Winter Wonderland (Open)

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

By the Hells, it was cold!

Aurelianus trudged through the ice and snow, wading up to his waist in freezing, plain, monotonous white snow. He was out of the worst of the biting wind, making his way unsteadily through a small, relatively sheltered valley, in the region of the southern mountains of Salvar. He was also absolutely bloody miserable, and he was cold.

In fact, cold didn't begin to describe it.

The tiefling muttered curses and swore like a drunken Coronian sailor, pulling his coat tighter around himself. His hair was almost frozen solid, the dark red quills brittle to the touch, and the sweat from his exertion was already freezing on his brow. Running a forked tongue over his chapped lips, he scanned the featureless mountains and snowy plains before him, looking for any noticeable landmark.

Rummaging again inside his coat, the Warlock pulled out a worn and tattered map. It led to a lost and long-forgotten crypt, a repository of lore; tomes, grimoires and ancient tablets... but it didn't matter a damn if he couldn't find the bloody place!!

A map in his hand, and thanks to all the pikin' ice and snow, it looked like the crypt would stay lost forever powers-damned more. Gnashing his fangs in irritation, the tiefling tucked the map back in his coat, and looked around again. The Warlock tensed, seeing something moving against the snow, out of the corner of his eye. Whirling on the spot, he was dismayed to see nothing. Not a single thing.

Except more bloody snow!

There! Again, just out of the corner of his eye, Aurelius saw movement. But, this time when he turned round, there was indeed something there. Something big. And something altogether too close for comfort.

It stood at least eight feet in height, covered head to toe in thick, wooly fur- all tusk-like fangs, and claws that would crush plate-mail like tin. The beast's thick coat was matted with the rotting remains of whatever poor berk had crossed it last, and if the smell of it's breath, putrid even from this distance, was anything to go by, it hadn't eaten fresh in a long while.

Pikin' yeti! Aurelianus sneered, not making a move to draw his blades. A single yeti, the Warlock could handle. But, as the huge, hairy brute called out in a braying roar, three others burst forth from the surrounding snow, circling Drak'shal. He turned on the spot, flexing his fingers, cracking the ice and frost covering his coat. The shaggy beasts snarled, thick drool steaming in the cold, their claws covered in frozen blood.

In one fluid movement, Aurelius dropped his coat at his feet, freeing up his wand-bracers. He circled on the spot, and a smirk spread over the tiefling's face. He raised his hand above his head, fingers splayed, but made no other move. Snorting and braying in hunger-fuelled rage, the four yetis charged, clearing the space between themselves and their prey in seconds. But, just before they hit, Aurelius tensed his hand into a fist, and smashed it down on the frozen ground.

Instantly, a solid sphere of pure magickal heat erupted, surrounding Aurelius before spreading out, engulfing the yetis- their fur immediately burst into flame, the creatures shrieking and screaming, their flesh charring in seconds, an enormous cloud of smoke roaring into the air above the small valley. Most fled straight away trailing smoke and cinders, but one, the leader of this pack, kept on coming. It kept charging, an eight-foot tall inferno.. with claws. It swung one massive clawed hand at the tiefling, who was still smoldering from his own invocation, smoke curling from the edges of his armour. He threw out an eldritch blast to try and deflect the blow, too late, and it smashed the half-breed from his feet, before finally dying, hissing as it's flaming bulk hit the snow.

Aurelius spun through the air, hitting a bank of snow twelve feet away, a huge cloud of steam billowing into the air. The Warlock felt like he had been strained through someone's bowels, his every movement bringing about a fresh burst of agony. Already, he knew that he had broken at least a few ribs, he tasted blood, he had fractured his left leg, and he was fairly sure his right arm was dislocated; all in all, he hurt like a cast-iron bitch. He managed to turn his head, looking down at his injured limbs.

He instantly wished he hadn't. His head swam, and his stomach churned with the motion. His arm was torn and bloody, the bicep exposed to the air, the flesh already discoloured an unpleasant blue as the warm blood drained out of it in a sluggish trickle. Reaching into several pouches and pockets, the tiefling took out a needle and thread, and a roll of bandages. Gritting his fangs, and focusing all his effort on the task, he slowly began to stitch himself up, drawing the ragged flaps of skin back together with the heavy duty mortuary thread. It was like someone was caressing his flesh with knives, and he bit back a growl of pain.

