After the Ash Had Fallen

[Philomel]

Set after "No Longer Me," the featured quest. Basically this is open to anyone who was present to it, and who sends me a PM. I am leaving it relatively open to Enigmatic Immortal and Astarelle, because of the bizzarre romance going on between them and Philomel just now.
Philomel just got arrested by the Aleraran officials for the murder of Zack Blaze (she is innocent, but does not know it, according to her he just died after she rammed him with her horns ... with a stab from a knife that was found on her. Its confusing.)

A dragon was slain.

It lay on the side of the mountaintop, on the side of a cliff face. Acid had long since stopped flowing, and poison gas had long since faded from the air. The ash that had fallen was all but covered by the snow, and even the mauled neck that had held the once-proud head was becoming one with the hillside.

No longer did he breathe fire. No longer were his scales gleaming red, like rubies, and the ambition of the entire North Dragon race. No longer could his erstwhile infection affect the lives of those he came across, and no longer did he fly. He was a downed god, a fallen angel, killed by a group of rogues and fighters.

And he had claimed lives. Before and after the fight. And other lives were otherwise claimed, by human and elf and zombie. People had given their all, and some had given nothing, and lived to fight another wretched day. Some, in particular one, a crazy individual, striking and imbalanced in style and nature, had taken their own life, in a swave attempt to pin the blame on another. Another person, another woman, another faun.

Naturally, she had been somewhat astounded to find her blamed for the deathof someone she had hardly heard of before. Indeed, his name had been whispered upon thin lips in the battle of Eiskalt, but Philomel barely remembered much of that kingdom isle apart from the church, and Astarelle. And then she had been arrested for his murder. Her airship had all but been shot out of the sky, to a point where it was forced to descend into the clutches of Aleran authorities. She yelled, and she spat, but in the end a hoarde of tough soldiers easily overcame the battle-weary faun and her Earth Spirit companion. Astarelle's limp form was taken away, as well as the bastard Jensen's jacket, and Philomel was made a prisoner of war despite her heroism in this fight of all fights.

"I bloody helped kill it for you," she had yelled, "I bloody helped kill it."

Now she stood, bound by rope, strapped against this tent pole. The bastard had been and gone, promised Philomel her life because 'Astarelle cares about you' or some such nonsense. Philomel wanted to shout at him, "Well fuck her yourself if you love her so much!" but she doubted that would have gone so well. Instead she had shared the thought with muzzled Veridian, and he had laughed.

The guard, Tullen, came in, dressed in that fabulous Aleraran garb. This time he had a sponge dripping with water in his hand, and he smiled as he approached her. Softly, warmly. He held the sponge up to her lips, gazed at her with kind, effervescent eyes.

"Drink," he said, his voice filling the tent as a whisper of longing, "Drink."

Steadily, she stared back at him, her grey eyes the picture of practised affirmity, and she parted her lips. Delicately she fastened them around the texture of the sponge, and her tongue snaked out to carress it. Keeping her eyes locked with his she sucked like a drinking vampire, all the seduction within her pouring out to fullest extent, her body even wriggling with the allurest of movements. Come to me, her hips danced, Come to me and be fullfilled.

It was easy to charm a guard. He was a man, starved of companionship for months, even years, at a time. He faced blood and discipline with every day, always told, "focus, focus, fight!" and never, "fall in love." His orders were all about keeping order, not falling into chaos, and though there were always stories of the brothels-by-the-warfronts' ridiculous rise in income, they were always hungry for company. Female, or in the rarer circumstances, male, intimate companionship was what eased them in that time of grief and battle-shock, and so guards, soldiers and all forms of military men, were so easy to seduce.

To make it easier, this time Tullen had made the first step, first by asking Philomel how she was when on his guard duty, then offering her food, and then a brazier to keep her warm. Now it was water, on a sponge, and the assassin-whore used the entire power of her skills to make him succumb to her power.

"If only ..." she breathed, fluttering her eyelashes, "If only I could feel the touch of human skin one last time before I am executed ..."

Tullen blinked. His lips parted.

"I ... I do not think I could do that, ma'am ..." he murmured, "It is against my orders ..."

Philomel found herself truly pouting, letting the feeling of disappointment turn her into a silly spoilt maiden.

"But ... just the touch of your finger on my cheek ..."

The man was clearly struggling. Colour rose to his cheeks and his fingers flinched as if just itching to run themselves through her blood-soaked hair.

"Ma'am ..."

"My poor fox, then," she begged, "He is not used to being trussed up so. Come, he is a singular innocent beast in all of this, an animal and nothing more. Surely you do not condone cruelty to animals?"

To make the image all the more pitiable, Veridian whined, and pawed at his muzzle. He acted like any less-than-human intelligent beast might and tried to struggle away from the leash, even though he knew it was very much restraining.

Tullen looked over with a sigh to Veridian. As soon as he did so, the Earth Spirit peered up, whined more and wagged his tail like a desperate dog. The guard was somewhat overcome, and he let out such sounds as, "awwww," and "he's so cute ..." before walking over and gently stroking the back of the fox.

Veridian stayed still, just staring up with innocent-looking golden eyes. His fur was somewhat caked in dirt and mud and ash, giving him all the more deplorable. It was all Tullen could do, to move his hand slowly from fur to the buckle at the back of the head. The fox stayed invariably still, just patiently waiting and looking like the obedient puppy he played in this facade.

The leather slipped out of the steel clasp. Swoosh, it fell to the floor, letting the muzzle and the leash fall away with it, and leaving Veridian free, there and unbound. His great icterine eyes blinked, he tilted his head up to the guard. Tullen let out a sigh, kept petting the fox, and turned back to Philomel, a grin on his face.

"He's not that wild after-"

Mistake made, but it was already too late. Tullen was caught off-guard (ironic for his occupation) and his throat was torn out. Veridian pounded, fleet-pawed, over the corpse to his beloved faun, the blood and flesh still in his mouth. Part of the fat dripped over Philomel as the Earth Spirit and leapt up onto her shoulder, then began ripping at the ropes with his teeth.

Hurry, Philomel said telepathically to him, struggling to loosen the ropes as he worked on them, We must get out of here as quick as we can.

Veridian agreed with a sense of affirmation - no words, just the sense - and ate his way through her bounds. Once her hands were free she helped to work on the ankles. She wriggled a little, trying to get the blood back into her limbs, and spoke to him quickly.

I need you to go and hunt for my weapons, she said. Please.

Veridian nodded, and turned tail, jumping over Tullen's body one last time before disappearing under the side of the tent.

Philomel rubbed her muscles as she looked down at the corpse, frowning a little.

"He was quite pretty," she spoke out loud, "Shame he was the one that was the weakest."

A few seconds later the Earth Spirit contacted her. Philomel nodded, reaching down to take Tullen's sword as a temporary weapon. Coming, she said, On my way.

And she turned her back on the pretty, weak man, conscious to feminine wiles and now leaving a widow with two children. She stole his sword and then stole out the tent, taking the swiftest and straightest path she could over to where Veridian was. She maimed, rather than killed, those who got in her way. The two of them took to the fields, carrying what little they could, namely the weapons and her armour, and ran as fast as Philomel's goat legs took them. Which was very fast indeed.

[Roht Mirage]

A sharp night breeze cut over the harsh Alerar foothills, bringing with it the smell of ash and far-off poison. There might have been a trace of blood, but that scent was yet to leap to the air. From Astarelle's position, and to her human nose, it was undetectable.

The Fallien maiden of lies haunted the shadows behind Philomel's tent like a reluctant spirit. She didn't know exactly why she had come. There were plenty of reasons not to get close - direct orders from the Aleran commanders for one, and this was technically their operation. There was also the fact that Jensen had gone so far out of his way, flexing what little political muscle he had, to keep the faun from a worse fate. It made Astarelle bite her lip regarding how often she took advantage of him... and how aware and complacent he was about it most of the time.

As for reasons to be here, she had nothing but an uncomfortable conversation with a Coralian giant -best to avoid him for a while- and the lingering sense that she once again owed Philomel a debt. It wasn't that the faun was particularly moral or selfless or worthy of prompt repayment. Quite the opposite, really...

Astarelle slipped her feet forward; her soles bore a layer of sand that muffled the crunching of earth and twigs.

The whole idea of moral high ground was a myth, anyway. No one was honestly altruistic enough to warrant special consideration, not the faun or the Alerans or even the small Ixian contingent that was her official allegiance. Astarelle sighed softly. The best you can do is err on the side of the serpents you know, the ones that share your type of venom, and hope to the depths you aren't bitten. It was a potent thought, maybe even something she'd be quoted for, someday, after finessing it.

So silently as to be little more than one breath in the wind, she came to the back of the tent and lifted the edge just enough to peek under. “Bury me,” came her shocked whisper. The serpent had already struck. The blood was fresh. Though her spine tingled at the idea of being discovered so close to the gory scene, Astarelle couldn't help but examine it. Two breaths, a sweep of her gaze, that was all she needed.

Though she hadn't been witness to Philomel's captivity (for reasons that she had to grudgingly admit were logical and warranted) she could picture exactly what had happened. The escape had begun with the fox. His restraint was clean. Near it was the worst of the bloody splashes, and the body slumped nearby. Philomel's bonds had followed, still stained by the fox's jaws. Astarelle inhaled sharply, tasting death and just a sliver of guilt. It was her actions that had kept the fox alive long enough to be captured. Without even knowing it, she had been party to an escape that was far bloodier than she would have liked – and the blood of a human at that, not the drow that made up the majority of the camp. Was he an Ixian? She felt loyalties conflict ineffectually like puppets on a stage, only to be washed over by her true feelings.

You're welcome, she thought toward the absent faun, then lowered the tent wall. The guards would notice shortly, and the best case scenario had Astarelle a good distance away, well past the tree line that ran close to the tent. She covered the distance as quickly as she could in near-silence, vaguely aware that she was going in the likely direction of Philomel's escape. Half-way there, she felt a hoof print with her sole of sand. This was her route. Astarelle continued, reached the trees, and saw the breaking of twigs. She let the small signs dictate her own passage, because.. because she was tracking Philomel.

Funny how sometimes you don't know what you're doing until you've started.

She emerged from the trees and looked out over the sparsely-vegetated, jagged foothills of Alerar. Her gaze scanned the whole moonlit scene while wisps of sand slithered from her pant legs to touch the ground, feel the trail, and deliver her to the faun. “I'm not done with you,” she hissed resolutely, not entirely sure what she meant or where it might take her. Regardless, she kept moving.

By prints in soft soil and scrapes down sharp inclines, she followed over the mess of jagged hills and visceral, eons-old clefts in the ground. The marks were sporatic as if the faun was using some of that earth magic of her's to cleanse the trail, but Astarelle's net of seeking sand was wide. She stretched it still wider, rendering the grains little more than a moon-shimer across the landscape.

Then, she came upon something that made the entire exercise in tracking rather redundant. A downed guard. He was a drow, alive but bleeding from the side of his head. His breaths were the soft hush of labored sleep. Astarelle paused over him a moment, considering if she should aid him. The dark, inhuman blood pooled near his ear, soaking into the soil like so much midnight. With a scowl, she looked up. If a guard's out this far, they're searching. Her eyes scanned the dark horizons.

Rudely, she rolled the unconscious body around until she could pilfer his coat. It was stained little. The square shoulders (an elven attempt to make their whimsical frames more imposing) needed only a dusting to become stately once more. She threw the coat over her body, realizing with no small amount of pleasure that she was as slim as an elf. From the ground, she plucked the guard's wandering hat. She beat the dust from it and pulled it low on her head. I'm a bloody tree humper, huh? she thought with some amusement and a flash of Jensen's face. Her breath caught with an apology that she didn't dare acknowledge. As an after-thought, she grabbed the elf's sword belt and strapped herself in, though she couldn't remember the last time she had used a proper metal-and-hilt sword.

The rest of the disguise, she formed as she ran. Black, guilt-stained sand from Eiskalt's rubble traversed her face from neck to brow. At the ears, it formed into pointed nubs that would give an appropriate silhouette in the moonlight. Cautiously, she cast her gaze around. If she met another patrol, she would need one more piece to keep herself from being dragged back to camp.

Can't have Astarelle Set'Roh out on a faun night, no no.

Unfortunately, the last piece was the most unpleasant. A puff of golden sand emerged from under her pilfered collar and touched her lips. With a grimace, she swallowed and almost gagged. The grains grated along the inside of her throat, playing over the too-sensitive flesh until they constricted around her vocal cords. She began to speak, pitching her voice high and low, feeling it out for maximum drow-ness, while she finalized the ruse.

“Name name,” she muttered in shifting degrees of near-elven, “I should have paid attention to the names in the camp. Hm... Mi? Mi. Mican? Micar. Micar Leaflicker.” She chuckled in a voice disconcertingly not her own. “Lef'laker? Lef'larra. Micar Lef'larra.” The name felt good on her lips, like she was playing in a costume chest from her childhood. With that settled, her words shifted to the Aleran language. Her tongue began to acclimate to that sing-songy elven cadence. “Officer. Airship officer? One of the lucky survivors from one that crashed. No. One who escaped from the airship before it hit the dragon. I still need a drink and a story from you about that, Jensen.”

As if his name conjured recent memories, she heard him chuckle. Just off her shoulder. Still running, she turned her head and saw that familiar mix of amusement and thoughtfulness on his face – his face that bobbed as if he ran on pace with her.

“Wow. I've never seen you do that before,” he said, not nearly as out of breath as she was, “I knew you could, but to see it... Weird.”

He managed to say his whole piece before the sudden paralysis of Astarelle's brain spread to her legs. She went over in a mess of flailing limbs, flapping coat, and enough cushioning sand to blur her shape. In short order, and with zero velocity, the sand parted around her crouching form. Her body said she might pounce at Jensen (a demeanor she would later realize was reminiscent of a certain fox) but her eyes were wide and horrified. He was aware of her intentions, because he knew her. Upon learning of Philomel's escape, he had probably been ready to blame her even more than was technically true. “I... I...,” Astarelle stammered, reaching for a lie that might sooth him. All were lacking. She could only say, breathless and desperate, “Please.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

He had admitted before he even left his tent that what he was about to do was stupid. It reached a very particular level of stupid, some may even say asinine or insane. But Jensen knew that no matter how over the line he was about to go, in his heart, it would have been even dumber not to have done anything at all. So there he stood, looking at the disguised form of Astarelle, slightly conflicted about what he felt.

On one hand Jensen felt his heart flutter to be near her again. Even in this disguise he could see her clear as day in the sappiest of ways. Ways that made him even now blush with red cheeks that he swore was just the cold. The woman looked back to him with her alarmed expression, not sure what to make of the immortal during this strange encounter.

"You realize, just in the few steps you have already taken you have really screwed this up."

"I know-" she was interrupted by his stern glare. For once, her mouth silenced without his help.

"I don't even get it, personally, and probably never will, but Astarelle, you're assistance with helping her escape is damning not just her and you, but me as well. Every Ixian here is now under scrutiny and publicly speaking it looks like we were infiltrated or that we have a less than stellar moral agenda in trying to kill off those who oppose us."

"Technically, I didn't-" Jensen narrowed his head to her, his eyes focusing intently. Astarelle wisely closed her mouth. He crossed his arms over his chest, standing tall as she coward a bit.

"I don't even want to get into the details of exactly how deep my dick is in the fly trap. You thought about yourself once again and this time it's me that's gonna suffer right with you!" Astarelle gave him a pleading look, and Jensen sighed loudly. "And to top it off, you're running away hand in hand with the one woman on Althanas I don't particularly care for."

"At least it's not Catherine Remi," Astarelle spoke, lightly trying to bring back his humors. Her efforts were not met with warm welcoming. He gripped the side of his hair, tugged, and sighed again. She drifted a hand to him, but he slowly pulled away. Her eyes lowered, and Jensen let his words sink in.

"You know I care right?" Jensen whispered. "A great deal about you, more than I should. More than is legally healthy. That's right," he said, smiling again after all his serious intent. "There is a level of care that one is legally bound to give you. I suppose that's why I have Lawbreaker." Her face tilted in confusion.

"Go," Jensen said pointing behind her back to Philomel's direction. "Go, and get out of here. I'll...I'll...dammit all to the under realms, Astarelle, I'll figure this out. I'll talk to them...work with them...I'll get the heat off you."

Her head snapped to look him dead in the eyes and he smiled to her again, his look softened in her gaze. "Ya, no joke," he said softly. "I'll take care of the Alerans." He watched her shoulders tense, her mouth tweak into a soft grin, before, faster than he could see, a single tear fall as she ran into his arms, embracing him tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered over and over again into his chest. Jensen sighed, holding her back and nestling his cheek into the side of her head. He replied with moans and words that he would regret it, not meaning a single one of them. When she pulled away, squeezing his hand, he turned to look back at the campsite where no doubt the guards would soon be coming.

