Mordelain was, to say the least, quite surprised by Luned’s survival instinct. Though it was kith and kin in human nature to survive, to prolong life at all costs, there was much to be said for the plucky scribe’s flight from the gazebo. The troubadour, agog, could only watch as she bounded away.

“Why did I listen to you…” she said to Resolve, though the sound of sword against air and fist against jaw told her all she needed to know about her companion’s ability to hear, never mind to respond. Begrudgingly, Mordelain glanced fleetingly over her shoulder, to check her ears were not playing tricks on her, and then stepped down onto the gazebo’s curved aperture.

“Are you frightened, little mouse?” she bellowed. Her lungs cracked wide, giving her a rush of blood to the head she had not felt in years. She had spent too long in the dark, cold depths of nowhere. Resolve had been the first person to truly make the Troubadour feel alive in two centuries. It felt…riveting.

“I’m not scared of you!” Luned bellowed, a meek voice mighty in the meaning. She held her arm still close to her, though Mordelain was not experienced enough in the many forms of magic on Althanas to know what danger it posed to her.

“Are you injured, little mouse?” she said, a thick Fallien veil falling over her Tama tongue. She slipped from Tradespeak to common, quite unable to keep up with herself. Her head was beginning to race, her fever rose, and her heart beat like a drum solo – loud, proud, and deafening.

No reply came, except in the form of cupping, caressing, and fondling her arm.

Mordelain’s feet came to a natural end-stop when her toes cupped the edge of the last step. One more advance, and she would be reunited with the buoyant lawn. In such an exuberant state, she could not trust her concentration to carry her safely towards her opponent. She could end up anywhere in the nine worlds, lost and adrift, set at odds with the universe because of a foolish need to end a life, to survive.

“If you’re injured, then why are you running?” she said, a sudden softness lulling even her cold, alien heart into a false sense of security. It seemed futile to run from a prey injured, “I will follow you, across the stars ablaze and the cracking universe as it decays through time.” She cocked her head to the left, just as Resolve and Flint clashed heavily behind her. “You stand and die, or you stand and rise triumphant.” She took the Partisan, its length longer than even her tall form into both hands, and levelled it in a left weighted stance so its tip aimed for Luned’s forehead.

She charged, with all the might of her conviction, feet eschews, knees taught, and eyes ablaze with murderous intent. If, when she arrived in Luned’ vicinity, either of the women were alive, the spider silk shaft would thrust forwards; it would be a headline worth reading in Salvar’s cold heart.