But Aurelianus could only manage a few minutes of work before he fell back, exhausted. His breathing was shallow, and although the worst of the bleeding was slowing, and his bicep was sowed up adequately, his ribs were still in agony and he didn't fancy trying to put any weight on his leg. The smell of cooking yeti hung heavily in the air, the sound of it's corpse popping and crackling audible. The tiefling fought back the urge to vomit, turning his head away, waves of dizziness and nausea pounding his skull. He knew, without a doubt, if he didn't get to a settlement soon, he'd likely end up dead- no ifs, no buts.

Staggering to his feet, the pain throbbing in his leg, Aurelius headed back to gather up his coat, giving the yeti's corpse a vicious boot as he passed it; hissing a string of swears in the Infernal tongue all the while. As soon as he had struggled into the heavy leather coat, the tiefling paused, gritting his fangs and preparing himself for the next part. Grabbing his right wrist, Drak'shal took a deep breath, and was just about to exhale when he rammed his arm back into the socket- the breath exploded out of him in a roar of agony, ringing about the foothills at the base of the mountains.

Before he knew it, however, the pain and the loss of blood went to his head, and Aurelius was falling face first into the frozen powder. The last thing he saw before the whiteness enveloped his vision was a pair of booted feet, standing in the melted snow.

"C'n I 'elp you, cutter?" he mumbled from the snow-drift, smoke still coiling lazily from his armour and hair...

[Schematism]

She had seen all manners of strangeness through her travels, but a barbequed yeti was a first. Travelling alone through the mountainous wastelands of Salvar was another, but under the circumstances, Mesta hardly had a choice.

Snow crunched beneath the thick soles of her travelling boots, and she hugged the leathers and the furs tighter to her body still. Yesterday the fur was wet, and today they had frozen into jugged pikes with sharpened edges, and the edges brushed uncomfortably against her chin and cheeks, threatening to sink into soft flesh. The faraway sun glared down upon the never-ending horizon of white, and when Mesta closed her eyes there were yellow and black spots in the back of her lids.

Beware the monsters, the locals had warned when she took her first foolhardy step towards the mountains. And the snow-blindness.

That was three days ago, but it felt like an eternity. An eternity of silence and snow and never-ending horizon of white nothingness that she once thought was majestic, was beautiful, was breath-taking in the utmost. Three days ago, the sight of the mountainous stretches had knocked the breath of her lungs, and as she stood with guides and locals at that little village near the feet of the mountains, she had gasped with wonder at the sight of a world colored a fiery outrageous orange by a departing sun
.
A night later, she had broke a number of promises and kept one, made enemies of those she should not, gotten her hands on a few nifty artifacts that were more trouble than they were worth in a way less than legal, had been bitten hard and deep by her own cleverness, and was eventually driven up a mountain to hide.

Now, that mountainous glory felt like slow suicide and bitter death. Should have said no, Mesta spat in her own thoughts, half drowning in self rebuke and regret as she continued staggering through the snow and the tundra. Was bad business.

In retrospect, it was almost funny—a lone human, not magical in the least—pursued by the Church of the Ethereal Sway for theft and witchcraft, but Mesta could not find it in herself to laugh. Not now. Yesterday had been so cold that it made her bones ache in remembrance. Today, reality felt like a semi-lucent veil overlaying an abyss of nothingness. There were spots in her vision, her breaths were short and shallow, and her head felt light. She could not shift into a sparrow and fly into sweet morning air, and she could not change herself into a young man and walk proudly out of the city. Her inborn abilities locked by a dastardly golden ring upon her thumb that would not come off, no matter how much she pulled or tugged or stepped or bitted. It was one of the Church’s. Mesta had heard whispers of them before. A time-locked ring made for the inhibition of a mage’s powers, apparently capable of restraining even a natural-born shapeshifter’s innate gifts, until enough days had passed that the ring chose to unlock.

Down a slope and another few stretches and she chanced upon a slightly more sheltered valley with a few less inches of snow. Instinctually, Mesta gravitated towards it. Shelter. Less snow. Less sun. Good. It was only when she was close that she noticed the grayish smog drifting over the distance, and she would have missed the signs of recent battle were it not for the smoky sweet smell of burnt fur and seared meat wafting from the same direction.

And then. A foreign scream, half-muted by the winds. There might have been agony in that scream.