"I'm proud of you, for negotiating and handling this," Astarelle said in her strange Drow speech. Jensen shrugged and she smiled despite herself, looking to him with fondness. Then she caught out of the corner of her eye the leather gloves he wore when he fought snapping into his palm as he prepped them. "Bury me, you're not negotiating at all."

"Gunboat Diplomacy is still Diplomacy, right?" Jensen teased, a chuckle escaping his lips dredged from the demented pits of his stomach. She shook her head moving on and finishing the last details of her disguise. "By the way," Jensen said crassly back to her, tilting his head just enough for her to hear him. "First chance you get ditch the Leaf licker look. Not my style."

She smiled, face turning a gentle shade of red as she moved into the night.

[Philomel]

It was not long until they came across a river.

The snows of the high mountain summits were all but gone. Racing through this wide-based valley gave one clear oppurtunity that the faun and the fox found most useful. Though their first instinct, and first purpose, was to run straight and as fast as possible, the second was to rest. Bruised and battle-weary Philomel could only run at her excelled speed for so long, and Veridian himself could not keep up with her. Carrying him was not hard - she was already carrying her armour and weapons - but the weight was causing exhuastion with each hoofstep.

So rest was needed, and a chance to unwind, except it had to be somewhere secluded and calm. A river was going to be present in this valley, even if it meandered long and winding. The general grading of the valley slope was gentle, and every so often the foot of a giant mountain was visible. Soon, they came to the oxbow curve of the river. But instead of sinking right down at the edge in utter exhaustion, Philomel leaned down once to place Veridian on the bank. Then, without any words, she moved right into the water itself and began to stride, knee high in water, downriver.

There was a pause as the Earth Spirit stood on the side, watching her. He titled his head, golden eyes glinting with the obvious intelligence within as he tried to figure out where she was headed.

You wish to keep going? he asked.

Agreeing to his mental statement, the faun-whore nodded and answered in the same method. If we go some distance down here they cannot track us. She turned back to him, armour clanking as it rest directly against her back, loosely and amateurishly strapped in with her back sword sheath. Her arm raised to point somewhere down river, around where it curved by the rocky side of a hill, then back behind it to a clump of trees distant. There, if we head there, she said, We will find some place to hide and rest.

Veridian blinked, slowly, and flicked his white-tipped tail. Fine. But I go by land, he concluded, Water is not my friend and I am lighter on foot. Also not as fast so a direct line will get me there at the same time. He pulled back his top lip in an imitation of a grin, then as quick as a whip he twisted around and began bounding over the shrubs and rocks.

Philomel watched him for a moment, then sighed. She looked back at the solitary hoof print she had left in the bank, then at herself in the river. Pausing, she doubled back, climbing onto the bank to place another hoofprint into the mud to show as if she was heading upstream, then she turned, and ascended back into the water. Tightening the straps around her she took a breath to soothe those already weary muscles, then stretched to begin running again. Her hooves launched her fast and swift, and the splash of water echoed around her.

Soon she was racing the fox, water against land towards their goal.

Over land and through stream, they went hoof and paw, each attempting to not mark the path in their own way, and showing nature that they could defy all odds of survival.

Eventually Philomel got to the edge of the wood.

She was irritated to see Veridian already there, sitting back on his haunches and licking a forepaw. With his tail curled around him he sat proudly on a rock that might as well be a podium.

Seems your energy has depleted, was his greeting.

Philomel could hear the witty mirth in his tone. Rolling her eyes somewhat she gained to an edge where a root jutted into the bank, and she climbed up using it as a stepping stone.

"Whatever, fox," she muttered.

Veridian leapt onto all four paws, grinning like a jester and nattering in laughter. He bouced a few times, giggling into her mind. It pleased him that she was so annoyed, and provided a game in which he could play.

Artistically, Philomel pretened not to be bothered, in her great austere actress way, and began to lumber directly into the shadow of the trees. The ground was a little wet underfoot and the river wove in such a that these banks were often flooded. After a brief amount of assessing the area around them she sensed that there was a pool nearby, fresh water, left over from rain and flooding that was separate from the river. So she twisted in that direction and trudged towards it, with the cheery fox-form Earth Spirit bounding in tow.

Once there, under the cover of trees and away from the major river itself, they found themselves in a place of shrubs and foliage. Dumping her baggage down by a trunk of a stately oak, Philomel strode straight to the pool and fell into it as a belly flop. It soaked straight through her cotton blouse, but in this instance she did not care. All she wanted was to clean off and cleanse, and thus she set about doing so. As Veridian stayed on the edge of the bank, dipping in a foot or his muzzle every so often, she scrubbed her hair and flesh to get to something more presentable. Blood and dirt was washed away from them, leaving their bodies clean and healthy. Philomel even stripped right down, getting rid of all fabric and weapons to be as she was born.

The faun and fox washed, silently and lovingly.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

When the immortal trotted back to the prison tent he sighed angrily watching the dark elves move in and out calling out the general alarm. Several soldiers were already scanning the area for clues and one of the Captains noticed the knight and waved him over.

"It seems your little prisoner is attempting to escape. She's still under our custody so I assure you that my men will find her." He nodded once and motioned for several elves to begin fanning out for clues. Another group was already rushing after the direction he came from towards Astarelle and he groaned looking around. There were about twenty or so soldiers around and with a deep sigh he lifted his hand placing it on the Captain's shoulder.

"Why don't we just let her go. It's not like she's committed murder," Jensen shrugged and whispered, "Yet..." The captain gave him an odd expression before barking more orders in Drow speech.

"I have a duty to perform here, perhaps you should go back to your tent." Jensen shook his head chuckling. "I will not ask again."

"Then order me and see where that gets you fairy fucker," Jensen leered enthusiastically with an upraised middle finger. He gave his foe a dark pleading look like he longed for the elf to oblige and make this easy.

"Why are you impeding my investigation? If you keep this up I will-" Jensen giggled and interrupted him.

"Give me a spanking and tell me how naughty I've been you bush humping pointy eared cumdump?"

They both remained quiet, looking one another in the eye and Jensen inwardly pondered just how frustrated Astarelle was making him. He put those thoughts aside leaning in like he had a big secret to tell, hushing the other elves as he kept up his dark chuckling.

"I want to tell you something, but you can't share it," Jensen was sure to keep his voice low, enticing more towards him. "I told this hot ass girl I would do it for her, make her escape easy. When I say hot ass I mean it. Also, she's a hot mess. But enough about her. Let's talk about you and the main reason I am here." The captain outwardly shivered as he pulled out his blade, the slow ringing of metal on oil leather echoing the camp, mirrored by his men. Jensen's chuckles only grew louder as he let madness claim him once again. He moved side to side, as if impatient.

"See as much as I am willing to do for her, I am more here for selfish reasons."

"Jensen Ambrose you are under arrest for the aid of an escaped convict under custody of the Aleran Goverment. You are to throw your weapons to the ground and raise your hands above your head."

"But I never got to the secret!" Jensen cursed. He dropped weapon after weapon on the ground, smiling and laughing with nihilistic glee. When he was done he brought both hands up as instructed, still laughing.

"Detain him. And we-"

"Want to know my secret?" Jensen said again, his eyes filled with the lust for battle. Despite himself the captain slowly nodded, all weapons trained on the enigmatic immortal.

"You didn't bring enough men!" Jensen hollered, echoes of laughter building into a warped crescendo of joy and insanity as Jensen slammed both hands down. Wind rushed around him in a tornado like fashion, enough to startle the guards away from him. Jensen's fist flew forwards breaking the nose of the Captain against the steel plates of his gloves with a satisfying crack of bones. He turned in a heel kick, smashing his boot against jaw and snapping it apart with a demented chuckle. He charged into them, laughing and punching, dragging them all down with him into his descent to madness.

[Lye]

The assassin pressed his gloved fingers to his lips and released the shrill call of the Aleran Nightswallow. Moments later, a raven big enough to snatch a fox off the ground swooped under the forest canopy and perched upon Lye's outstretched arm. Its pale grey eyes dilated in the moonlight and gazed curiously at its summoner. Lye held up a closed fist to the bird, and it focused its attention. One by one, the assassin moved his fingers and palm, pausing slightly between movements.

"Have you found the encampment?" Lye signed.

The raven tapped its beak against Lye's glove twice, and cocked its head. Its sharp eyes fixed for more questions.

"In what direction?" he signed again.

This time, it stretched its wings about half way and bobbed its head twice. The bird hissed and clicked its beak once. Lye narrowed his eyes in frustration.

"Enough complaining, where is the camp?" His hands signed more aggressively to express impatience in his "tone".

His avian informant hissed again and turned his back to the assassin. Lye gave a heavy sigh.

"I've got to stop letting Bartok train these things when he's drunk," he thought while he aggressively rubbed the bridge of his nose. Though the dwarf was the best Raven Lord the Crimson Hands had seen, his reliance on the drink proved... irritating. The assassin took a deep breath and snapped his fingers. The bird spun around and was met with the sharp glare of Lye's emerald gaze.

The assassin formed his hand into the symbol for "camp" and knocked the messenger on the head for which the bird let out a stifled caw. It gripped Lye's hand painfully tight and stared, to which the assassin responded in kind. As reluctantly as it could, the raven finally tapped twice, gave a long swipe of its beak and clicked three times.

Had there been more hours in the night, the assassin may have inquired as to the count of men, type of armaments and the location of the target. All of these questions, the ravens of the Crimson Hands were trained to relay. Unfortunately, the birds being as intelligent as they were, also learned to express their personalities. Lye did not have time for witty banter with animals.

He reached to his back pouch for which the raven focused intently. It was customary to reward the creatures with a piece of meat or likewise incentive. Lye pulled a clenched fist from the pouch and with a gesture, threw something into the undergrowth. The raven left his grasp and hopped along the ground to find the tender morsel for its services. For as smart as it was, it didn't take long to realize it had been tricked and no reward was to be found. With the avian equivalent of a snark, it looked back at Lye with unamused, grey eyes and took flight into the twilight skies.

Lye's nerves waned. First betrayals, then plague dragons and now, his informants were being captured for feigned deaths. For most of his members, death would be the quickest answer. Unfortunately, this particular woman was exceptionally good at her trade. Something Aurelianus made sure to explain in his letters. Since the target could not be killed (without even greater consequence), Lye set out to recover her before she could be made to talk. The secrets of the Crimson Hand had to be maintained.

With grit teeth, the Viper of Slavar continued his trek to the southeast. According to his sassy informant, the camp was but a few hundred yards from him. The sooner Lye could secure this liability, the sooner he could get out of Alerar and back to his ploys. Being hunted by the local Aleran military, no thanks to a one Tobias Stalt, only served to heighten his desire to get home.

As Lye closed the gap to his destination, the light of torches and fire pits peaked through the branches and leaves. The ambient sounds of the night submitted to the voices of dark elves. Louder than one would expect at this time of night, Lye expedited his pace with weapons drawn. As he drew closer, his skin prickled at the sound of familiar, chaotic laughter.

"Damn it, somebody pin him down!" shouted one of the elven guardsmen yet to receive their diplomacy from the immortal. Lye stopped dead in his tracks. With only a sliver to observe, he watched the Ixian Knight drive a fist elbow deep into the stomach of the guard. Vitae spilled freely from the Aleran's mouth without a sound, then he fell to the floor in a pile.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Ulroke asked inwardly. He had to stay focused.

Tucked into the shadows on the edge of the woods, Lye maneuvered his line of sight to observe the encampment. As another body flew across his field of vision, Lye concluded the target was not in the fray. Was the information bad? He assessed the crumpled masses of flesh and bone. None of them resembled Aurelianus's whore. As he tried to get a better angle on scene without exposing himself, Lye's hand happened upon turned earth. Curiously, the mark that once stamped into the soil had been eradicated - something a guardsman would not bother himself to hide. Lye inspected further as shouts and thuds continued to the beats of maniacal laughter.

His glove picked at the soil. His brow furrowed. The assassin lifted a pinch of earth to his eyes and brought it into the light which flickered through the trees.

"Sand..?"

Out of his peripheral, he caught glimpse of something snagged in the underbrush. The assassin crept toward it, his attention focused on the immortal who still occupied himself with armored rag dolls. He plucked the strands from the foliage. Typical fox fur. The assassin brought it to his nose and inhaled softly.

"Blood and... what is that... goat?"

Lye grinned. He had enough information. Philomel was on the run. He just had to track her and get her out. Hopefully, the presence of Jensen did not mean more Ixians were also nearby.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle knelt at the riverbank, blinking away the fractured moonlight that danced off the choppy water. Her sand was scattered in as wide and thin a layer as possible in all directions save over the water, but her attention was on the two prints before her. One, pointed toward the river, seemed normal enough. The other, pointing upstream, was unusually deep. Her sand shrank away from it like a frightened animal, scared of even the small amount of water that darkened the soil there. She stepped in, then out. Why? Astarelle asked herself. She knew why she would have stepped out – pure sun-scorched panic. But, she didn't expect that Philomel would think twice on taking the aquatic route. Her sand continued to search along the grassy bank, finding nothing else in either direction. She even resigned herself to smelling the air, which told her nothing other than the fact that Alerar smelled different from Corone which smelled different from Fallien. By the depths, Philomel. Don't make me swim.

Behind her, at the edge of her sand-wrought senses, she felt the passage of feet. Immediately, the sand sank into the grass like figments of fireflies returning to their beds. Voices carried through the riverside foliage.

“Did you see that?” asked a male drow, speaking in his own tongue.

“What? Tracks?” inquired another in an exasperated tone.

The first voice paused. “No, it's nothing.”

“It's a whole lot of bloody nothing, that's what it is.”

Astarelle stayed on one knee over the hoof prints. Her shoulders rolled forward to hide the curve of her breasts in the slim coat, and her throat constricted with sand to lock the new voice in place. When the branches behind her were audibly pushed aside, she took a deep breath and allowed herself to simply... become...

Micar Lef'larra stood and pivoted slowly around. He gave a strict nod, bobbing the hat that hid the color of his eyes, but not the taciturn line of his mouth. “More here,” he said simply as if picking up an old conversation. With a light step, she shifted to the side and indicated the tracks.

One of the drow stepped forward. A hand rested on his sword hilt even as he leaned down to inspect the tracks. “How are you finding these things?” he asked, revealing himself as the speaker with the poor attitude.

Micar shrugged. “You're not?” There was too much dryness in his tone for it to be a joke.

The other new arrival stepped forward and said in a more companionable fashion, “We've been following your tracks more than we've been following the goat demon's.” The way he said 'goat demon' sounded like a colloquialism, a rather vulgar one.

For a moment, Micar pondered. His eyes traced the odd silhouette of the well-mannered drow's head. One ear was missing a tip. The moonlight shimmered over a nub of old scar tissue. With a fretful turn to his mouth, Micar looked back in the direction the two had arrived from. “The river's ruined the trail. We need to scout in all directions. Are there more coming?”

“I think there was some commotion in the camp. We were told to keep looking while the rest of our group went back.”

“Inbred immortal's causing trouble, I bet,” added the rude one, though he didn't look up from the tracks. Neither of them seemed interested in Micar's name, nor did they offer their own. That was fine. The one with an eternal connection between hand and hilt would be called Sword. The one with the amputated ear would be called Snip.

“It looks like she went this way,” Sword announced as he took a pace upstream. There was a touch of bravado in his voice. Micar let him reason it out himself. “She probably walked in the river.”

Snip stepped up next to him. “Against the current?” he asked with genuine interest, though Sword scowled as if offended. Micar joined them in looking out over the river.

“I've heard about half-breeds and their stamina,” Sword said with smug authority, “They're built to never tire... during all kinds of activities.” Snip blinked dumbly at him, and Micar shook with a short, barely audible chuckle. Sword gave him a glance that was somewhat less offended. “At least you get it,” his eyes seemed to say.

Micar turned his chuckle into a cough as he collected himself. “We should split up,” he said with clipped efficiency. It sounded as if he was used to others following his orders, not because of rank, but because he simply was right most of the time. The other two nodded agreeably enough. “You,” Micar said, indicating Sword, “Search upstream. See if the goat demon stepped out at some point. And you,” now regarding Snip, “Swim across to the other side. The goat likely had no problem getting across. I'll search downstream.”

Snip looked out over the water apprehensively, but didn't argue. Sword, however, placed his body between the other two. “Why don't you swim, tracker?” he sneered.

With visible strain, Micar lifted an arm and gestured to his ribs. His hunched posture had clearly been favoring them. “I'd wind up downstream anyway. I had a rough landing when I was getting out of the way of the immortal's madness,” he said, leaving a pregnant pause in the air for the others to fill. They did so with ease.

