeran script that edged the top of the doorway. Morning glory vines twisted along the columns outside and sprouted and tunneled in the groove around the arched doorway. The violet flowers opened like trumpets.

Far more majestic instruments to sing battle songs than an old lute played by fat, flailing fingers.

The words resounding in her mind were framed in her inner voice, more eloquent than she knew herself to be but fully understood. What had she done since she set out to find greater stories than could be told on the mountains of Alerar? She’d merely been killed, injured, infected, and left in the presence of humans who would never understand her, befriending half orcs and half elves, completely segregated from the only family or tribe she’d known. For all the kinship she’d found out in the world, here she stood in front of a beautiful hall of death and remembrance for beings much older and greater than the either of them, and she stood there alone.

Erirag had been forming an answer to Illara when the vine had struck, and the words she had found were lost. Now, her heart beating wildly in her chest and a sense of unease and great loneliness creeping in on her shoulders, new words came crashing down. She gasped as if they’d been running for days. Erirag tried to make her body smaller, hunching down as her doubts began to grow.

“Erirag came for nothing. Erirag have no use for Raiaera, for lulgijakri. Erirag just have bad dumb songs and shame. Erirag no urukhai.” Her voice was soft, her words choking. It was the deepest lament she’d ever voiced, and she truly felt that it would be her last.

[The Mongrel]

Here they sleep beneath the sky,
Brave Singers of Light who fought the Death Song.
May the Stars smile upon their rest,
And they defend us as in life, in death.

The inscription carved into the red-stained marble sent a chill prickling up my spine. There was old magic on this tomb, easily corrupted magic. Rumors at both the base camp and the checkpoint spoke of walking dead among the Lindequalme’s trees. They’d suggested that the undead were Pode’s doing, not leftovers from Xem’zund’s devastating march through Raiaera. If that was true, where better to raise the dead than at a tomb consecrated to the elvish pantheon, where a score of vengeful warriors lay waiting for their chance?

What better targets to sic them on than an elf they’d only see as Alerian and an orc?

Erirag’s voice, thick with despair, broke upon my thoughts, banishing them for this one: I could not afford to have a seven-foot tall siege machine having an emotional breakdown today. But I felt like I knew the source of her turmoil; I’d heard it hundreds of times before. My companion was lost and misbegotten, friendless, faithless, and forgotten. While I would never be as convincing as the man who had brought me into the Unfounded fold or as eloquent as the half-orc I had steadfastly loved, I had dealt with similar breakdowns, sometimes under supremely dangerous circumstances

I tilted my head so I could look at her. Sweat and sweltering humidity had her hair clinging to her skin, her lungs choked on the fetid air. “Erirag Erirag. Erirag here, so Erirag decide what Erirag is. Uruk, noldo, shara, shakutarbik. All different. All same. Erirag sing from blood, from iron. Erirag have shame? Then Erirag sing louder. Sing truer. Sing of living, because Erirag alive. Sing of knowing, because Erirag sees. Sing of steel, because Erirag went further, grew stronger.”

The hazy orange light of the Lindequalme, lanced through the shadows of the leaves and danced on the orc’s skin. She didn’t straighten, didn’t acknowledge my attempt to reassure her, so I raised my hands a little to exhort her to confidence. “Erirag not urukhai? Then be death itself.”

A contemptuous voice slithered into my consciousness, as beautiful and powerful and cold as a rushing river during spring's thaw. My brother’s voice. ”You would compare orcs and elves equally? No wonder you went and found worth only among the unworthy, if you can think of the green-skins any better than rooting swine. Miserable halfbreed.”

My mouth twisted. I’m going to stab him when I get out of here.

That thought vanished into smoke when metal and bones started to rustle behind me. With targets close, the dead stirred from their sepulchers. Perhaps they thirsted for living blood or hungered for living flesh. More likely they just wanted to slay living enemies. They were consecrated as eternal guardians of Raiaera, but with their conviction corrupted, their targets were us.

“Let us shed blood together. Or will long-dead lulgijak kill Erirag today?”

[Erirag the Poet]

From within the monument, the Canad had woken from their mythical slumber. It had been meant for them to stay asleep forever, with the magic in their relics and memories to feed the enchantment on their tomb. Their legacy had kept the grounds safe, the arch of the doorway a haven for travelers for centuries. Now the doorway bulged and strained, the looping vines and stalks of morning glory snapping and shifting as the Bladesingers behind the door shoved. After a moment of silence, the doors burst forth, spilling the mythic champions onto the terrace.

Four tall, armor clad elves emerged and immediately the time that had seemed to stand still while whispers tickled at Erirag’s senses and brought down her spirit was brought back to life. Two of the figures leapt towards her. One was a woman, who seemed familiar somehow though Erirag couldn’t quite tell how. Most of her face was obscured behind a gleaming helm that protected all but blonde braids that fell freely. Her mythril armor was studded with gems, and pauldrons encrusted with quartz points glowed the same strange shade of green as the edge of the claymore she held in her hands. Her partner was dressed more in robes, though he too was lavished in crystal and wore the face mask. He had a longsword at his side, though twin daggers flashed in his hands as he began to weave a spell.

“What Erirag?” she asked, her voice as small as her hunched form. She rolled to the side just as a slash of green flame leapt from the sorcerer, standing tall in the face of the paladin that brandished her blade at the orc. “Erirag duumpat.” As far as she was concerned, she was doomed. They were all doomed. The voices in her head were growing louder, distorted by the sound of her heartbeat. Her forehead was burning, sweat pouring down her back. Her leg was bleeding through the wrappings, and she was growing less and less sure of herself. She somehow felt that she would die here, alone. However, there was one voice coming through, that of the half elf. Illara had a point. She was going to die, but it wouldn’t be at the hands of a frilly, wine drinking, flower sniffing elfson.

The bard screamed, fury and power in her lungs and charged. She swatted at the claymore, batting the blade to the side even as it sliced deep into her arm. She’d been dealing with pain for hours now, and the cut was dulled by adrenaline she’d been feeding on since infection had taken hold of the letters carved in her thigh. She was tired, and weaker, but still angry enough to cause damage.

With the blade out of the way, the elf was left before her. Surprised eyes widened behind the mask, maybe green but darkened enough so that Erirag could not tell. The claymore was abandoned and the elf ducked as Erirag tried to grab her face. The damage of the sword was done. Erring looked and saw an aura surround her forearm. It was as if Podë’s red mist from the other day was engulfing her flesh. While she paused and stared, the sorcerer had prepared another spell. A verdant flash of light struck her and suddenly the entire world was awash with red and pain. Erirag gasped and fell to the ground. There, she began to see.