She inched closer and took in the sight. A battlefield, a dead yeti, a lone body—not human, not orc,half-dead and injured? Was this the one who roared over the winds?—against a rock, melted snow pooling in puddles and one could almost see a silvery-green blade of grass beneath. The half-dead man-creature looked up and said something, and Mesta recoiled at the sight of burnt quills and the alien face, something akin to fear and slight disgust muddled with light sympathy for the devil boiling in her chest. His words were not loud enough, and Mesta missed it over the whistle of the wind and the silence of the rocks. His words were not loud enough, but the marks of battle were, and these marks spoke louder than words.

Then the half-dead man-creature slackened and closed his eyes. Mesta started. She panicked. A few steps, and she was up to him, holding out two fingers against his nose. She could feel faint breath moist against her fingers. Still alive then. Good. Couldn’t leave an orphan to cry, couldn’t leave an injured man to die—Mesta could get used to challenging authority and less than legal deeds on a regular basis for the sake of work, but she had a decent heart on most days, the kind unmarred by the tragedies borne from the cruelties of life. Couldn’t have a half-dead man dying while she was on watch, even if he looked strange and alien and all sorts of suspicious, and even if she felt and looked half-dead herself.

Well then. Time to start a fire or find a cave, and she might still have a few pain-numbing herb or two in her satchel.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius barely managed to see the person who'd stumbled upon him before he blacked out, but the one thing he did see was the disgust writ large on their face. It was hardly anything new; in the many places Aurelius had traveled, there were a select few places that accepted his kind.

This world was more welcoming than most.. though not by much. He was, and always would be, a reviled half-breed. A human, tainted by the Hells, twisted into something more and less than a man.

But these thoughts flashed through the tiefling's head in a heartbeat, before the darkness claimed him.

Afterwards, when Aurelius tried to recall what had happened after the fight with the yetis, he could only summon up brief flashes of memory- the pair of boots again, the ground receeding from view as he was dragged through the snow, the pall of smoke hanging over the dead yeti as it got further into the distance. Was he walking? Was he fine after all? No, if he was fine, why couldn't he feel anything? Someone.. Someone had found him.. and they were... what? Taking him somewhere? Planning to murder him and dump the body? No.. no, that wasn't right.. could.. have robbed him.. alrea--

The tieflng sat bolt upright in the dark, serpentine eyes shining with barely contained fury. Where were the pikin' yetis!? He-- Oh, you pikin' soddin' son of a whore!!-- instantly wished he'd stayed lying where he was, the pain coming back through his senses with a vengeance, tearing through him in waves of fire. His arm throbbed sharply, but at least he could still move it, and his stitches seemed to be holding. His leg still ached, but he could already tell it wasn't as painful as it had been. All in all, he only felt like a deader.

It took a few moments before he fully took in his surroundings; he was in a small cave, kept out of the worst of the winds, and judging by the dark sky outside, he had been out cold for most of the day.. or several days, for all he knew. A small fire burned between him and the entrance to the small cave, and Aurelius' eyes narrowed as he noticed he wasn't alone. His "rescuer" was sitting across from him.

His undamaged arm slid behind him, hand near the hilt of his knife. Sod may have saved my arse so far, but that doesn't mean I trust 'em, he thought, running his other hand through his quill-hair. He hissed quietly, whistling through his fangs at the agony still coursing through his arm, but the old familiar sting of pain was starting to get that nice edge to it.. He shook his head, slowly, to try and dislodge the whoreson migraine that was setting up camp inside his brain-box, but all he managed to dislodge were a few of his quills, their edges charred black by his own invocation. He chided himself mentally, and tossed the small spike-like hairs into the fire, sending pops and snaps through it.

Kneeling, keeping his hand near his knives, the tiefling finally turned to his would-be saviour. A woman no less! Of all the places to find a chit, he smirked to himself. His eyes danced over her, shining golden in the firelight; pale, dark eyes, high cheekbones.. a pretty chit, but there was something definitely odd here. Aurelius could sense something off about her, her scent not quite right. But he couldn't put his finger on it. No matter, he could tumble to the dark of it later. First, he had to pay the music and offer the chit a thanks.

"Thanks for pullin' me outta there, luv," he said, taking a seat directly across from her, warming himself by the crackling fire.

[Schematism]

Later, slumped against the walls of a shallow cave, staring into a cheerfully roaring fire, fingering the golden band on her thumb, Mesta had a moment to reconsider her impulsiveness.