“I don't blame you,” Snip said with a sudden heaviness in his voice, “But those who stayed on board...”

“Are more heroes than the mad man,” Sword snapped before Snip could finish. “Though, it's a bloody shame that they died on a ship christened with a human name. That's not the kind of filth the families need to listen to when they receive the news. I hope they strike it from the record.”

Micar grimaced and clicked his teeth. His bowed hat dipped even lower as he spit upon the grass.

“I know,” Sword said, offering the width and breadth of his own bitterness. “What kind of name is A.A. Renegade?”

With a sniff, Micar looked away. “We should go.” They nodded.

The three went their separate ways just as Micar had originally suggested: Sword to the snowy base of the mountains, Snip reluctantly across the river and into the jagged foothills, and Micar down toward the heavily treed lowlands. Still hunched, he followed the river's snaking passage. The smell of encroaching trees and water-turned Alerar soil had a measure of comfort, because they were the smell of home... theoretically. In time, the splashing and subsequent sloppy steps of Snip faded, as did the distant curses of Sword as he, predictably, found no more tracks on his way. Micar straighten, exhaled slow and gentle, then was gone.

A giggle, still skewed by sand, escaped Astarelle's lips as she grinned like a mad fool. “It's been too blasted long since I did that,” she sing-songed to herself. She would have skipped if not for phantom pain in her ribs. In time, that would fade. It already became less as she picked up her pace toward the copse of trees below.

She was absolutely certain, in a way that was part logic and part intuition, that Philomel had gone this way. Upstream was not an option. That one print was too obvious, and she would have no inclination whatsoever to return to the snowy waste that choked Alerar's peaks. The straight line route, necessitating that she swim the river, was equally unlikely. The faun could tire. Astarelle had done an admirable job of draining her stamina in that burning Eiskalt church-

Her face colored below the dark sand. Bury me. I almost lost it when Sword started with the innuendo, she cursed to herself, then revolved to not think of the lewd insult they had performed as one final slap to Eiskalt's gods. The heat in her cheeks took its sweet time fading, though.

Into the trees, Astarelle slunk as quietly as she could. The sand that had slipped back to her after the drow meeting was once more acting as a buffer between her and the earth, muffling the crunch of twigs and grass. It also gave her traction among the trees that, while not grotesque in any measure, had a curl and lift to their roots that seemed purposefully designed to obstruct her. Ghostly fingers of sand played out from her, not so much searching for tracks as they were scouting the terrain itself. The moonlight, falling in deceptive and ephemeral streaks, was more a hindrance than a help.

As she moved, slow and softly cursing, she felt a depression of earth ahead that seemed somewhat less root-choked on its perimeter. With uneasy steps, she placed herself high on the forest's twisted knees to get a vantage point over it.

What she saw brought back all the color to her cheeks and then some. The disguise of sand felt like a desert pit oven. Bury me, Philomel! Really? Through the wind-nuzzled branches, she could clearly make out the faun (naked, of-bloody-course) playing about in the water with the fox. A dozen different knots of emotion snugged tightly together in her gut, forming an amalgamation to make sailors weep.

On the one hand, this was the very reason she had saved Veridian during the dragon's descent. At any other time, she would have teared up to she the love those two had, the way they were completely and utterly honest about it. She would have probably crept away, maybe a little jealous, and left them to their play. Something beautiful had survived all the death and poison of the dragon's fall.

On the other blasted bloody hand, doing this here and now was the epitome of stupid, and that was compared to such sterling examples as Astarelle risking her life for an immortal fox, or Jensen taking on an entire camp of drow against his better judgment.

With a sharp hiss, Astarelle realized that she had not given a thought to him since they parted, not even when the drow scouts made clear that her mad immortal was keeping his stupid stupid promise. She looked over her shoulder, unsure if she was facing the right direction anymore, and thought meekly to him. Thank you. I... I'll buy the drinks when you tell me about the A.A. Renegade. Even in her own mind, she couldn't commit to more than that.

From the pool, the sound of splashing diminished, and she snapped her head forward. Veridian was sniffing the air. Philomel was tense. She stood from the water as teasing rivulets ran down her naked, powerful form. Astarelle groaned. In the back of her mind, the newly-formed persona of Micar stirred from his usual strict manner. She forced herself to breath. It was the drow persona that felt weak kneed at the sight, and only the drow persona. Regardless, she was undone.

In a feat more dextrous then she would normally have risked in the clinging forest, Astarelle swung and skipped over the roots until she was standing stiffly atop one that overlooked the pool. There was no cover. It was just her, exposed, a peeping drow that gripped the branch overhead and leered like a male of any sentient race would at such a sight. Below, the faun and fox hissed in a cacophony that was hard to differentiate, especially over the frantic splashing as Philomel scrambled for her weapons.

And Astarelle couldn't hold it. She laughed in the key of drow, then choked and coughed up sand. Her other hand grabbed a second branch to keep her from falling in, and she laughed anew in her own honey-sweet voice. The face of Micar melted down into her collar like wax under the Fallien sun. “Bury me,” she gasped, “If I keep up the drow act, I'll just end up bedding you again.” She said it with a touch of conquest, like a cat preening on a high perch.

[Philomel]

At the sound of the familiar voice, Philomel stopped. Froze, as if in shock for a moment, before turning up her head and staring straight at the figure. She paused, lips forming a small round ‘o’ as her eyes danced from black coat, to hat, to face, and slowly rose to stand, sword bared in hand but unsheathed. Tall and erect in nothing but the flesh she was born in, Philomel was lost in the part that had changed - that olive-toned, feminine, deadly pretty face - as she tried to find words in her throat.

“You -” she blinked, frowning for a moment at the loss of speech. In a futile attempt to gain it once more she coughed, but only ended up spluttering somewhat, causing Veridian to niggle in his dastardly yapping way.

The faun-whore snapped her jaws suddenly, somewhere still between shock and anger, yet the Earth Spirit refused to shut up. He turned his chuckle into a fully-formed bark and pointed his nose at Astarelle and firmly asked, What?

“Yes,” Philomel opened her mouth wider this time, licking the roof of her mouth as she found her tongue at last. “Yes, exactly as he asks.” She raised her chin, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Astarelle’s response in no way answered the question.

“You're having a leisurely bath ... with hunters after you?”

Both faun and fox tilted their heads whilst looking at her, though in opposite directions. Philomel’s brow furrowed, Veridian flicked his tail.

“We were washing. Blood off us,” the spokeswoman of the pair replied.

Hesitantly, she paused, not knowing whether it was possible to look away from Astarelle without any threat of harm. Though the Ixian bitch had saved her in the past, there was no denying which side she was on, and who she was loyal to. However; liberties could be taken here, in this forest, and clearly from her expression Astarelle still found the prospect of Philomel’s naked form alluring. Therefore she told Veridian to keep watch, and the faun-whore herself turned, bending down to pick up her ruined clothes, taking the moment to place them on again into some form of rudimentary covering.

“Besides,” she continued, “There is only you here. The only warrior I can see who might be chasing us. Apart from that, we outnumber you two to one.”

Veridian confirmed with a short bark, and a nod of his head. Philomel stood back up, rubbing the fur on her legs briefly with a clump of moss to dry them somewhat, then she turned back to Astarelle, tucking the dagger of death, the Lover, into her belt.

“I don’t want to put you back in chains,” the priestess said, in a quiet, but near-threatening voice.

“Yes, dear,” Philomel found herself sarcastically retorting. “I bet you don’t.”

She added in a quick, sly wink, her lips suddenly curling up into a smile. The sentence rolled off her tongue, naturally and sumptuously, filling her with a sense of power. Great thrill filled her veins as she realised in a singular moment that she had her ability back, her style and sensuality, the art that would place her in standing for Matriarch of the World.

So wondrous was this statement that Astarelle was lost for words. She stood there, awkward and looking lost as a girl wandering from a folk tale through the dark forest.

Philomel let the silence drop. Her smile fell a little, and her eyes moved from the Fallien girl back yet again to Veridian. In that moment he deemed it worth trusting Astarelle, and he twisted back to gaze at his beloved.

You are concerned for her, he stated. It was not a question.

Philomel’s jaw clenched slightly, and she raised her chin. Veridian, she is our enemy.

An enemy you asked me to keep watch over whilst the beast of fire destroyed us. His great icterine eyes softly blinked.

Yes, because she saved your life!

There is guilt in your conscience, he observed, I sense it from you.

In the blink of an eye the knuckles of her hand whitened as the faun-whore clenched her fist. I feel guilt only for you, and perhaps Leaf. I don’t -

“Don’t let me interrupt …”

Both sets of eyes, slate grey and bright gold, turned in the direction of the speech. Astarelle had seen it fit to step down from her high perch atop the root, a place she had been perhaps uncomfortably standing since the start of their interaction. She faced them both, now on the same level, her female figure a little clearer now beneath the black fabric.

“Don’t let me interrupt your conversation, but we do possibly have a drow or two on the way.”

There was an ugly bitter silence. Philomel had an obviously enraged look on her face; Veridian was, as particularly normal, expressionless. The priestess was taken aback somewhat by the sudden intense anger, and she blinked twice in view of it.

Raising the previously tight-fisted, now loosely-clawed, hand, Philomel flicked the clump that was her wet hair over her shoulder. Shaking her head a little she bent down to grab a small fallen branch off the ground, gifted by the tree her weapons had been resting on.

She looked away from Earth Spirit and Fallien human, and spoke in a low voice.

“Not before Drys gets what is due her, dammit. Veridian, dearest find me some meat. Enough for yourself, and enough for an offering.”

The golden gaze danced from girl to girl, then he nickered once and flicked his tail. Turning on his forepaws he bound away into the woods, nose low to the ground, feet as swift as a falcon in the sky. Philomel did not watch him go away, she just kept her side to Astarelle, determined not to look at her as she searched the ground nearby for a second wood.

A moment of pause.

“We should be going …”

Furiously, Philomel turned on Astarelle. She glared up at her, oak branch in hand, though still was crouched over.

“Either help, or go, Astarelle. I need wood, and meat. I am not taking another step beyond this wood without thanking Drys for our lives back there.”

Roughly she went back to rooting, very like the young oinking pigs of her half-brother. Her hands worked swiftly as they could, picking up dead sticks, then tossing them aside as they were deemed not worth it.

“What are you doing exactly?”

“Trying to find a healthy branch that is not oak.”

Philomel glanced back to her, and was rather surprised to see Astarelle already bent over, looking around in the grass for wood.

“Is this ‘not oak’?” she asked, holding up an obvious oak branch in Philomel’s direction.

The faun frowned, confused for a moment by the question. Then she found herself abruptly smiling, amused.

“Of course not. See it looks like this,” she waved the one already in her hand.

Astarelle nodded, dropping the branch, then twisting back to continue searching. For a moment Philomel watched her, interestedly, wondering why this was occurring, and how such confounding twists of fate just happened to develop. The two of them were silent for some time more, before two things happened.

There was a shout of glee coupled with a muffled nicker. Veridian appeared a few paces away dragging a hare with him, and the human stood up, three branches in her hands.

“One of these should do.”

Stretching back up, Philomel rested on her hooves, and took a step closer. She did not look at Astarelle, but rather looked directly at the wood, and nodded, taking one from her hands. Switching it into the same as the oak she bent down and scratched Veridian behind the ears. He settled back on his haunches, looking proud of himself as he bared the hare.

“Thank you,” she said, gripping the branches carefully. She then reached for the hare, and he let it go, though a little reluctantly. Philomel paused, before turning back around to Astarelle, a firm look in her eyes. “I - I am going to pray to the Faun Mother. Either go and pretend this never happened or stay quiet. Drys does not like it if you interrupt her worship.”

She spoke strongly and profoundly, with no hint of sarcasm in her voice. As the faith flowed through her veins Philomel took a step forwards, then bent forwards onto her knees.

Letting out the air from her lungs in a slow, long sigh, she laid the meat on the ground before her. Then, breathing in in a similar manner the faun-whore placed one branch in either hand, and raised them until they crossed at a height similar to her head. Trying to still her nerves and her entire body she began to whisper in faunish, a poem of pure intense rhyme and reason. Closing her eyes she smoothly transitioned into a set greeting to her goddess, holding her head bowed and her expression solemn.

And then she prayed.

“Mother Drys, Goddess above all, beauteous and bountiful, your blessings have been great this day. You thrive us, and you feed us, you give us life when it is due, and give death when it is due. Creator of trees, Matriarch of faun-kind, the one who walks with Eden. Great spirit of Pan, Great spirit of Eden, hold us and keep us, and never ever leave us …”

[Roht Mirage]

Praise Roh, Mother of the Sands, she who shields our home from the broken, she who bears us on her breast and delivers the water of eternity. Know that she is the strength in our walls, the rhythm in our hearts, and the power we so graciously wield over her sand. Praise the heart, the head, the hand, and the child, for they are her entirety. They are her willing touch. Bow, now, and know that you need not question. Roh shall guide from birth in the mortal womb, to burial in the womb of sands. Such is the cycle, eternal and secure.

Astarelle remembered the feel of the ceremonial wraps, so constrictive over the neck and waist. She remembered the weight of her title, the Set, the hand. It was a name she still bore, if only because she had no other. How awful that mask had been. It was made of nothing; no sand, no wood, no paper. But, it was a mask all the same, one that made it so very difficult to breath. She had committed such sins to escape it. They still felt fresh when she dared to remember.

“Are you no longer in a rush to leave, priestess?” Philomel asked smugly.

Astarelle blinked, not recognizing the face before her for a moment. “I- Yeah. We should...” She tried to take a step, but her toe simply pushed a rut into the earth. Somehow, her hands found their way into the pilfered pockets, and she bowed her head to hide behind the long brim of the hat. “When did I tell you I was a priestess?” she asked sheepishly. The weight of days past was still heavy on her, pressing her voice into a form that felt familiar and strange at the same time.

Philomel chuckled her enchanting chuckle, a sound that begged to be interpreted as whatever the heart desired. Fortunately, it only worked if the heart knew. “You said a lot of things in that church. Some of them were little more than moans.” Astarelle felt her cheeks coloring so harshly that no amount of shadow would hide it. Philomel continued like a predator sensing prey. “You said you didn't want any responsibility, not to the Ixians or to Eiskalt. But I've heard all kinds of things in the throes of lust. I know it can't all be believed.”

Astarelle had no answers. She remembered those words, somewhat. After blocking out certain details for so long, the rest had become foggy. “They do say that about me,” she finally muttered, offering an ineffectual shrug, “Don't believe a word.” She started to step around the faun when a clawed finger hooked under the brim of her hat and tilted it upward.

Their eyes, nearly the same color, locked like blades. Philomel's were the pigment of nature, of rock, of her element. Astarelle's bore the coldness of steel. There was no connection to Fallien or Faroh, no sign of her desert nature. Her eyes simply marked her as one who didn't belong. She tried to break away. She tried to regain that sense of victory when she had been the one lording over their past relations, but it was as fleeting as if she had only imagined it.

Philomel was the one who broke the spell with venom-sweet words. “Quoth the priestess, 'I want to be wild'.”

Astarelle moved as if to slap the hand away, but seized it by the wrist instead. A splash of sand cemented her grip as tight as that of a statue. “You think I don't?” she shouted as she took one deliberate step between Philomel's hooves, pivoted onto her tiptoes, and stood chest to chest with the faun. For one moon-struck moment, neither of them breathed. Philomel's eyes flooded with messages too quickly for Astarelle to read in any depth. Surprise, pleasure, anger, she couldn't make sense of it. She couldn't even be sure that the anger wasn't simply a reflection of her own. There was a twist to the faun's mouth, though, that Astarelle recognized. She remembered it from the red glow of the church, when both their faces had run with sweat that wasn't only due to the precariously close flames. It was the knowledge that victory could come from submission, so long as you drew your opponent over the cliff with you. Astarelle knew that cliff well, no matter how many masks she placed between herself and the edge.

With visible, almost painful effort, she turned her face away and released the faun's wrist. There was no response other than a half-step to allow Astarelle to pass. She did so in a dance-like stride that barely brushed her hip against Philomel's leg. Then, she stopped. Golden eyes were looking up at her, somewhat threatening, but mostly irritated at the interruption. With a nicker that might very well have been a curse word, Veridian snapped his bloody snout back upon the scant remains of the hare.

How long was I lost? Astarelle wondered with some shock. A glance told her that Philomel was armed and armored, ready to move. She didn't want to think that she had devoted more time to the memory of a prayer than Philomel had done for the real thing. Coldly, she looked at the crossed sticks and the offering of meat below them.

Philomel shuffled forward, making Astarelle look up sharply. “I don't normally...” she began, not so much unbalanced as she was simply unable to find the words. Her body had stopped as if she was in the midst of trying to block Astarelle's view... as if, even after the fact, she would rather her prayer wasn't witnessed.