It was impulse, really, that made her rush towards this man who had lain fainted in the middle of a battleground out in the middle of god knew where. Couldn’t let him get eaten by whatever beast that came back looking for vengeance. And it was impulse, really, that moved her feet in search of shelter nearby, that made her mark her prize when she found a shadowy cave within the same valley, that made her turn back and return for this fainted sack of flesh, and then to drag the fainted man by the collar through the snow. The smoothness of the snow made the journey much gentler than it could have been if she had to drag him through rock or dirt. By the time he was settled into the paltry shelter offered by the cave, her arms were numb in more ways than one, and she was heaving with fatigue and her body w as sore with exhaustion. This particular form had never been well suited to physical work. The work, through, was not complete until she managed to get a fire going from the thin twigs and old pines and what scraps she could gather. Then she shuffled back out, back to the dead yeti now half-buried by freshly fallen snow, and harvested a decent pound of fur and sinews for her own studies. A yeti might be a useful form to have in the future, and it seemed a waste to let a good corpse go. By the time all of that was done, the sun had gone far enough to leave the world in husky twilight, the temperature had dropped enough to make the daytime feel like spring, and the heavens rumbled with the warning signs of an oncoming storm.

It was all impulse, really, because Mesta was fairly certain that she wasn’t thinking throughout the whole thing. She was prone to not thinking, to jumping into foxholes and serpent pits just because something felt right, and to pressing a knife to a seemingly decent man’s back just because something felt wrong. When you’re a shape-shifter, when you knew you could always become someone else or something else and walk away relatively whole, thinking did not seem all that important.

Shifting slightly to get more comfortable, or as comfortable as one could get with one’s ass against the sharp edges of irregularly shaped rocks, Mesta eyed the unconscious figure in front of her. Her mind wandered. She hadn't seen her pursuers for a day and a half now, and freshly-fallen snow from the past two days had hidden her tracks well. He could have been one of the Church’s agents, but somehow Mesta doubted it. From what she had seen of the Church, they would not employ something this… strange. And why would any sane religious being do battle yetis this far out in the middle of nowhere? Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was trying to commit unsightly suicide, and she had inadvertently thwarted him. Maybe he was like her, running away from something. Or maybe he was in pursuit of someone or something.

Maybe.

A sigh escaped her lips, and she forcefully halted her lines of thoughts. Inactivity bored her. Stillness felt like a prison the best of days. Instead, she picked at the fire with a wayward twig. Outside, winds howled and pelted with enough strength to loosen rocks and uproot trees. The snowstorm raged on, and would no doubt last through the night. Inside, the flames washed one side of the cave aglow with orange, lighting up growths of mosses and weeds, casting stark shadows against the walls where rocks blocked the light’s path. The deeper innards of the cave resisted all of the flames’ attempts to penetrate, and remained in steep darkness.

After what felt like an eternity, there was movement from the collapsed pile in front of her. She looked up to see him wake. He knelt and pulled himself up, and she watched his every move. Did it hurt—all this movement, with that bandaged arm? Possibly. She was no healer, but she knew a bad wound when she saw one. But she said nothing, her voice pausing in her throat. He spoke first, and she nodded in acknowledgement to his words, half amused and half annoyed, and she wasn't even sure why she was amused or annoyed. It was the luv word, maybe. There was something about pet names that twisted a chord in her, and she could not stand them. He sounded, however, as though everything was right in his world. Maybe everything was right in his world. What would she know? She shrugged.

“You're welcome,” she said, mustering up a faint smile. Appearances were important, and she liked the half-friendly one she most often projected. “There's a storm out there. You might not want to go out until it ends,” she continued, tilting her head and thrusting her chin towards the entrance of the cave. A pause, before curiosity got the best of her. "And say, what are you doing out here. Hunting monsters?”

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

**“You're welcome.”**

Aurelius saw the faint smile on the chit's lips, and for a second, felt his irritation rising- was she smirking at him? Mocking him for getting so thoroughly piked up at the hands of the yeti? He didn't much care for the idea of being laughed at, and his hand edged closer to the knife... No, calm yourself, cap'n Stabhappy. Just behave, his internal voice chided him, and he complied.

**“There's a storm out there. You might not want to go out until it ends,”** she continued, and Aurelius looked over her shoulder, seeing the snow coming in horizontally on the hurricane-strength winds, hearing it shriek around the icy mountains. He nodded, keeping quiet, while he decided what he was going to do. He craned his neck left and right, releasing audible snaps and cracks as he released some of his tension. It didn't help the bastard migraine though. The brief lull in the chit's conversation didn't last long, and the tiefling turned his demonic eyes her way as she opened her mouth again.

**"And say, what are you doing out here. Hunting monsters?”**

A crooked grin spread over his face. "Nah, they were hunting me," he chuckled. "I'm out here looking for some place.." he paused, looking the girl up and down before continuing, "nothin' to interest you, luv," he said. His natural paranoia prevented him from giving away too many details of the crypt and it's valuables- too many people may be interested in "procuring" them before the tiefling. As he talked, he started stripping off his armour from his waist- it took a good few minutes, undoing the dozens of straps, and avoiding the myriad of barbs and blades on the leather plates. Eventually, it lay next to him, and he examined the worst of his wounds; bruises discoloured his torso in countless places, ugly and black around where he was sure he'd broken (or at the very least cracked) a few ribs. He had grazes and scrapes from where the yeti had smashed into him, despite his armour. His body was toned, but lean, and his torso and arms were covered, every inch, in his tattoos (http://i636.photobucket.com/albums/uu84/Anarchist147/AurelianusDrakshal.jpg).

The list went on, and he chewed his lip for a second, admiring the mess he'd managed to make of himself.

Still keeping his eyes on the girl, feeling a damn sight more peery- on edge, suspicious- now that she was asking questions. It was a natural response, aye, but it still made Aurelius wary. Especially now he was sitting here without his armour- then again, he doubted the chit would prove any real threat. If she'd been anything near as ruthless as him, he wouldn't have woken up, and the girl would be a fair bit richer.

He pulled out a roll of bandages from his coat pocket, lying next to him, and the needle and thread, then he started patching himself up. He wrapped the bandages round his waist, tight, to bind his ribs, stitching the ends of the bandages together. Once he'd taken care of his torso, he did the same for his leg, splinting it with a pair of leg bones from his pack; he always had spare bones handy, either for working magicks, or simply to scrimshaw when he was bored. During the work, he'd popped a few stitches on his torn arm, making him wince in pain, gritting his fangs to keep from screaming. Blood started running down his arm again, dripping to the rocky floor of the cave, the black of his vitae shockingly dark against his alabaster skin. Pike this for a laugh, he sneered.

Closing his eyes, the tiefling laid his left hand over the vicious wound, taking a few calming breaths. He hated doing this, but in his twenty six years, he'd had to do it more than once. Herzaa, his old friend and fellow traveler had once called it "cauterisation"- but Herzaa had always been a bit barmy about medicines, and healing. That's what made 'im a 'andy blood to keep about. He tried to distract himself from what he was about to do, turning to the chit again.

"What 'bout you? What's a cutter like you doin' on 'er lonesome out this far?" Drak'shal glanced up from his wounds to meet her eyes, a faint smirk on his lips. "Must be somethin' pretty nasty to make a body run 'ere."

He waited a moment, then, breathing deeply, interrupted as politely as he could ever hope to manage.

"'Scuse me a moment, luv," he said, and with no more warning, sent a pulse of black fire from his hand, over the torn and ragged flesh, sealing the damaged blood vessels, and basically melting the skin together to leave the wound closed. It hurt like a bastard, and he couldn't stifle a screamed stream of profanities in every language he knew, from Aleraran to the Infernal tongue. The smell of charred flesh filled the small cave, but when he took his hand away from the wound, it was sealed; now, the burn was his main injury, and burns he could handle. He staggered to the entrance of the little alcove, grabbing handfuls of snow to press against his scorched skin, soothing the burn a little.

After a few moments, he sat back down across from the girl, and whispered a few words in a guttural language- before their eyes, his tattoos, where they had been damaged on his bicep, reformed on his flesh. It was a minor incantation, only good for smaller repairs, and though it did nothing to actually heal his wounds, it made Drak'shal a little more comfortable, having them fixed.

"Sorry 'bout that. Where were we?" he asked, gesturing for the girl to continue what she was saying, as he re-donned his armour.

[Schematism]

Curiosity killed the cat, but Mesta had never been interested enough in a cat to learn to become one. Still, curiosity was in her nature as much as breathing felt natural to a human. It was a trait drilled marrow deep, and she could not unlearn it for all the gold in the world.