“It's okay,” Astarelle said, turning toward the faun and bearing a gentle smile. She understood the cruel tease that had stolen her back to the present. It had been a defense for the touch of softness that, now, turned Philomel's face just a degree off of sultry. “You have the love of your goddess, and the love of your fox.” She graced Veridian with a glance, only to be ignored. If he was in any way grateful for her sentimental heroics on the back of the dragon, he hid it well. Astarelle sighed softly, then said, “I'm happy for you,” without looking directly at Philomel.

“And your god?” Philomel asked as if sensing the bitterness that Astarelle bestowed to that one word.

“Not on speaking terms,” Astarelle said, forcing it to sound like a joke. With one finger, she pushed the hat high enough to reveal the tattoo-like design on her forehead. “But, I still have her sign, so that's something.” She drew the hat back down, enjoying the weight of it against the Roht mark. Someday, perhaps she'd buy her own, with a feather in it.

With deliberate, expectant steps, she urged Philomel and the fox to follow her. It wasn't quite the empowering gesture she intended, though, when she was among the rickety roots once more. Veridian savored a few more bites, and Philomel's hooves padded slowly past her prayer site. Then, they were in the trees with Astarelle, slipping through and clattering over, each in their own way, to put her sand-aided stumbling to shame.

Philomel didn't say anything about it. But, after a time, she did ask, “Why?”

Astarelle grabbed an overhead branch and halted a step that she hadn't been very confident in anyway. “Why what?” she asked as she tried for a closer foothold. Leaves rustled and snapped free around her ankle.

The faun clicked far enough ahead of her to catch her eyes and asked again. “Why do you keep helping us?” It looked like genuine confusion in Philomel's face. “If it's just another fuck you want, I accept money like any other whore.”

Astarelle snorted with laughter. “That's not what I-” She couldn't finish the sentence. She couldn't even think it. The farthest her mind would allow her to go was, I'll remember that, which she stomped upon like a scorpion in her bed roll. The laughter fell short as her cheeks started to color again, but she drew upon Micar's military bearing, however hypothetical, to steady herself. “I'm not just some Ixian dog, Philomel,” she said as if it was a statement long in the making, “I do what I have to to keep that rather glorious roof over my head, and to keep the ones I actually care about alive. Sometimes, those two conflict, and I remember that a roof is just a roof.”

Philomel shot her a look that said, “Are we really going down that road again?”

Astarelle chuckled nervously. Bury me. That came out wrong.

“Anyway,” she said with practiced grace, hoping to temper that still-too-hot blade of emotion, “I would hate for Jensen to beat an entire camp of drow bloody for nothing, though I'm sure he's having the time of his life.”

The shock on the faun's face was absolutely priceless, but Astarelle tried to move on by testing the next gnarled foothold. After taking a moment to collect herself, Philomel looked down and stomped her hoof upon a section of underbrush. It collapsed with brittle protests, revealing a patch of unobstructed earth and a path beyond that was much more manageable than the knot of roots where Astarelle currently wobbled. She nodded her thanks and gratefully accepted the gift, only to have Philomel clomp along close on her heels and ask, as if she was owed an answer now, the obvious question.

“Why, in all of Drys, is he helping?”

“He- uh...” Astarelle's words took a tumble as she realized that there was only one explanation she could give. She didn't want to say it, though. It made her shoulders stiffen and her whole back prickle as if the coat was full of nettles.

“Ooooh,” Philomel sang knowingly, “Aren't you lucky?!” Whether it was sarcasm or not, Astarelle paid little attention. She just walked faster and hunched over as if once again concealing her form.

“We aren't...” she started to mutter without thinking.

“Together?” the faun asked. Astarelle nodded, then felt the faun draw close. “Wait,” Philomel said, gripping the shorter woman's shoulder and forcing her to a very reluctant stop. “Have you two even... kissed?” Eye contact was averted with all the subtlety and grace of a guilty child.

“It's none of your busi-” A clawed finger promptly made her shush up, mostly because she was worried that speaking would earn her a laceration just under the nose.

Philomel leaned close with that teasing fire in her eyes. “Can't you tell when someone fancies you?”

Astarelle shuffled back to create some distance. “Can't we talk about something else?” she pleaded meekly.

“And you fancy him too.”

Astarelle's eyes went wide and her mouth drew into a narrow line.

“It's not-”

“It's not like in the church. No. I just fucked you. He's taking on the Aleran army for you,” Philomel interjected, skillfully making her point on the back of Astarelle's words.

“I- I'll tell you the truth,” Astarelle said, visibly struggling to control herself. She leaned in as if too timid to voice it aloud, and Philomel received her expectantly. With one finger raised, Astarelle opened her mouth, breathed slowly in, and prodded the finger against Philomel's forehead. “Doop,” she chimed, then took off through the Aleran woods as fast as her sandy steps would take her.

[Philomel]

Doop? What sort of a word was ‘Doop’?

Philomel stood there for a moment, lost and confused. First she had been excited, riveted, finally thinking she was going to get some Drys-damned truth from the girl. They had made hardly any headway in the path Astarelle was taking them, and now there was this weird language.

The faun let out a dissatisfied bark of goat-like sound. Instinctively she ducked her chin also, lowering her horns just that touch in a moment of panic and utter loss. She watched in bemusement as the Ixian priestess bound away, a stupid grin on her face, mimicking the madman Jensen who apparently lusted after her so much.

“What in Paradisia are you doing?” the faun-whore asked, watching Astarelle get further and further away.

“Chase me!” Astarelle giggled, turning around. Her grin widened at the sight of the confusion on the faun’s face. “You have to try and Doop me!”

“Yeah, many men have asked me to chase them, sweetheart, and it never ended well.” Philomel made a face, screwing up her lips slightly, but looked down at Veridian, not really bothering to wonder to Astarelle’s reaction. Definitely this was a time for consultation, not prancing.

What is she doing? the faun-whore asked him, What is this ‘Doop’?

Yet Veridian seemed just as confused. He ruffled his hair a little, causing it to stand up on end near his shoulders - then he let it fall. It gave all the appearance of a shrug, in a simplistic but practical way. It is of no tongue I recognise.

“Come on!” the priestess encouraged.

Brows furrowed, Philomel glanced up, looking straight at her. “I do not understand the purpose of what you are doing,” she said, in a tone explicitly confused.

Astarelle’s smile faded a little, but her excitement was still present. “What do you mean?” she said, “Its a game that my temple-sister and I played when we were young.”

Immediately the reaction that Astarelle likely did not expect, flashed across Philomel’s face. The faun-whore looked surprised, shocked even, a brilliant realisation coming to her face.

“Ohhh! A game. A children’s game. Indeed, I have heard of them.”

With that issue sorted Philomel continued walking, her hooves light upon the grass, satisfied that she had gotten to the bottom of this mystery. However, she made no move to run, to take part in this ritual that Astarelle suggested. Pacing beside her Veridian kept the same stride, whipping tail back and forth, though lighter in his step than before. After a few paces he began to wiggle, gaining in energy before leaping up high altogether and suddenly sprinting forwards, nickering excitedly as if a two week cub.

“Where are you going?” Philomel said, high and surprised. “What are you two doing?”

There was a great deal of laughter as fox Earth-Spirit and Fallien human took to winged foot and began to run, delightedly and excitedly. They seemed to share a joy, a ridiculousness of sorts, that Philomel found alien, yet familiar. Silently, she rolled her eyes, then picked up the pace, putting a hand on the hilt of her keris dagger to hold it steady, before kicking in speed. Her hooves left the surface of the earth, and resorted to tickling its back instead, impacting the rocks with more pressure, but in the least of area possible.

Soon she was racing towards them, her speed ricocheted by the pure beauty of being a faun. As she passed Astarelle she flicked out a finger and prodded her side, bellowing, “Doop!” and then charging off beyond the trees and out to the plains.

For a minute or so she kept running, the wind catching in her mangled, messed and still damp hair, whistling over her skin like the soft caress of a caring lover. Strapped to her thigh her throwing daggers flopped against her skin and her sword slapped with cheer against the solidity of her breastplate. A grin was apparent on her face, albeit for a brief moment of endorphins, and then it withered as she slowed down and turned back around, watching the other pair struggle to keep up.

The faun-whore stopped, tilting her head, smiling slightly at the side of human and fox together. A shiver ran through her, full of elation as she noticed the bright smile upon Astarelle’s face, and the very idea that she had helped to place it there. Philomel paused, then twisted as the two caught up, opting to slow the pace to a walk once more.

“So you were friends with your … temple-sister? Did you have no siblings of your own?”

“I was raised in a temple,” Astarelle said, quite openly and honestly. “There was only one girl there close to my age. We called each other temple-sisters because… well, we were.”

Taking her hand off from the hilt of her dagger Philomel answered in kind; “I was raised in a brothel from the age of six when my bastard of a father left. I only had my mother but that was alright. In its own way.”

The revelation did not seem to surprise Astarelle. “No other children, I presume.”

“None. Apart from the random bastards that clients brought with them. But whores know how to keep themselves free from pregnancy. I was only born because bastard Enna convinced my mother to ‘marry’ him.” She yawed, like it was an old story. Which in truth, it was. She barely cared about her past, and the man that had dumped about some sperm to make her.

“I never knew my parents. That’s the kind of thing we didn’t talk able after going to the temple, and I was taken as an infant. At least you ha-”

At the words of ‘at least’ Philomel twisted around, staring at Astarelle darkly. “My family was never perfect. In fact, I would barely call it one. The closest I have is Veridian, and he is all I need in life.”

On cue the furred form of the Earth Spirit nudged against her leg. Glancing down Philomel smiled at him, for the many-multiplied time that day feeling joy because of his mere companionship. He tilted his head up at her, golden eyes glinting with kindness.

Greetings, he sang.

“Yes, you are wonderful, dear,” Philomel rolled her eyes a little at the fox’s egocentricity. Turning back to Astarelle she offered a brief nod, as a signal of desire to change the subject. “Have you any idea of where we are heading? We were thinking about the coast, but that is it. I don’t know this land.”

Caught between awkwardness in the shift of tone and the slight jealousy towards family, Astarelle was stuck for a moment, leading to a pause in speech. “I … hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Seriously? You come all this way and have no idea?”

“When I saved your fox, I didn’t know where I was going to land. I didn’t even know if I would survive!”

“Technically Veridian is not a fox, he is a Spirit of the Earth. Just in fox form,” Philomel waved a hand, getting the point in the air, made, then out of the way, “But seriously-”

“Don’t you have any … safe-houses in your Order?”

Silence reigned for a brief moment. There was a flicker of realisation, questions, then thought processes between the two sets of grey eyes, and then Philomel gave up and shrugged.

“There may be, may be not. I could never tell a warrior of the Ixian that sort of information.” She gave Astarelle a brief, witty wink, then sauntered away, deliberately swinging her hips as she did so.

The priestess scowled behind her, not quite able to tear her eyes off the swinging arse. Philomel just kept going, grinning at her flirtacious strut. Astarelle opened her mouth, and began to speak. A single syllable came out.

“You-”

Sharply, she cut herself off. So abrupt was the self-inflicted interruption that it caught Philomel’s attention, and the faun-whore turned to look back. The Fallien was staring back into the distance, shifting uneasily.

“Something’s coming,” she said in a low voice.

That voice changed to being gravel-like, pitty and harsh. Philomel recognised it as the tone of a drow, and she quickly drew out her sword, ready and tense. The white blade hung in the air, in no way adding to the disguise, but the faun did not care. She was not going to be taken again. Sucking in her breath she added her own awareness into the earth, and for a full two seconds there was nothing but emptiness until she felt it.

Him. A solid, human-sized if the weight was anything to go by, presence around forty metres away. Probably likely an armoured drow. Gripping her hold on the sword she gritted her teeth together.

Astarelle suddenly turned, yoinking the basic sword from her own belt, and moved, aiming to clash blades with Philomel’s. A grim dark grey-skinned face glared back at her, but there was still the familiarity of those cute button eyes beneath.

“Hey, dimwit,” Philomel whispered, “You’re-”

A harsh hiss cut her off. “Just act. When they get close, we’ll take them out.”

Ah. Clever. Pretending. With a small but firm nod, Philomel moved into a fighting stance. She limply cast her blade against Astarelle’s, enjoying for a moment the cold ring of steel and mythril, then she yelled brightly.

“You can never take me alive!”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Blood dripped from the tips of his leather gloves like the leak of an unclosed faucet. His eyes were wide with mischief, lips snarled in a rictus grin filled with perverted pleasure. Flecks of dried blood splattered his arms, chest, and cheeks in wild uneven strokes like an artist had a seizure. His chuckling was low and haunting, breath ragged like a rabid beast waiting for the next fight.

He was surrounded in a sea of broken and spent bodies, the crashing waves the groans and whimpers of those who fell in the wake of the most diplomatic engagement Jensen ever handled. He lazily stepped forwards, looking as another group of guards were rushing him, calling out to other groups that they located him. He shook his head giggling. It wasn't like he was making it hard with the trail of broken bodies.

These new ones who came were far more cautious of the immortal, warily moving to fan around him. It had only taken them a few minutes to realize he was capable of fighting them on a level they could never achieve. As they maneuvered themselves more elves poured into surrounding camp, spears long and jagged for maximum carnage. He mentally noted to avoid the pointy ends.

"You are to stand down!" One shouted. Jensen felt his eye twitch with racist rage to be ordered around by the elven race. He slowly turned his head, deliberately, to look at the owner of the voice. There was long Raven black hair attached to a pale beauty. Her long ears however looked like tiny targets to him, and he turned his whole body to address the one who spoke to him.

"What," Jensen oozed with heavy sarcasm dripping with most potent of venoms. "Makes a bush humping," he continued with deadly malice taking one step forwards. "Leaf licking, pointy eared half wit like you think she can tell me what to do?"


“There will not be another warning,” she said with spite. Jensen looked to her with a grimace like his hands were tied and he motioned for her to come and get him. Instead she let out a shrill cry of Drow speech, the warriors all advancing as one in lock step making the circle they surrounded him shrink with every passing step. “This is your own doing, Ixian,” she called to him, moving with sword at the ready as spears moved to cover her back.


Jensen remained calm as he glared daggers into the supposed leader of this motley crew. He bit his lower lip, chewing on the soft flesh as if debating. They took another step closing the gap, making no room for the immortal to blitz through. Another step narrowed his maneuverability by several meters, and one final step sealed him in the cage of flesh and metal. He grinned like the devil himself, full of malicious and sadistic needs. In the end, he laughed looking to her, his bout of giggling like a stream of curses.


“Last chance,” she whispered, her eyes having a soft pleading to them. It was not cowardice she showed. On the contrary, her resolve was dedicated and true. But he could see in her the desire for him to stop. To end this insanity and be done with it all. Jensen giggled to her, and with a deep sigh she stepped forwards.

"I have always had a deep respect for Sei Orlouge and his Ixian Knights," she spoke gently and lowered her sword a fraction. Jensen just crossed his arms across his chest. "You are all peerless workers for good, and your reputation has spread far across the lands of Althanas. When my brother had heard the Ixians had come to defend our home he instantly joined the battle against the dragon. Because he wanted to fight with noble warriors with ideals."

"Sounds wonderfully like a boring bedtime story," Jensen spat. "The point better be sharper than your ears, busy humper." Jensen rolled one open fist in front of him in the universal signal for impatience. She shook her head at him, but kept her cool.

"He was aboard the airships. My brother volunteered with some of the best Alerar had to offer. He and I are unique, being twins. We have a special bond. Using the little magic my father taught him he sent me a shadow raven with a message that he was staying aboard the ship with some crazy Ixian Knight."

To this information Jensen finally lowered his hands, but his scowl didn't change. The woman spoke more passionately seeing she was breaking through to him. "If an Ixian would give up his life to save my home then how can I turn my back and run!" She mocked her brother's voice with fondness. "You realize the legacy of you Knights have imprinted strongly on his soul. He is dead now, a hero of our people because of the Ixian he wanted to emulate. Please, for the memory of my brother, will you stand down?" Jensen saw that pleading look again, and with a dry, forced out raspberry he scratched his head.

"I dunno fairy fucker," Jensen said. "I'm not sure I'm inclined to believe you." To say the woman was shocked was an understatement. "Whenever you mentioned your brother you for some reason look away, to the floor. Makes you look like a liar." He mentally noted the time with Astarelle was starting to pay dividends. Her poker face was far more the superior one compared to this upstart. "But it could also be my natural unending hatred of your species as a whole. So tell me this, leaf licker, Jensen leaned forwards to whisper darkly to her, complete with hellish chuckling. "What ship was he on?"