Usually, Mesta’s curiosity translated itself into wanderlust and a love for treasures and rarities. At the moment, however, because neither of those two options was available to her, she turned inquisitiveness towards her companion. Impulsive curiosity unsatisfied always itched worse than nettle scratches, and when her companion subverted her questions with such blatant bluntness, this curiosity sharpened into fangs. Hunting for something, was he? And she wouldn’t be interested, eh? But she was interested, in the way old gossipy women sitting around a barroom would be interested in the latest scandal of so-and-so’s goodwife, and it was a predatory sort of interest that rarely boded well.

Just when she was about to continue her line of questioning, however, he began to strip. With that, the words died in her lips, and she could only stare. Because soon, his torso was bared to her wandering sight and it was not a pretty picture painted. Tattoos and bruises and wounds and scratches, but mostly the ink of tattoos covered every inch of skin. The flickering shadows form the flames made the injuries seem all the worse.

As he set about patching himself up—all she did was make sure he didn’t become food for beasts while he was out cold—she unconsciously drew knees towards her chin and pulled her furs up to cover herself whole again. Outside of the heat of battle, when adrenaline was not burning down her veins, she could not bear most sights of gore and injuries in the living. The dead, she could handle and cut apart to study without thought. The living roused in her a rattling sort of sympathy she sometimes found annoying. That sympathy quelled her tongue right now.

“Pretty nasty,” she agreed without thinking, nodding to the rhythm of his words as she watched him work, and scooting a bit further from the fire as sweat started to materialize on her nose. She was practically hanging from the wall now, and any more backing would put her through the wall. Her fingers clenched at the edges of her fur coat still, refusing to let go. It made her feel a bit safer. So engrossed was she in watching, in having something hold her flighty attention, that she had forgotten to be suspicious and forgotten to be careful.

Of a sudden, black flame burst forth from his hand towards his injured arm. She yelped in surprise and tried to jump up, only to thump the back of her head against the wall. The hit left her ears ringing. When her ears cleared a moment later, the smell of charred flesh had drafted across the short distance, and he was reaching out for snow to cool his wounds.

“What was that—burning yourself—“ She half demanded, half gasped, surprise evident in her face and voice. And then, with a sort of wonder “You’re a mage. In Salvar—but the Church—“

A mage. Out here. And she felt more conscious of the golden ring on her thumb than before. A mage. She hadn’t had a high opinion of magic-users during the past three days. After all, it was a deal to retrieve a few items from the Church for an old mage that landed her in her current situation. She managed to find the pouch of items easily enough, but who knew that there would be a simple golden ring that inhibited power mixed in the bag? Then there was an accident on the escape route and she slipped and accidentally ended up wearing something, and it just so happened to be this one. And here she was, sitting in front of another mage who just purposefully burnt himself.

Like a cat, she picked herself up and prowled a step or two closer, with movements near silent, eyeing him and his hands with stark interest. “Why's a mage practicing in Salvar?”

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

**“Pretty nasty,”**

Aurelius nodded unconsciously as he fixed himself up. He'd already gathered that, but the fact the girl was honest, without answering his question entirely.. well, she was a bit more canny than he'd thought. So this one ain't a rube? Woopdie doo, his inner voice mocked bitterly. There had to be at least one on this damned rock.

As he worked, he'd noticed the girl edging away from him slowly, eyes locked on his injuries. Truth be told, they were nasty, but he'd traveled far in his time, and this was nowhere near top of the list for horrific injuries. Then again, some of those had technically killed him, so it wasn't really a fair comparison. The Warlock didn't dwell on his past overly though. He had to concern himself more with the future for now- specifically, his future survival. With that in mind, he finished his grisly work.

The second he'd used Shahab's Lash to "cauterise" (the word still felt odd to Aurelius) his torn flesh, the girl had yelped and leapt back.. or tried to, at least. He heard her head impact on the wall with an audible crack, and it made him smirk a little. My, my. She's a jumpy little sod, isn't she?.

He did gesture for her to continue what she'd been saying, but obviously the chit had other things on her mind now.

**“What was that—burning yourself—“**

Aurelianus chuckled, looking at the faint smoke still drifting in the air, and the smell of burnt skin still heavy in the air.

"Nothin' gets past you," he smirked. It still hurt though, and he scooped up another handful of ice and snow to press to it, trying to numb the pain somewhat. He flicked his hair back out of his eyes, his ebony horns catching the light a little. The tiefling may have been considered "handsome", if he looked more human; but with his horns, the serpent eyes, fangs, forked black tongue, quill-like hair, and skin so pale it was almost translucent... well, Aurelius wasn't winning any beauty fairs anytime soon. But, even with all these demonic features, she was surprised that he could do magick?