"The A. A. Drejannienar," she replied smugly as if this news would somehow break him open and make him stand down. The immortal grinned like a loon.

"Funny," Jensen sneered. "The ship I blew up was the un-christened ship. Called it the A.A. Renegade. Gave it a little class I think.” Jensen mused as the woman took a step back, concerned as she whistled sharply lifting the spears of the men around her to a ready position. “Oh ho ho, you tried to trick me, thinking yourself so superior to a little stupid human like me, didn’t you?” Jensen actually laughed loudly at this, with no menace. “That’s so infuriating how you think because you’re an elf you’re better than me,” he hissed angrily, words filled with murderous intent as his demeanor so casually slipped back to madness.

“Think long and hard, idiot, about what you are doing!” She shouted. “I tried to spare you, this is your doing. You’re placing a great deal of strain on the relations between Ixian Knights and the Aleraran government.”


“No,” Jensen said wagging a finger. “The prisoner was ours, I said let the goat people go, and you guys demanded she stay in custody.”

“For attempting to murder a prisoner under our protection!” she shrieked as if she was running around in circles and getting fed up with it. Jensen chuckled louder and harder as she seethed a sigh out through clenched teeth. “You are impeding on the justice of the people who want him to answer for his crimes!”

“Knowing that prick, Zack Blaze will lie his way out and get off free. If Philomel did it, which I’m pretty positive she didn’t, I would imagine nobody would really mind.”


“Why are you such a stubborn jackass! Stand down!” Jensen giggled shaking his head. “You’re outnumbered!” Jensen laughed like a fool. “You’re out maneuvered!” He bent over holding his sides. “And outskilled!” This actually caused Jensen to collapse on the ground, laughing hysterically kicking his legs in the air like a dying spider. She growled motioning her men to get ready. Jensen rose back up in a flash, nearing her with speed unreal to her heightened senses, and he spoke darkly.


“If you think I’ll bow down to some bush fuc-” Jensen felt a spear impale the back of his chest, the feeling of fire burning a hole through him as his chest exploded in white hot agony. His chuckling lit up loudly, before coming back down like the dying embers of an inferno. He continued to laugh, blood dripping from his mouth as he fell to a knee. When he was still the spear was removed with a wet splotching noise.

“He’s been detained Captain Yasmir,” the soldier who had done the deed stepped away from the corpse and stood at the ready. Yasmir lifted a hand to her head, shaking it side to side as she ordered her men to stand down and do something, in her own words, useful. They tended to several unconscious and barely conscious bodies around them. She began muttering about how foolish the immortal was as she made preparations to bind him. She knew he could rise from the dead, but he needed time. Her ignorance had led to her fail to notice the green lightning like lines of eldritch power dancing along Jensen’s wounds as flesh slowly began to knit itself. With a dark sigh and a crueler chuckle the immortal flexed his fingers, wiggled his toes, and started to rise. By the time they registered he was alive, it was already too late.

Jensen moved forwards, lurching upwards into action as his fist flew outwards and took the soldier who stabbed him right in the chin. The metal plates echoed loudly as the elf’s head bent back and he let out a silent gasp. In the same breath Jensen pulled his arm back from his face, elbowing Yasmir hard in the mouth so she stumbled. The knight turned into her fall, tripping her and pushing her down hard with a simple leg sweep takedown.

“This is your doing, Bush Humper,” Jensen whispered with a wink to her, laughing with all the gusto he was known for as he kicked up the spear that had impaled him and spun it around his body before ending his routine with the flat end against the Drow’s face. She lazily rolled her head to the side, looking to watch him stalk forwards like a feral beast before her elite warriors. The bastard kept her conscious so she could see what he was about to do to her men. She prayed they would take him down, hoped they would best this arrogant asshole. But deep down, in her stomach, she wished she was unconscious, because with a shriek of pure sadistic glee he was on them like a hurricane against a lone sapling.

Armed now, the guards shouted for back up, moving in coordinated positions to better protect themselves. Blood was shed from human and elf alike as the maddened Jester of the Apocalypse frothed racial slurs between haunted giggling. The Immortal weaved his way through them drawing them further and further to him as they followed him. He had an idea in mind, but soon he had to give up this stupid endeavor. He snarled cracking another bone and laughed.

Soon wasn’t now, however, and he wasn’t going to stop enjoying this little moment.

“Come and get me you tree fuckers! This is what you want! This is what you begged me to do!”

[Lye]

While he traversed the wilderness of the Aleran forest, the assassin traversed in a way that would minimize his both his physical and acoustic footprint. His boots rippled as though covered in a thin sheen of black oil. This mild dosage of shadow manipulation took care to buffer impact to the soft soil and finely preserved the underbrush from cracking or rustling. Meanwhile, his keen, verdant eyes scanned for the path of his quarry. Admirable as her abilities were, Philomel’s hooves, paired with her affinity to earth, still left miniscule hints as to her direction.

More intriguing to the killer, was the fine dusting of sand skittered about. At first, Lye mistook the haze for a twilight fog, something quite common in the Aleran region. Especially in the chill of night and so close to the frost crested lands of Salvar. It was the earthy taste in the air that drove him to believe elsewise. Though he could not pin the reason why, this would only serve as another indication that his subordinate drew close.

Lye froze in place, then pressed his back against the trunk of a nearby tree. Unfamiliar voices in the distance approached in his planned direction. Though removing them from the situation would have proved easier, the situation was already as chaotic as it needed to be.

“Anything on your side?” Lye overheard in a deep Aleran dialect.

“Nothing. No tracks to follow. No broken branches. Just a whole bunch of nothing,” another voice called back. Their proximity forced Lye to wrap himself in a cloak of shadows. His curiosity piqued, he turned an invisible head to access the source.

“Have you seen that other guy?” asked an Aleran guard to his companion. This particular elf walked up to another, yet kept his hand resting upon his sword’s pommel as though they were glued. His colleague was similar in skin and stature, yet most discernibly lacked a chunk of his once pointed ear.

“Can’t say that I have. He said he went downstream, right?” The fellow elf gripped his chin in thought.

“Right. Given he hasn’t returned, he’s either dead or onto something.”

Downstream?

Both the earthy tone and remnants of finely executed earth magics pointed in that direction. The assassin snarled. The fact these militant elves scrambled a search party so quickly and efficiently even while Jensen turned their encampment into elf pudding proved just how determined they were. Should they discover him or Philomel, no telling how many more of these ants would crawl out from the trees upon them.

“Damn. Let’s double time and catch up.”

In his gloved hand, the assassin collected the will of the shadows and stretched it wide from his grasp. Invisible under the cover of night, this dark magic moved only a few meters downstream from the Aleran scouts. With a few flicks of his wrist, he depressed the earth in the shape of hooves. He manipulated the shadows to carry the tracks to the southwest just enough to keep them deflected and just in time. Both soldiers broke into a jog. Lye dismissed his magics in a wave of his cloaked hand and watched.

“Hold up.” Snip outstretched his hand against Sword’s chest.

“What?! You find something?”

Snip dropped to his knees.

“Tracks,” he murmured.

“And that bloody prick didn’t even bother to let us know! He let us waste our time knowingly!” Sword’s fist clenched tightly, grey knuckling in frustration. Snip turned his head to him with similar ire in his face.

“Trying to claim the find to climb the ranks no doubt,” Snip stated, rising to his feet.

“Same plan as before. We catch up, and if he’s not dead already, we make it look like the goat put him through the paces, aye?”

“Aye.”

Then, they were gone, off to chase another empty lead. Considering one more remained and in the same direction as the trail, Lye hadn’t anymore time to waste. Like rising from a lake, he emerged from his shadowy camouflage and took flight. If she hadn’t already, he’d be sure to eliminate her pursuer. Strangely, the trail still did not yield foot tracks. Was there even a third scout?

Further into the woods, the leader of The Crimson Hand caught a new scent - wet animal. His fleet steps carried him to a standing pool where the earthy tones and faint tracks converged. It didn’t take long to notice the damp trail leading out of the water and this time, actual hoof and paw prints. Lye quirked a brow.

Why drop your guard now…? Where’s the other scout? No blood or body. Something doesn’t add u--

A canine chitter snapped Lye’s attention to the distance. He paused to hone his senses. Then, over the ambiance of the forest’s slumber, he heard it. The melodic tones of Aurelianus’s faun whore. Lye grinned in confidence for a brief moment before he picked up yet another. This time, a clearly different tone, but also effeminate. Grin turned to scowl and with needles drawn from their sheaths, he stalked onward to the forest’s edge.

“You’ll never take me alive!” Lye overheard as the faun came into view through the thick underbrush. Metal clanged loudly in the twilight air. Another figure wrapped in Aleran attire locked blades with the faun. She had been found afterall.

Damn.

Lye took aim to eliminate the unwanted party. Frustratingly, their footwork, almost like a dance, proved a difficult target without risking friendly fire. Trained eyes focused as the exchange of steel and mithril continued. Finally, a window opened; the assassin’s needles took flight. From the cover of the woods, they sailed straight and true. Blades clashed one more. Then, a shrill of pain echoed into the night.

Though not ideal, the needles buried themselves into the Aleran. One in calf, another in the thigh, and third just above the hip. Lye readied another volley as the elf buckled under its own weight. It cast aside its weapon, and grasped at the enchanted steel as it worked its way deeper into the flesh like a tree’s roots. He took aim again. This time would be fatal, and again the needles flew.

“Astarelle!”

Philomel’s blade reached out and swatted two of the three from the air with great fitness. The third glanced off the faun’s breastplate as she stood in between Lye and the downed soldier. Unsure of his exact location, Philomel faced toward the edge of the woods at the ready. Her fox familiar dashed from behind, through the grass, and toward the treeline toward the assassin.

What in the hell?

“Philomel!” Lye’s voice bellowed like a deep roar. He rose from his cover and stepped into the moonlit clearing. Veridian skid to a halt, yet bore his teeth with a low growl. “Explain yourself!”

Unintimidated by the familiar, Lye continued his advance.

“Here I am to get you out of Alerar, I see you’ve escaped, and now you’re showing mercy to your would be captors? Put the damn thing out of its misery, and let’s be done with this.”

[Philomel]

With body twisted in a crude defensive form, Philomel defended Astarelle from any further harm. Heart racing and adrenaline soaring she boldly stood between the assault upon the human and not her. These strange things, this strange place. Seemingly it was a disease in itself as it turned a godly dragon into a living corpse, had Astarelle return a past life to rescue Philomel once more, had an enemy attack the disguised drow and not the undisguised faun who supposedly was the wanted one here.

Things never happened as one predicts, and this Philomel learnt in the most bemusing way.

The very Master of her Order stepped from treeline into the plains, into clear sight, anger written firmly on his face. Veridian was pausing nearby, caught between attacking Ulroke and not attacking.

“Philomel!” he demanded, “Explain yourself … Put the damn thing out of its misery-”

She did not hear the rest. At the words of ‘damn thing’ the faun-whore glanced quickly behind her, wincing to see Astarelle collapsed on the ground, kneeling in a deformed foetal position, left hand clenched tight.

Turning back around Philomel looked back up, seeing Ulroke now sternly advancing across the grasses, his face a livid rising red. Behind him Veridian was on the edge of springing forwards on his paws to stop the assassin in his stride, but Philomel bade him stay down.

Don’t, love, she said, lowering her blade and straightening into a pose almost proud, It may make this worse. Just help me protect Astarelle.

“Philomel!” came another roar, warning this time, lined with a threat.

“She isn’t a drow!” Philomel gasped out, stepping further to the side and around to protect the huddled form, “She is not an enemy. She is a friend, helping me to escape.”

The man paused in his step, clearly surprised by her statement. He slowed somewhat, eyes narrowing at the faun’s face, deducing at whether she was lying. But then why would she need to? Letting herself seem as innocent as anything Philomel imagined herself as a poor little maiden.

“Why, then was she attacking you?” There was still suspicion in his tone.

With her free hand - she was not ready, yet, to surrender her weapon - Philomel held up a flat palm in a sign of peace. “We sensed a person in the distance. Obviously it was you, however we assumed it was an enemy. As in another drow. There are another two somewhere out there, but my … friend managed to send them off in some other direction.” She attempted to smile, but it only came out as some awkward twisted line. “We thought attacking each other would mean keeping up the guise of evil faun and warrior knight drow.”

It seemed a weak excuse. So weak that Astarelle let out a groan of pain behind her, edging on screaming as the darted poisons started to take effect. Philomel knew of these instruments to some extent, as famous as they were to the Crimson Hand himself, and the way they rooted into a person and could not be pulled out without knowledgeable skill.

The Nightingale could not help but twist back around to look at the Fallien priestess. As she did she spied a view of Astarelle’s hand curling around the cylindrical trunk of a dart and apply pressure to pull.

“Don’t-”

A writhing scream of agony filled the air. Anxiously Philomel cringed, and looked back to see if Ulroke bought her unusually true story. He seemed unimpressed, just amused by his ability to inflict pain.

“Who is she?”

So far Philomel had kept Astarelle’s name out of this. It was rather deliberate, knowing that the priestess had a well-known connection to the Ixian Knights. She clicked her tongue a couple of times behind her teeth, trying to think of some way to lie, but any lie would likely come back to her with disastrous and ill effects. It was a true conundrum of being stuck between tsurvivalval of her own skin and the survival of her previous lover and rescuer.

“I can’t -”

The human assassin took a solid step towards them, clearly an intent of further damage.

“She is Astarelle Set’Roh, alright, the one I fucked in that church at the end of the Eiskalt war, the one who has saved my life now on numerous occasions.”

She looked him directly in the eyes, watching the movements of his expression. He went from confusion, to surprise, to disbelief in a short few seconds, subtly in his own careful way but Philomel was an expert when it came to reading a person.

“I mean, Ulroke. Lye. Sir. I mean she is not here to cause any harm. Essentially she is an ally of myself, however mad that sounds. Yeah I have an ally that isn’t a fox, big deal. However, she was never here to harm you, or I. So don’t attack her, I would very much appreciate that.”

The majority of her speech ended, Philomel let out a sigh. She lowered her shoulders, let the breath out and stood there, loose and relaxed. Veridian found it time to patter up and plonk his russet behind next to her on the grass, somewhat so he could be nearer to assist in whatever way he could. Behind them Asterelle still moaned and shrieked in pain, colouring the air with various remarks in her own tongue.

“Yeah, what she says,” Philomel added as an epilogue, quietly.

This is not what I had in mind in terms escaping Alerar, she told Veridian.

The familiar just grunted a little, keeping his eyes steadily on Lye. Indeed, he said, Indeed.

[Roht Mirage]

Cold mountain air cut down the sloped Aleran lands, lending an even frostier chill to the space between the assassin and the faun. There was a stubbornness to both that made the situation feel incredibly precarious. Then, it was suddenly over as the assassin looked past the faun and spoke as if nothing was amiss.

“Astarelle Set'Roh. I have heard of you. I would like to thank you for helping Philomel, though I was on my way to rescue her myself-”

“I didn't do it for you,” Astarelle bit off as she moved ineffectually on the grass, trying to find some way to right herself without exacerbating the pain.

“You should not do that. I can remove them.”

“Astarelle,” Philomel urged softly as if in agreement with her master.

He moved to step around the faun and fox, and was met by a loud hiss. Philomel looked to the fox, who looked back at her with that almost-human sentience in his eyes. “It wasn't me,” he seemed to say. They both turned to look at Astarelle. The assassin took another step, and she hissed again through the pain.

Philomel's hooves clomped closer to Astarelle's body, again blocking the man's progress. “She doesn't want you to,” she said as if speaking for a wounded, mindless animal. The sword was still in her hand, held low but with knuckles tight.

I can speak for myself, Astarelle thought. The fact that the words didn't make it to her mouth seemed to belie the point. She tried again. “I can-” Her voice caught, then transformed into a whine through clenched teeth. She closed her tear-streaked eyes. The pain is a mask, just like any other. Just on the surface. Underneath, I'm...

The drow face fell away once more. Though, this time, it billowed over the grass instead of neatly hiding in her collar. “I- I know you.” She forced the words out even though they pitched high with what should have been a scream as she strained upright. The best she could do was kneel, weight on her good leg, and keep from toppling over. It was a pose of supplication, but she refused to assume that role. With sharp eyes and even sharper breaths, she glared up at the man, baring her own face and voice. “Lichensith Ulroké,” Astarelle seethed. Each syllable was so painfully distinct that he might not have realized the intent. He was and would always be Lichensith. The idea of shortening it, as her people would a lover's name, made her retch.

“Jensen told me about you,” she growled, manipulating the pain to fuel her voice, “He told me how you whispered monstrous things into his ear during the war.”

Lichensith nodded, then spoke in such an amicable way that it barely sounded like he was refuting her. “I only told him the truth.”