**“You’re a mage. In Salvar—but the Church—“**

Aurelius growled, the feral sound reverberating deep in his throat, sounding loud in the cave. If the girl noticed, she paid no heed, and kept talking anyway. She edged closer to him, standing now, and the tiefling's quills raised almost imperceptibly, his serpentine eyes narrowing as he watched her. As she approached, the dim firelight reflected off the gold ring on the girl's thumb. The second his eyes touched it, Aurelius' feeling that something wasn't right came back, niggling at the back of his mind.

**“Why's a mage practicing in Salvar?”**

He slowly got to his feet, his sharp eyes pinning the girl in place as he stalked closer.

"Listen 'ere, cutter," he hissed slowly, fangs gnashing in anger, "I'm no mage. I'm not some noncy, chanting little spellslinger, I'm not some petty hedge-wizard." As he talked, he jabbed a finger at her from across the fire, his other hand unconsciously drifting close to the knife-hilt at his lower back. The chit had crossed a line- Drak'shal piking hated it when people got him mixed up with the usual beardy old sods who did their little chants, waved their arms and performed the smallest of tasks with their "magic". He was a league above them. He was better than them.

"I'm a Warlock," he snarled, managing to calm his ire. He took a deep breath, and knelt by the fire again. It was not often people managed to push his buttons.. but that bugged him.

After taking a few deep breaths, he walked to the entrance of the cave, the storm still raging outside. Watching the fire start to burn a bit too low for his liking, he turned back to it. Holding up his hand, the tiefling put a burst of black fire into the middle of the little blaze, watching as the Hellfire instantly sprang up, easily three feet high, bathing the cave in an unnatural glow, and raising the temperature remarkably quick.

"I've 'eard a bit 'bout this 'Church'," he nodded. "What's the chant on 'em?" From what he'd heard, they were witch hunters, magick haters, and a powerful organisation at that. But that was about all he knew. Still, it was enough for the Anarchist to hate them already.

But, as soon as the tiefling looked up from the fire, he stopped dead. In the brighter light of the black flame (no, he wasn't sure how that worked either), he could make out markings on the wall. He stepped quickly over to them, running his fingers over the faint scratching in the stone, leading further back into the cave. Looking around he could see they were carved in every rock surface. His eyes lit up, and he started manically following them, only pausing to go grab his coat, pulling the map from an inner pocket as he donned it, ignoring the pain of his injuries for now.

Comparing the markings, an ancient cuneiform language, on the wall, to the notes made on the map he'd been following before the yeti attack, he grinned.

They were a perfect match.

Stepping back from the rear wall of the cave, barely even remembering the girl was there, he spoke a single word, in a tongue not heard on Althanas for at least a millenium. The single syllable set the air vibrating, a faint droning hum just beyond hearing setting his teeth on edge. Aurelius doubled up laughing, his ribs sending starbursts of agony through his body as the real wall dissipated like smoke on the wind, revealing an ancient carved tunnel leading into the mountain.

With a blind stroke of luck, they'd only gone and found the tomb he'd been hunting for...

[Ricctuss]

Saint strode through the frozen wasteland, his battered greatcloak sweeping the snow beneath him. He probably should have known better than to come to Salvar in the first place. The Church wasn't known for its tolerance of magic-users. Still everything had been going so well.

Until last night.

How was he supposed to know that the woman was the paramour of an important church official? Still, it was easy enough for him to glamour over his appearance and slip out of town. A few hours walk, well more of a run really, had found him trudging through the freezing gale. Nightfall was coming fast. He'd need to find shelter. That cave in the distance looked promising. Saint pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself and walked towards it.

"If I have the choice," he muttered to himself "I don't think I'll ever visit Salvar again."

Another hour's walk brought him to the mouth of the cave. Saint was shaking the snow off his boots (dear gods, Salvar had so much of the bloody stuff) when he heard voices coming from farther into the cave. He also spotted the inviting glow of a fire.

He weighed his options. There was no way to determine wether the fire belonged to friend or foe. Still, he doubted if a foe would recognize him since he could change appearances at will. And it was so bloody cold... Saint walked towards the sound of the voices.

"Well met friends! I do hope I'm not interrupting anything too important."