“The truth can be twisted,” Astarelle snapped, “To make something horrible.”

“And lies can be beautiful, can they not?”

Philomel looked back and forth between the two with confusion on her face. The philosophical debate certainly wasn't beyond her, given her own experience with honeyed words, but the timing of it was questionable. “Lye. Astarelle. We should go,” she said sternly, stealing both their attentions as she reached down to help her former lover stand.

Astarelle took the faun's hand, but she refused to be lifted. All of her weight went into pulling Philomel's face closer to her's. “I'm not going with him,” she said, then winced before she could say anymore. Through her flooded eyes, she tried to convey, “Thank you,” though she doubted it could be read against the contortions of her face.

“She's made her choice,” Ulrokè intoned with finality. He turned his back as if to walk across the field and leave her there, but Philomel didn't move.

“Come with me,” she said. From any creature without Philomel's strength and pride, it would have sounded like pleading.

The assassin's shoulders tensed, but he didn't look at them. He simply gazed over the Aleran grasslands and spoke as if inspired by the view. “The man you attacked is still alive, Philomel. Did she tell you?”

The strength in the faun's grip loosened by a degree. Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. “Wait, he what? What the fuck?” She directed the question at Astarelle.

“He survived,” Astarelle said dumbly, too strung out with pain to notice the seed of doubt before it took root.

Lichensith let fly a benign, “Odd that she didn't say anything.”

Astarelle could feel him trying to set the hook; lock in that doubt. It was a situation she knew well, when someone understood just enough about her to suspect her authenticity, and that small burr of something made every word from her lips seem a lie. She looked up at Philomel. Her mouth opened, but she swallowed the instinctive words.

I never had the chance. It didn't seem relevant. I didn't think about it.

Even in her own head, she could feel those words twisting unto one inescapable conclusion.

I didn't think you would allow me this close if you knew. It might very well have been the reason, buried deep in her mind all along.

“The Alerans still want your head for attacking him,” she blurted out. Her other hand seized on Philomel's wrist, her grip drawing tight from pain, and she looked up to the faun's face in stomach-knotting anticipation.

Philomel regarded her with those beautiful earthy eyes. Emotions flickered quickly across her face, telling little. Was the doubt still there? Astarelle couldn't tell, clouded as her vision was with tears.

[Philomel]

Forcefully, savagely, the faun-whore ripped her wrist away from the priestess’ grip. She stood upright again, looking down at her, still silent with her mind boiling with fury. Astarelle’s eyes lightly shimmered with a dim ring of what could be mistaken for sweat. For weak tears simply bubbling up because of the pain. For stress lines that just somehow caught moisture even though it had not rained.

Hand moving she bent to pick up the sword she had abandoned in order to assist the Fallien girl, then she slippedt it back into its sheath. Taking a step back she turned to look at the only one she really trusted out of the individuals here as Astarelle’s pain continued.

“I wish you had killed Zack Blaze!” she yelled, voicing lined with agony, “Believe me or not, I would have come for you even if I had to fight the whole Aleran army!”

Those glorious golden eyes that had kept Philomel sane and alive through many years stared at her, taking in the words at the same time. Veridian tilted his head, the fur around his jawline fluffing out like a lion’s mane.

She likes you as you like her, he noted.

I “like” no one, Veridian, Philomel glared back, Not as a friend, as that is what you mean. No one apart from you.

So you claim, yet what about Leaf? What about the fact you asked me to look after her in the battle?

“Jensen has the Aleran Army covered,” came the strong male voice from the other side. “I noticed when I went to the camp.”

“Oh I thought he might,” Astarelle replied.

There was a soft pause, a break in the tension for a moment. Both fox and faun were still locked in stares. A small nicker came from deep in the fox’s throat after a while, a sign of relative humour.

I am glad you like me …

Philomel rolled her eyes and stepped away, raising her hands to high heaven. The two humans seemed to think that this break meant peace, and Lye stepped forwards.

“Philomel, let us be -”

It was too close to Astarelle for Philomel’s liking. The faun-whore whipped out her keris dagger, sharp and killing and shoved it near his jaw.

“Don’t go near her,” she growled.

The Viper just raised an eyebrow, pointedly. He folded his arms slowly, a picture of sophistication and pride and power, simply watching her until she gave up. She did not for sometime, so he continued the conversation with Astarelle as if nothing had occurred.

“You are very persuasive towards Jensen Ambrose,” he said, “I wondered what drove him to taking on so many guards at once. It would be a pleasure to work with you one day, perhaps.”

“Any move I make will be on my terms,” came the reply, coupled with another grunt of pain.

Twisting back around to her Philomel finally dropped the dagger end pointing at her boss. All these turns were somewhat like playing a game of musical bar stools, where one had to find a stool before the music stopped (and if you did not you were encouraged to down a pint). It was driving her slightly dizzy but in this moment of fury, that only she was feeling, it proved to be the one way to use all her pent-up energy.

“Ah, not today then,” Lye said, almost mourningly. Then he paused, and continued in a lighter tone, “Come Philomel, this girl obviously wants to grieve in her own pain and sorrow. Plus she is a liar.”

“Everyone is a liar in their own way,” the faun-whore said quietly, looking back at those metallic grey eyes. They were fuller now, wetter and more pitiable. Wide like those of a fox cub they yearned to strike a chord in the cold heart of the erstwhile Nightingale, trying to give it warmth and wings so it could fly.

“Philomel …” Astarelle whispered.

… Forgive her.

The Earth Spirit trotted around, pushed his muzzle against Astarelle’s hand. He snuffled into her palm and blew a small amount of warm air against her skin, showing his kind nature and his delicate soul. Astarelle, in shock, paused her harsh breathing. She patted Veridian’s head sofly, timidly, as if afraid he might bite.

What? Philomel answered, astounded, watching his actions.

You care for her, he said, murmured, noticed. And she barely lied, she just hid truth. Like you do everyday. Forgive her and let us be out of here.

Her anger tapped its way into the earth with her hoof. Energy flowing through her riled around in her body, aching to be out somewhere, yet the hard reality of his words was living in her bones. Reason and attitude were the tools of war as the two different emotions fought over her mind like a battleground. One side of her found it worth hating her for the truth of hiding this death, another side found it acceptable.

“Drys’ sake, I barely struck him!” she yelled, shoving the dagger back into her belt, “I walloped him with my horns, then suddenly he was dead. I only did it to save your sorry ass.” Her hand curled into a fist and pointed finger and crudely gestured at the priestess. “Whatever. Veridian likes you? Big deal. He is alive? Big deal. If you are not coming with, then I pray you have enough sense to keep yourself alive, because this is all far too confusing for a day of slaying a dragon.”

With that she twisted on single hoof and marched off into the grasses. When she was around four metres away, she turned back to Lye and inclined her head, trying to keep all the cool she had whilst showing him the honour he deserved.

“Thank you, sir, for coming to find us.”

[Lye]

“My pleasure,” the assassin responded with a wry smile. Instead of directing the comment toward the faun, he locked eyes with the desert priestess. In her tattered, bloody Aleran garb, moistened eyes, and crumpled posture, he could only see a fragile shell. This woman, here and now, could not hold a candle to the Cell Champion of days past.

“Such a shame to see the desert aster so wilted,” he chuckled darkly. The words slid off his tongue like venom and wretched her stomach accordingly. Sorrow and decimation turned to pure, unfiltered revulsion. “Until we meet again.”

“And when we meet,” the woman managed through both disgust, and pain, “I’ll personally cut out that tongue of yours.”

“Don’t go making empty promises, Aster.” Lye quirked a brow, interested to see this newfound fire kindle inside her. Again, with those defiant, angry eyes, she reached into her person and pulled a small amulet into view.

“You had better keep her safe in the meantime, Crow.” Her words carried a venom of their own.

Then, in blinding contrast to the cover of night, the amulet flashed a bright blue. Like a small explosion, it fragmented, forcing the Crow to raise his hand against it. Little blue stars glimmered, then dashed into the horizon. The little desert Aster had vanished. Only two pieces of steel, frayed like old rope and bloody on one end remained.

The assassin smiled as a child would in the midst of a game.

“Can we go?” Philomel called out with Veridian knickering at her feet. The faun’s tone carried her current ire at the situation.

“Yes, let’s not waste any more time.” Lye knelt to the flattened grass where Astarelle once lay. The verdant blades sparkled with the thick vitae the woman had lost. Lye reached for his needles which had began to revert to their normal cylindrical form. His other hand rest against the earth, still warm.

He stood and began to join his horned companion. As they walked, he slid his fingers over the needles to remove the blood. Then, in an unceremonious fashion, placed the bloody finger in his mouth. He pulled it out clean and smacked his lips. Philomel whipped her head toward him, still wearing her frustrations on her brow.

“I can see why you like her,” the assassin remarked. “She’s quite sweet, and just the right amount of bitter, too...”

“Just like the best lies…”

[Roht Mirage]

The loose doorway to Astarelle's tent swayed softly as if riding the tide of sound from outside; crashes, shouts, the harsh notes of pained drow-song. It filled the night hour as would the chirp of crickets, and it seemed as if it would not cease.

Yet, in her tent, a different dance was being performed to a song that only gems could hear. From the side pocket of her pack, a trail of blue specks emerged like spry sapphire ants. They bounced off the table full of half-finished communique and into the only spot of clear earth within the tent walls. There, they levitated in the air, forming a circle identical to the curiously empty inlay of her pendant. In a flash of light, the pendant was no longer lacking. It appeared at the beckoning of its children, and drew with it a woman wreathed in blood and sand.

Astarelle fell to her side on the trodden soil, grunting weakly. Her vision swam with the dingy color of familiar walls, and her ears drummed from a cacophony that was new but not unexpected. She managed one shaky, instinctive breath before the sensations of both mind and body caught up with her in a violent rush. What should have been an exhale threatened to turn to a scream in her throat, so she ripped the Aleran hat off her head, bunched up the soft felt of its dome, and crammed half its mass into her mouth as a buffer. The sound emerged pitiful and distant, like an animal trapped in a well, yet it heaved her body and gouged out a fresh onslaught of tears.

Behind the gag, her mind screamed the words that her mouth didn't dare. Lichensith you sun-scorched seed of a harpy! You drive away Philomel just when I think there might be more there than an old mistake. You leave me to bleed like an animal. You- You call me Aster! Her stomach knotted so sharply that she almost took the hat from her mouth to use as a receptacle. She resisted, though, forcing herself to simply writhe over the painful waves from both body and heart.

Only one man had called her Aster –would ever call her Aster. He had been her lover, her mentor, and her martyr. To hear his term of affection cawed by the black bird of horrid truth... It rendered the pain in her leg a mere scratch. It made her want to scream the night away. However, she only had so much air. With a push of her tongue, she coughed out the hat and lay between her table and bed, twitching. What would you do? she asked the man whose blood still felt heavy in her lap where she had cradled him.

She did not need an answer. Akashere had taught her well.

With one hand on her table and the other on her too-rigid bed, she pushed herself to her knees. A whimper, unwanted, fell back down her throat. At first unsteadily, then with greater precision as the distant sounds of combat pushed her on, she removed her clothing. The stolen hat and coat slumped to the earth, then so did the rest of it. Shirt, pants, undergarments, they all dropped into a separate pile that she waded into a ball with the bloody stains at its center. Her sand circled around her, tendrils of it branching off to seal her wounded leg in a mask the same golden brown as her skin. Over the span of a blink, her injury visibly disappeared, and that made a world of difference in her self-deception that it, literally, was not there.

Her own clothing was quickly driven to the bottom of her pack. Then, she braced and stood, leaning heavily. One sharp exhale was all she allowed herself, then ripped the sheet from her bed and draped it around her shoulders. It covered nearly her entire form, pairing itchy fibers to bare flesh at every possible point. She relished the tactile distraction.

With teeth grinding, she scooped up the soiled and gnawed Aleran uniform, then took a personal accounting. Hair and face: messed, puffy, and blood-shot. Perfect. Body: aching and sweaty, theoretically from cruel nightmares and an even crueler awakening. It would do.

She made her exit from the tent in the manner that was becoming far too routine, by lifting the back wall and slipping out. Cold air swooned from the mountains to place kisses on her cheeks and up her thighs, but she steeled herself. She hobbled a few steps through the predatory chill until she reached the thicket of trees that backed the Ixian tents. (Who better to sleep next to potential enemy cover, the Alerans had undoubtedly thought.) One hand twisted in the folds of her blanket as she swept the other arm back, then tossed the coat and hat into the trees. Another gesture sent a pulse of sand to guide them even higher until they were lodged, invisibly, among the upper branches.

Then, Astarelle set herself in motion. Her hobble faded halfway to a limp as her mind worked out the precise order of operations for Jensen's extraction. Certainly, he hadn't planned anything. The mad laughter that echoed across the camp was of the “I'm fucked either way, so I'm going to enjoy this” variety. In a softer moment, she might have found it amusing that she could make that distinction.

To the back of the mess tent, she crept like a night devil on uneven legs, and she once more slipped under the wall. The kitchen at the back of the tent was predictably empty, given the hour. It was also dark as the depths. With no time for her eyes to adjust, Astarelle felt along the line of tables that had become a counter top. Metal plates scraped and clattered under her touch, then something wobbled heavily. She seized the neck of a bottle before it could topple over, ripped out its cork with her teeth, and tilted it back enough to just barely touch liquid to her lips. The last time she had been out drinking with Jensen, he had admonished her to not take a swallow with bitter thoughts, because it would taste just as bitter. The Aleran swill tasted like abject misery. She turned her head, spit, and shrugged.

“It'll do,” she muttered as she moved the bottle to her hand that had formerly been holding the blanket shut. The sand that hid in its shadow took position around her shoulder and chest, forming a shape that held the blanket just as tightly and looked exactly like her natural arm. In the billow below, the bottle was held in her true hand.

She continued through the kitchen, skirting the tables until her foot bumped something. It sloshed and slapped her with a musty, sour smell. The bush-humpers can't even empty their mop buckets, she thought with only a touch of derision, because it was actually a stroke of fortune. Her hand emerged from the blanket and emptied the majority of the bottle noisily into the bucket. The smell took on a sickly-sweet edge that was too spoiled to be recognized as alcohol.

With that, Astarelle emerged carefully from the tent's actual door. The canvas-lined path to either side was empty, so she limped out into the moonlight, imaging she had ingested all that liquor and was enjoying its numbing effects. Again, the self-deception helped.

Though bodies moved between the tents, it was the sound that drew her to her target. On the way, her bare feet scuffled to a halt outside what had once been Philomel's prison. She pushed the flap aside just enough to confirm that the body was still there, sticking ever more firmly in the gel of old blood. She let the flap close. He was an Ixian soldier, that much was obvious, though she hadn't seen his face well enough to remember him. Fates willing, she never would.

Battered and bloody drow began to limp past her, away from the thick sound of even more bludgeoning. Their eyes, iridescent in the moonlight, strayed warily. She just huffed and swept forward, wearing a scowl sharp enough to cut a path through them. For all intents, she looked like a matron saint of fury risen far too early from her bed. It was a mask fuelled by all the bitterness of one very regrettable night.

Only when she came upon Jensen's pile of weapons, brazenly discarded, did the mask falter. She blinked, staggered, and almost passed it by. Then, she spun and snatched up Crozius. Magical energy pulsed through her body in one invigorating shot, and she no longer had to pretend away the worst of her pain. She simply rose above it. The bottle hidden under her blanket creaked from her sudden strength. “That man just doesn't know how to treat a lady,” she cooed to the war maul as she hefted it easily. A few tendrils of sand crept from the blanket, visibly lashing her hand to the hilt.

One drow, holding his arm as if it was broken, skittered wide around her as he made his retreat. His face said loud and clear that he had experienced enough violence and insanity for one evening, and he wasn't sure if she would add to one or the other, or both. “Move along,” Astarelle hissed at him, her furious mask returning in immaculate form.

“Rifles ready!” came a shout of drow-speech from some distance away.

“Bury me,” Astarelle cursed. The strength of Crozius gave her speed to cover the rest of the distance to the grand standoff, or the international relations disaster, of man and elf.

“Aim!” bellowed the captain who had the air of someone fresh to the fight. The entrenched soldiers that circled Jensen like timid wolves likely didn't have the energy to whistle. To the captain's side, lined across the crest of a hill that lay obtrusively at the center of the camp, over a dozen drow had rifles to their cheeks. The air smelled so strongly of powder that it seemed one spark could wipe the camp from the Aleran countryside.

Jensen, hero and maniac in no particular order, faced them down with an absolutely lunatic grin. His outstretched hand was curled in a pose that Astarelle recognized so clearly she could almost see the dart gun he was miming. He swept it across their line, cocking his arm with imaginary kickback as he loudly and threateningly whispered, “Pew. Pew. Pew. Pew.”

Astarelle pushed past a drow woman, another captain by her hastily-donned uniform, who had a stream of blood running from her chin. “You,” she snapped, “we don't need your help.” At the same time, the rifle captain raised his arm in the first half of a firing signal.

“Like this will do any bloody good,” Astarelle shouted shrilly into the night air. Most of the drow turned to look at her, if they dared look away from Jensen, and gave her a myriad of mountain-frosty looks. Unperturbed, she marched around the drow woman who tried to block her. “This is the bastard that headbutted a dragon and won,” she belted out in the half-slurred speech of one who resolutely refused to wake completely from their slumber. She added, “But only because his skull is thicker.”

Jensen gave her a look that seemed almost relieved, if still manic, but she didn't dare return it. All eyes were on her, as intended. Her blanket swished about, teasing ankle and shin as she bravely closed the distance between herself and the mad immortal, drawing close enough to almost step on his toes. There, she stopped so suddenly that the blanket swayed forward and concealed the front of his body. It was unmistakable, though, what she did next.

Jensen looked down at her, lips curling with humor as he started to speak.

Astarelle brought her knee up. The camp vibrated with the sound of a Crozius-powered shot to the groin.

Whatever words Jensen had prepared were reduced to, “Ugh”, as he curled over, forehead almost touching hers. Thoughts traversed the gap between their eyes, told in the barest swells and wrinkles of emotion. The drow were too busy flinching, even the female ones, to notice. Jensen had the final word, a pained, “Hoooo,” before he teetered over and met the earth in a maddeningly theatrical fetal position.

Astarelle spun to the audience. “By the depths,” she shouted, “Did no one think of that before setting up a line to waste powder?” She gestured to the rifle-elves who were sheepishly lowering their guns, and she dropped Crozius loudly upon the ground for emphasis. “I'm going back to bed,” she said with finality before turning.

Jensen's response was a desperate whimper, followed by the sloshing roll of a nearly-empty bottle. She looked back at him just as it rolled out of his reach after what had clearly been a fumble from the depths of his coat. That the bottle hadn't been there a moment ago, and was no longer hidden under her blanket was a magic trick they could only quietly take pride in.

“Bury me,” Astarelle hissed. She took a heavy step toward the bottle, making ready to kick it, but simply toed it away instead. After riding the stream of Crozius' power, her body felt bogged down in a mire of familiar pain. She tried to play the sudden anguish in her face as anger. “In the future, keep him away from that piss-water!” She then turned and walked away, though her shoulders knotted with her desire to look back at him one last time.

“You're limping,” the female captain said sharply as Astarelle passed. She sounded far from impressed, and her gaze only proved that she had suspicions.

One of the soldiers next to her, clearly jumpy, reacted to what he assumed was a medical need. He knelt at Astarelle's side and reached a hand out to her ankle. The blanket shifted open by an extra subtle degree in the crisp breeze. “I sleep naked,” Astarelle informed him starkly. He stood up like a pole had been shoved through him. Then, to the captain, she said with a glower, “I twisted my ankle when I woke up.” The woman's bloody face only softened slightly. “Bury me,” Astarelle muttered, “I'm not going to get much sleep, am I? Just... come get me in the morning, after he's cooled off. I'll talk some sense into him. Just make sure you tie this one up properly.” She shot Jensen a short, embittered expression. Two drow were dragging him to his feet. She quickly looked away.

“How did you-” the captain began, possibilities weighing across the lines of her brow.

“I looked in her unguarded tent on my way here. Do tend to my man's body soon. He deserves his dignity.” With that, she turned and walked away. The limp, she no longer hid. The regrets on her face, though, were swaddled tight.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The crisp cold air was silent in the late morning, the events of the previous night forgotten by none as they went about their business trying to move on. Several Drow had bruises and black eyes, some with fat lips. They all bore scars of fighting the lunatic immortal who had saved them from the dragon. It was exaggerated greatly who had done the most damage to the knight. Several claimed to get in a few good hits that rocked him. Nobody admitted that one man had beaten single handedly a small platoon of soldiers.

They weren't looking to kill him, they would say. They only wanted to detain him, not injure him some would cry. In truth, they had a valid point that Jensen would never deny. They fought him on his terms, not the other way around. Had they brought their rifles to bare, the fight may have ended faster.

However, nobody denied that the one sound in the camp that they heard was equally if not more obnoxious than a drunken warrior fighting anything that moved. It was his voice that brought the Captain Yasmir to Astarelle’s tent. She had been informed the Native of Fallien was some high leveled dignitary and considering her service to Alerar in fighting the menace of the dragon it seemed only fair to let her rest and get her sleep. When the bastard began to fill the air with his crassness she ignored it, but four straight hours later it was time for the only one in the camp who could control him to do something about it.

“Lady Astarelle,” Yasmir said with her official captain’s tone. There was a stirring, a muttering of obscenities in a dialect she couldn’t understand, and then a loud whoop sound and the unmistakable thud of body hitting ground.

“Bury me,” she barely muttered. “What?” was her official response to the woman at her door. She waited a few moments until she could pick up the woman inside was standing and dressing before entering.

“Good afternoon,” Yasmir said politely enough to indicate introductions were over. “We have reviewed the situation regarding the man in your care. An Adolph Gretzel, Reclussiarch and general of the Ixian Knights has been contacted. He informed us that you and Jensen Ambrose were assigned to handle the transportation of resources via train. We all know what happened there, and I was informed by my superiors you two barely crawled through several miles of the Red Forest to get to one of our outposts. In addition to your services in assisting with the dragon we have decided that…” Yasmir watched Astarelle yawn, loudly, into her hand as she dressed in front of the Drow using only a blanket to hide her shame.

“Go on, go on,” she muttered waving her hand around to indicate she was listening. Yasmir shook her head.

“We decided to agree to your request to place the prisoner Philomel into Ixian Custody. However the goat’s escape-”

“Faun,” Astarelle bitterly corrected. Yasmir bit her tongue instead of commenting on the two’s beastial relationship she heard rumors about. “If you have a point, please get to it.”

“Jensen Ambrose’s actions were childish and immature and he assaulted the military of the Aleran Council,” She seemed rather prideful to be serving, but annoyed to admit he rattled them. “We are reviewing any formal punishments we wish to ask of your lord. For now, he is to expect a letter regarding this little matter.”

“A couple deflated egos and bruised faces is hardly reason to be concerned.”

“He let a prisoner escape that was in our custody!”

“No. He let a prisoner escape that was in our custody,” Astarelle smoothly replied. “The Alerans had nothing to do with that, and I’ll ensure Sei Orlouge knows that you did your best to apprehend her for our faction. But ultimately, Jensen acted on his own stupid impulses…” For the first time in the conversation since Yasmir entered the tent the noise from outside could be heard again. Astarelle’s head tilted in confusion, listening, before she whispered in wonder.

“Is that singing?” Yasmir half sighed, half growled. Astarelle listened closer. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound, but actually rather even toned, gentle, and full of strength. It had highs and lows all within range, and it was sung in Drow. The voice spoke so passionately with their voice that the song flowed from one word to the next like a concert performer. “It’s a wonderful voice,” the Fallien native replied putting on the last of her clothes.

“It’s an abomination, it is.”

“Whatever do you mea-” Astarelle started, but instead shook her head. She listened to the words picking it up slowly at first, then more rapidly as time went on. It became clearer and clearer it was not some song about war, or battle, or even loss. It was a song about...“Oh dear me,” she whispered suddenly, getting red in the cheeks. “I am afraid I don’t know much Drow, but I think I am starting to catch the drift of the song.”

“Your jackass of a compatriot has been singing all morning. It started with sea salt songs, nothing too unusal for us. Then it got downright aggressive with racial slurs.Now it’s insulting our heritage and our mothers. Make. Him. Stop.” Yasmir seethed through grinding teeth as the prisoner, the owner of the voice, echoed a loud noise through the air to catch a high note about where he would plant his fingers inside of the Drow’s collective mothers.

Astarelle sighed and moved to see him, leaving Yasmir alone in her tent.

~~

Jensen had never been more bored in his life. While the singing had come naturally, it was getting old. The guards assigned to him moved outside the tent, but he was positive that now he was alone. Either way he wasn’t planning on going anywhere. After last nights activities he wasn’t sure he could walk anywhere without finding a mob of elves to cut him down. Regardless, he didn’t feel like leaving the tent anyway. It meant he didn’t have to talk to the annoying creatures.

When the tent flap opened he saw a sight for sore eyes as Astarelle crept in, looking all official and angry like she was going to give him a stern talking too. When the flap closed her face instantly dropped to a smile, a warming, cheeky smile of one who was impressed at the audacity of their comrade. Jensen winked to her, kept singing, before she nodded and sat in front of him. When the verse ended he stopped the singing, smacking his dry mouth. With a yawn he leaned against the pole he was tied too, well, attempted to make it look that way, and looked to Astarelle.

“You have quite the singing voice,” she commented. Jensen shrugged as best he could, grinning ear to ear. “Though you’ll have to one day give me the rundown on the lyrics. I feel like there were some gems in there.”

“Hope the leaf lickers liked my star performance of their Nation’s Anthem, with modified lyrics of course.” He giggled to himself as the Fallien girl slowly let her feet out, stretching, before looking to him. He looked down on her, and with a grunt of exertion he began to wiggle around his bonds.

“Here, let me help-” Astarelle made to stand when she noticed his hand break out of his bonds and release him from his prison. She looked to him with suspicion as he chuckled discarding the rope and chains.

“I’ve been trained in many arts,” he said mysteriously plopping on the ground next to her laying on his back with his hands behind his head, looking to the back of her head. Astarelle turned her gaze only slightly, drawing her knees into her arms. “I’m also...flexible,” he said with a hint of sass in a knowing tone. She playfully shoved his leg, but kept her hand lazily next to his body as she leaned to face him.

In this one moment, both looked to one another; Jensen up, Astarelle down, in the eyes and let the serenity of the moment make them both blush in ways they didn’t realize. While neither one would see it, or acknowledge it for that matter, they had started to ever so slowly drift together. But not by much, and in a moment they stopped as Jensen turned away to look at this pole he had been tied to.

“I’m guessing if you’re here, then she’s not.” Astarelle’s hand gingerly moved away from his body, back to her knees where she clasped her hands together and held them close to her chest. She leaned onto her knees, sighing loudly. “How did it go?”

“Do you care?” she asked with venom. Jensen said nothing for the moment, eyes upon her as he debated how to proceed. “I can see you got your jollies all night. Had I not come back they would have shot you to pieces.”

“Probably,” Jensen acknowledged. “But it bought you enough time, it seemed.” Astarelle shuddered for his words, not sure how to take them.

“It was stupid,” she whispered. “So stupid for you to do that for me. For stupid reasons,” she turned to him, a bit of fire in her eyes. When she prepared to say more, she hesitated, a lump in her throat as she noticed his eyes held an emotion she wasn’t prepared for.

Pity.

“I am sorry,” Jensen said sincerely. “I can’t pretend I didn’t think this would be how it went down. That she’d break your-”

“Enough,” she whispered again, angrily in her exhale of breath. “Just...please Jensen, enough.”

“So what are they going to do to me?” Jensen asked trying to change the subject.

“Nothing, for to do anything would embarrass the military. Thirty people couldn’t detain one drunk immortal? The other nations would have a field day with it. No, instead they will not acknowledge you at all. You’re also banned from Alerar too.”

“Ha, I’ll see if they can enforce that,” Jensen laughed out loud before calming himself down, looking to Astarelle as she sighed again. He went to lift his hand, hesitantly, towards her back. Closing his eyes and biting his lip he placed it, palm first, on her back, and softly rubbed. There was a moment of tension, and for the moment he was positive that she would have rebuked him, but instead she said nothing. She didn’t shy away from his touch either. So he continued, more earnestly.


“Why,” she said at last. “Why did you do it, Jensen. You knew it was stupid. Knew that it wasn’t even for the right reasons. You had no responsibility to help me there. Even if you...if you…” she choked on her words, unsure what to say. He knew what she meant, and was silently hoping she would utter them first. The past few months had them at a crossroads of love, hate, and caring for each other even more so than some couples without either one admitting they had feelings for the other.

Jensen remained quiet for the moment, and she never finished her thought. “Astarelle,” Jensen said softly, with a tone that made her shift to look at him. He stopped rubbing her back and dropped his hand to hers. Without looking, both interlocked their fingers. “Every night, I look up to the stars. I look at the brightest one, and say...there is a woman out there I care about. Someone I love beyond anything else in this immortal life. A person who...who makes me feel whole and complete and brings me joy in a world full of sorrow.”

Astarelle’s hand started to pull away. “Please Jensen, don’t…” He shot his hand back to hers quickly. He held her, tightly, conveying some of his emotions in that grip.

“Let me finish,” he whispered. She nodded, not pulling her hand anymore. He swallowed hard, unsure how to proceed. With a sigh he continued. “She’s been in my life for such a short time, cruelly short, and she’s had so much taken from her. But she has this smile that...brightens the stars in the sky. So I look to the brightest one, because that’s the one that she’s looking at.”

Astarelle was somewhere between total panic and desire. Jensen looked to her, timidly, before releasing his grip and playfully patting her on the head. “It’s not you,” he said winking. Her mouth floundered as she tried to find the words to say, unsure how to even feel. In moments her face became so screwed up with emotions she laughed, bunched her fist into a ball, and slugged him in the arm. He laughed with her, and the stress of everything they had gone through melted away.

“You are an ass,” she whispered nuzzling his hand as hers came up to hold it on her shoulder. “A horrible, bug-sucking ass!” She slapped his arm again.

“Look, if you must know so you can sleep at night, you never stood a chance to this little one. Not even Stephanie has as much room in my heart as she does. Her claws are nice and deep and I never plan to let her go.” Astarelle looked to him with contemplation before she made a wide o with her face, understanding perfectly what he meant now.

“Azza,” she whispered the name. Jensen nodded. He hesitated a moment, and spoke again.

“Look, we’ve...we’ve been through a lot, you and I. And...well sometimes I wonder, and sometimes I get scared to wonder. But I care a lot about you, no doubt about that. I didn’t fight for you last night because I care about the relationship status of you and a whore. I already told you not to fall in love with those,” she playfully slapped him again, face turning red. “But...I just wanted...something so bad for one of us to finally have…”

“Have what?” she asked lightly.

“A gods be damned happy ending. Even for a whore like Philomel. If you two ran away together in the middle of the night, and I woke up riddled in bullet holes and my own blood...then it would have been worth it for you,” Jensen said honestly. “Because with all this death and destruction and wars and Cults and Orders, and Crimson Torture and Bloody Hands and Ixian Idiots and Whores and Foxes and Dragons and Drinks, and Red Forests and Trains and-”

“I get the point!” Astarelle interrupted laughing, a joyous sound to his ears that made him smile warmly.

“The point is...a happy ending was all I wanted for you. I’m truly sorry, Astarelle, that it didn’t come true.” Jensen lifted himself, arms open for a small hug, which she took holding him tightly. “One day,” he whispered to her. “That being said, you still fucking owe me.”

“What?” Astarelle mocked her surprise pulling away.

“Not only did I fight an army for you, but I also took a groin shot for you! Powered by CROZIUS! That hurt!”

“Oh man up, Ambrose,” she teased. “You make it sound like I hit you hard. If nothing it was a little tap. I gave you a sand cup.”

“Speaking of, I still can’t seem to get all the grains out…” another slap on his arm. “Hey, you owe me. Something!”

“Fine, dinner?” she asked coyly, standing up.

“No, I want to get something a little more than that.”

“Like what?” She asked, teasing him closer to her. He leaned in.

“Oh, I think you know…”

“Well...I suppose. But you have to get back to the pole for me.” Jensen looked to her oddly at her request, and she placed her hands on her hips. He shrugged, kipped up to his feet and headed to the pole, standing there. He could feel her sand moving around him, up his legs, breaking off a portion and going to his hands.

“Oh you kinky little…” he chuckled darkly as she nodded to him, lifting herself upwards and preparing herself. Her hands moved to her shirt, lifting them gently.

“You can look, but you can’t touch. That’s the deal.” Jensen nodded, grinning like a loon. She smiled to him, and Jensen prepared to feast his eyes on her body. When she was just about to reveal her bare skin a pocket of sand moved over to create a bridge in front of his eyes.

“Hey...hey...there’s...there’s an obstacle in my...oh you bitch…”

Astarelle merely chuckled leaving the tent and the locked up immortal.

“Hope you enjoy the view!” She giggled. Jensen sighed, loudly, and muttered to himself,

"Always keep them guessing..." There was a silence in the air before the sand moved back down from his gaze, Astarelle before him looking hurt and unsure. She stood there, eyes looking for something to start what she wanted to say. He gave her a confused look. Never before in their game of tease and leave did one of them return.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Jensen," she said sheepishly, her foot digging into the ground. He felt his bonds loosen and he freed himself stepping close to her. Even with distance between them he could feel their hearts beating.

"What, teasing me? All part of the fun!" Jensen said passively, his hand waving to brush it off. Astarelle shook her head.

"No, you don't get it," she said heatedly, but this time her anger wasn't directed at him. He cocked an eyebrow up and waited. "Jensen, I...I am horrible to you. You know I am."

"What makes you think that?" Jensen replied crossing his arms over his chest. She looked to his eyes, pleading for him to understand, before she looked to the side of the tent lost in her own thoughts.

"I met someone. Someone you told me to avoid. I know now why. Lichensith Ulroke is a sun-scorched jihta." Jensen took a step forwards opening his arms, but the Fallien woman pushed him away. "You don't realize-" Jensen quickly interjected.

"He lives to despoil and ruin lives-"

"He has done something I never did-"

"He's a jackal and a jerk! He-" Astarelle's fingers lifted to his lips, pressed against them so he was silent. She inched closer, as if wanting to fall into his arms, but she maintained her composure.

"Jensen," she chocked. "He says nothing but the truth to you," she admitted painfully. "And I've done nothing but lie to you." She turned her gaze to the floor in a dour mood. "They aren't even always actual lies you know? Yet no matter how you twist it, I'm not honest to you." Jensen moved closer to her, but she resisted again. "Ulroke is a horrible, evil man, full of hate and spite, but he doesn't lie. He bends the truth around his finger no doubt, but he can produce the truth when all I can do is-"

Her speech was interrupted, arms crushing her in a tight embrace. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't realized the slippery immortal moved behind her. He nuzzled into her neck, holding her with all the compassion and care he could muster. She had not until that moment realized how cold she was until he warmed her up.

"Lichensith abuses the truth. Uses it to do harm and twist the world to his needs. His truth is ugly and foul. But you Astarelle," Jensen turned her to look at him. He smiled a genuine smile for her and she teared up a bit.

"You tell me the most beautiful lies. You lie not to hurt me, but to save me. Call it crazy or whatever you want, but I'll always prefer the lies from your pretty little mind than the garbage dwelling truths of Ulroke."

Astarelle looked to Jensen with a guilty expression, but her face cracked into a smile. With a sheepish grin forming she held Jensen tightly. She whispered her thanks into his chest, and he merely rubbed her shoulders and nuzzled her neck.

They broke apart, only slightly, looking into each other's eyes. There was the heaviest of tension between the air around them. Both oblivious to the world around them. They inched, painfully slowly, towards each other, eyes softly closing.

It would have been so easy to share that happy ending.

Eyes opened slowly, heads drifting back. Fingers interlocked in direct disobedience of what they were about to do as they used every part of their willpower to keep together yet drift apart. Jensen let out a stress filled whine of a giggle, Astarelle looking guilty with an impish smile on her reddened face. When they broke apart and moved away, their fingers were the last to release each other.

"I'll bring you food. Hopefully Misery will pick us up from this dump soon." Astarelle said with growing strength as she repaired the mask she wore constantly in front of other's.

"You know where to find me," Jensen replied leaning against his pole prison. As she left he whistled to himself, building the harmony up with soft humming, before in a moment he began to sing once more.

Much to Astarelle's amusement and Drow's lament.

[Philomel]

Realised I actually never posted this ... huh. :P anyway...

Intangibly beautiful.

So pure white, that if you touched it it would feel like heaven’s gossamer silks, like paradise on a thread, like a soft, pious angel wings. If you breathed it the air that would fill your lungs would be enough to last infinity, and the eternity of immortality would be yours for the taking. And while you look at it, it is absolute perfection, like the glow on a seraphim’s face as she whispers your name into the Book of the Saved.

Sweet and pure, that is what the white mist was like. It surrounded her, filled her silver eyes with wonder and glory, satisfying every last good emotion and desire until she lay back and beamed from ear to ear, cradling her breasts with utter elation.

And that emotion … that feeling. That feeling returned like the time so recently when she had wandered through Concordia Forest. That fetid, grisly day when she had gone from scholar to persuadable beast, following the stranger faun she had never learnt the name of, listening to first soft words and then curses as she was led to secret Paradisia, the faun homeland. All that short journey he had flirted with her, insulted her, abused her single-minded eagerness to see Paradisia at least once in her lifetime. But then - then he had died, right there at her feet in one swift movement with a broken neck, and Veridian had revealed that Drys herself had killed him. Killed one of her own children, but done it to save her. To save her, Philomel, the sinful faun-whore but the only faun who apparently was still on the path to Ger’er Vanch - faunish enlightenment.

That enriching sense of awe filled her once more, from the top crown to toe, full of direst marveling. Her eyes closed she could fully enjoy the sense of being wanted, and not just for her body. Not just for the one thing that gave her dominance over most men and women in this world.

“Get up,” came the rude interruption.

A sharp sense of horrid pain came to her thigh as it was uncivilly kicked. Thunk.

The voice was louder this time. “Get up!”

“Nnnghhhh …” was the noise that came from her mouth. The white peace that surrounded her was heavenly, bewitching and enthralling. It was a place of utter brilliance and bliss, the Arcadia of her dreams. Why would she ever want to ‘get up’ out of it?

“Philomel. Get up now. We need to get moving.”

This time she felt the slightest brush of hairy flesh against her cheek, and then energy flowed outwards from her. Yelling in the highest tone she could muster, the faun-whore shrieked and felt something like air but that was not air rush past her, all around her form as she was sucked into a void for a moment, then spat back out again. It felt as if she was falling, but gently with an absence of gravity - then she suddenly stopped. Somehow ground was there, soft and present beneath her.

Bewildered, she opened her eyes. Looking around, she gulped in horror as she looked at a place very different from where she had fallen asleep. One, she had been leaning against a tree, and two to her right there had been a cairn. Now there was nothing but blank space, grass as high as her knee if she had been standing. The ground was also damp here, whereas she had not remembered the ground being wet in her half-awake dream there before.

Naturally, she floundered and panicked, bounding to her feet.

“What the fuck …”

“Philomel!”

Philomel!

They came as a pair. A pair of voices and a pair of beings, travelling over the grassland. There they were, coming from a place with a tree and a cairn, near the other tree which Lye had determinedly sat under for most of the night. Roughly around ten metres away she had somehow been moved over here.

Swiftly rising to her hooves Philomel stared them both down, ripping out her keris dagger.

“Who moved me whilst I slept?”

No one did, Veridian was the first to speak. You appeared there by yourself.

Her slate eyes gained darkness, going to dark grey in a matter of moments.

“Stop joking, Veridian. I do not sleep walk. Who moved me?”

“The fox is right,” the white-haired assassin king said in a non-chalant way. “No one moved you. The ground opened up and took you there.” He shrugged, but used the movement to straighten his back and lift up his chin, proudly. “Now. Let us be going.”

She ground herself hissing at the human in wild faunish. “The hell I moved myself, Ulroke. Now which of you-”

But sorrowful whining came to her ear. Along with an intense feeling of confusion. Letting her gaze wander down Philomel looked to where he sat and was lost in the pure disbelief in the golden beloved eyes.

You think I would ever lie to you?

Her mouth hung open. Blankly she stared.

“I … huh …”

The ultimate assassin was the first one to assess what was going on. He arched an eyebrow and looked amused.

“Ah, seems you have discovered a new talent to your retinue of skills. Congratulations, faun. Now,” he twisted around, pulling his token jacket around him, “Let us be gone, swiftly from here. We have already rested long enough.”

Still she just blinked, watching dumbly and stupidly as he strode away back to the camp. Veridian’s tail swished against her ankle. He let out a spirited nicker.

Ground opened up under you like a portal, he concluded. Its an Earth Spirit thing. Drys is weird that she gave you it.

[Lye]

He took the lead whilst the fox and faun shared their moment. Smoke from the Aleran encampment drifted on the wind to tease the assassin's senses and mark their forward path. Their destination carried them away from the Immortal, the Desert Witch, and the Aleran Battalion. Lye wore frustration on his features and irritation in his stride.

"Care to explain your affiliation with that whore?" he remarked after a long silence.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the faun chided.

Lye paused with his glove firmly gripped around a branch that had gotten in his path.

“My business?” he repeated. The wood in his grip made an audible strain against the leather.
“My business is to see to it that my men don’t falter into enemy hands. Willingly or otherwise.”

The faun cocked a hip and wrapped both arms around her bosoms defensively.

“The fact you believe I would betray you because of a shag is offensive,” she spoke with daggers on her words. “I was using her to escape and would have done so just fine by myself, thank you.”

Lye’s face twisted in disdain, and he felt a heat of anger wash over his skin. Those that spoke to him with such disrespect, usually choke on their words. Literally. Through clenched teeth, he drew in a breath to cool his temper.

“Should you find yourself in enemy hands again, I will let you die there.” Lye continued without another word or glance over his shoulder. He released the branch once past it and upon the bark, unnatural grooves marked where his hand tightened. The faun scoffed at his threat and let the distance grow between them.

I don’t quite like that man, Veridian conveyed with ears peeled back and teeth bared.

“He has his moments,” Philomel added. Before the assassin had broken from her sight, she let her arms unfolded and continued to follow. Verdidian exhaled sharply as one might expect a dog to do when in the presence of a foul odor, a display of disagreement. Yet, loyal to the girl, he caught up to her hooves.

A few more minutes passed as the trio cut through forest and brush alike. Lye carved a path and the faun followed. It seemed endless to her and without direction. The moved deeper and deeper with no reprieve or light through the branches.

“Care to tell me where you’re helping us to escape to?” Philomel asked with sarcasm.

“To the shore,” was Lye’s dry response.

Veridian cocked a head to Philomel.

“Why the shore?” she asked to answer the question in both their heads.

“To get to my ship.”

“Your ship? Since when did you own a ship?”

“An old acquaintance and I got back in contact. I built the ship many years ago and he has kept it maintained all this time. Torin Reahkiri of the Black Sails Armada.” Lye stated the words as facts; he did not turn back to her, nor did he stop on his makeshift trail.

Philomel had heard a story or two about the Black Sails from a few of her clients back in Salvar. What surprised her was the information that her “leader”, as pale as he was, once sailed as a pirate. She wanted to know more but more importantly, she wanted to know how to obtain a ship of her own.

“Well, aren’t you just full of secrets,” Philomel added. She had more questions, but if they were escaping by ship, she would have more than ample time to ask later. Besides, the low rumble in her stomach and strain from recent events put a hot meal and soft bed at a higher priority.

“Here we are.” Lye cleaved a swath of brush with a sweep of his blade and as it fell, the small cove opened to sight. Tucked away and tethered to land, a small row boat bobbed in the rolling waters. In the distance, along the moonlit horizon, the sleek profile of a frigate stood black against shimmering sea.

“Let’s get back to the Sanctum, shall we?” Lye voiced with a grin.

[Sulla]

Thread Title: After the Ash Had Fallen
Judgment Type: Condensed
Participants: Philomel, Enigmatic Immortal, Roht Mirage, Lye

Plot: 16 / 30

The storyline was fairly clear at the beginning – Philomel is captured after she murdered Zack Blaze. Astarelle goes to help her because of a certain allure, and Jensen helps Astarelle for similar reasons. Then Lye shows up to also help free Philomel. It was simple enough to start with, but began to lose some focus when more elements were added in. There were supposed betrayals, half-truths, hidden agendas; the lines of morality are often blurred when enemies end up working together, but I felt like a lot of additions in this thread certainly muddled the whole. In truth, the story was separated into three parts – the camp fight with Ambrose, Philomel and Astarelle’s playful/serious escape, and Lye’s tracking of his asset. While these three parts intersected with one and other at different points (especially at the end,) it certainly proved to be a bit taxing on the pacing of the thread. Barring Philomel’s initial dalliance into murder during her escape, much of the real action of the story took place between Philomel and Astarelle, and the strange mixture of duty, curiosity, and attraction that played throughout their interaction. But cut in between those scenes were brutal depictions of Jensen’s savage beatings. Meanwhile, it seemed to take Lye quite a while before he caught up to everything. While I don’t necessarily think this was a failure, it is certainly jarring for a reader to be caught between such glimpses of high octane energy and simmering emotional drama, especially with such a rapid switch between the two.

As far as setting went, there seemed to be a lack of it for long stretches, but I think each of you ended up bringing a pretty vivid picture to display as the thread progressed onward. Roht Mirage, I think, was the strongest in this regard, but there were scenes from each of you that presented themselves as the perfect backdrop.

Character: 20 / 30

By far the strongest category for this thread. Enigmatic Immortal, with all the descriptions of Jensen as an insane person, none did him the true justice that I ended up reading during your posts. I think some of the descriptors after the dialogue might have gone overboard (with words like “gleeful” used repeatedly,) but you could certainly see that strange mix of exuberance and abhorrence of violence that colored Jensen as a character.

Philomel, while there were times I felt that you character seemed to stray a bit away from the seductive manipulator that she’s described as being, by the scene in the copse, the image was cemented for me. Early on, I was disappointed that she’d been able to manipulate the guard into undoing Veridian’s harness, only to have the familiar maul the guard, and allow her to escape by “maiming” people on the way. Not only does this lack subtlety, it’s a downright easy way to get caught in a fairly small, well-armed camp. I would have liked to see something more along the lines of Philomel using the opportunity to have the guard as a distraction for the camp while Veridian undid her bindings, even with just a simple request. However, as I mentioned, the forest really allowed a filter of vulnerability to fall on Philomel, and the way she played these confusing feelings off while messing with Astarelle’s head certainly seemed fitting with the character, as well as a downright interesting read.

Roht Mirage, I simply loved Astarelle’s interactions with Philomel and Jensen, as well as some of the venom she ended up spitting Lye’s way. Like Philomel, you opened your character up to vulnerability, which is always a great hook for a reader to empathize with. However, she had just witnessed the aftermath of what the faun was capable of. By your own words, the corpse on the tent floor turned out to be an Ixian Knight, and while Astarelle may see the need to help a maybe-friend outweighing any loyalty to the PG, the image of that body would’ve been a nice afterthought during their meeting. While she wasn’t completely sure why she was helping this fugitive, there seemed to be some chunks missing from her fleshed out doubt.

Lye, there was some great manipulation from your character, but also some savage inconsistency I can’t really overlook. While I enjoyed the image of him, back turned and staring off into the distance, whispering sweet doubts in people’s hearts, the fact that he clearly demands some respect from his underlings made Philomel pulling a knife without consequence seem odd. He even thought that such a move against him warranted a violent response, but decided against that. This leads a reader to think that Lye’s not really a man of his convictions, or that his threats aren’t to be taken seriously, and I don’t believe that’s a feeling you were getting at. Instead, if you wanted to have such moments, I would have switched it from him suppressing his temper, to feeling just above the whole affair, as if even responding to her disobedience was beneath him, or to ignore her words while in front of Astarelle.

Prose: 14/30

There were so many typos in so many posts. I’d echo many a judge’s comment about throwing your work through a word processor to catch them (and there were quite a few that would have worked for,) but a lot of the mistakes in this thread weren’t something Microsoft word could catch. There were numerous omissions of commas, strange breaks midsentence, run on sentences, and even my favorite line from the thread:


“ ‘I know-‘ she was interrupted by his stern glare. For once, her mouth silenced without his help.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at that.

With so many issues with mechanics, clarity suffered throughout. It wasn’t anything entirely major, but I certainly had to reread a number of awkward phrasings to make sure it fit the narrative I had in my head. These sort of mistakes are things only proofreading can really fish out, but I know firsthand that you giving something you’ve recently wrote a once over isn’t always enough. Either your eyes are tired, or, as you read, the thoughts you’d come up with in your head fill in or paint over any gaps in the actual writing. What I would suggest, if you’re having this issue, is to have someone else give it a quick onceover for you. A fresh set of eyes are almost as invaluable to the process as a keyboard.

Beyond this, there wasn’t an overabundance of technique, and the thread read alright once I reconciled the mistakes in my mind.

Wildcard: 7/10

For all its faults, I actually felt an emotional investment with all the characters. I wanted Philomel to escape, I wanted her and Astarelle to share something sweet, I wanted Astarelle to find some comfort in Jensen when that failed, and I wanted Jensen to find some peace in that embrace as well.

I also wanted Lye to get a better trained bird.


Final Score: 57/100

Philomel receives 855 EXP & 125 GP
Roht Mirage receives 725 EXP & 75 GP
Lye receives 600 EXP & 60 GP
Enigmatic Immortal 825 EXP & 60 GP

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added.