It was drizzling lightly when Górin awoke. To his surprise, he found himself rather well-rested, despite the odd angle at which he had fallen upon the ground. From his best guess at the air, it would have been some time in mid-morning.
He looked around the keep, and it took him a moment to shake the tiredness from his head enough to realize that this was not the same keep he had fallen in, only a short while ago. That had been a dark and grimy place, standing tall and largely intact. This place, rather, contained only the bare remains of an ancient keep long since fallen to decay. The walls had fallen in places, and some bore gaps he would not even need to lift his feet to cross. Grey grass grew thickly in patches, though occasionally, the remains of a cobbled path had survived long enough to show against the dirt. Perhaps the grass was grey as it was everywhere else in the Silver Hills, but if it were green, he could not tell, for a thick layer of ash covered all atop the hill. Dampening in the light rain, it formed dark mounds where it had accumulated in heavy piles, and elsewhere, it seemed as though a brief wind had scattered it about like sand on a shore.
Nearby, even the ash could not wholly obscure the dark scorching that had been burnt into the ground. A great black circle was cut into the earth, and within it, some signs and runes could be seen. Only near the exterior was this possible, for soon within, the deep scorch marks became too thick to discern anything else. The witch was nowhere to be found.
Troíde was sitting not far away, cross-legged and with her back to him. As he shuffled to stand upright, she looked back to him, but said nothing. Her leather mask lay beside her. A weak smile was all she gave before she turned back to where she originally faced.
As Gorin stepped over to where Troíde sat, he suddenly realized that he no longer felts the same oppressive atmosphere as he had upon nearing the town, the day before. At the same time, he became suddenly aware of the discomfort upon his head that the leather mask inflicted upon him, ever since they had come to wear them at all times of the day and night. Without thinking further, he reached up to his own mask and removed the cowl from his head. He sat down beside her, and they remained there for a long while before either spoke.
“We should go soon,” Górin said at last, “We’ll have a late start, but we should make good distance if we leave before midday.”
Troíde gave a nod, but didn’t move her gaze from the scorch marks. “I think she did more than anyone could have imagined.”
Górin was silent for some time. “I don’t think anyone could have imagined what we found here...She did what had to be done. If it were not her, then some other witch would have had to make that decision.”
“That is some comforting news, then,” Troíde replied to Górin’s sudden confusion, “There are likely few with that sort of conviction, and fewer who could even be able to follow through with a choice as difficult as what she had to make in such a short time.”
“A little bit more of Þérge lives on now,” Górin mused, “Through the ashes of destruction, new birth springs.”
“Ah,” Troíde said, nodding, “Yes, I suppose so.”
Their journey down through the ruins of Kaðrosedd was slow, but it was neither hindered nor sidetracked by beast or building. The mist was gone from the land, revealing much to them, and making their navigation as simple as looking and seeing where the road would take them. It was also on this way down that they saw the buildings and houses of Kaðrosedd were in similar ruin to the walls of the keep. Many they had seen made of wood and thatch, and all that remained of these were the base stones and perhaps the remnants of a fireplace. Stone crumbled in time, and grass and mold had reclaimed its place. There was ash too, of course, for plants with a diseased blight upon them had burnt keenly under the flames, and this layered Kaðrosedd like a thick blanket. The town had long been empty, except for a traveler or two, and in the past branch, it had been a horrible home to nearly a hundred evil men, and those five that had come to thwart their designs.
The Silver Hills lay before Górin and Troíde, once again. Tall, dark, and grey, they rose high and fell deep. At the gates of the city, the pair began to detect the faint scent of rot upon the westerly wind, and placed their masks once more upon their faces. In doing so, they realized with some amusement, that the events of the night had caused the poultices of Stékkr to become properly embered once again. The ritual was complete; the flames of a torch of Stékkr burnt in High Ridge and the flames of Jynge had seared throughout Kaðrosedd and a strange land that had once overlaid it. Yet, the two still looked back into the city, as though they would suddenly see Dákk, Handor, and Jynge catching up with them, apologizing for sleeping late and laughing all the while. Alas, no such thing came, and with heavy hearts, Górin and Troíde shouldered their packs and set about the return journey back to Elbregn.
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They spoke not much for some time after leaving the city, but by nightfall, conversation had arisen once again. They spoke of the things they had encountered since coming to Elbregn a branch ago, and all that they had considered in that time. As they ate dry venison over a campfire, they spoke of their lives, their business, and how it was that they had come to Elbregn to answer the summons for the campaign. They spoke of King Gráðír, of the cult’s elders, and of whatever machinations they had been forming together that ultimately resulted in the journeying of so many witches and their guardians to strange lands, some filled with terrible things.
There was little debate in what they would tell the elder witch. Of Jynge’s request, neither had the desire to decline or forego, if only in her honor and nothing else. A strange warning, to be sure, but the two did not doubt their ability to convince her of what they saw. Even if she was not swayed, they figured, a seer could perform divination upon them and verify their claims. The elder seer himself could be requested to do so, if nothing else. Neither thought it would come to that, but all the same, neither was keen on the thought of their words being disregarded as maddened ravings of those in grief. Had the two heard the news of what they meant to tell a branch ago, they solemnly admitted, they would have laughed it off, dismissing it as impossible nonsense. With sighing resignation, they acknowledged that a new great task lay before them, and perhaps such a task always would have been the first step in a journey much greater than what they had been led to believe.
What they could not decide upon, however, was what to say concerning the state in which they had found Kaðrosedd. If a bridge had been formed, but it had since been destroyed and the twilight banished from the land, what was there that could be said? How were they to relay such a story and still be taken as honest? What was there even to say that the notes and pages Górin had collected did not? He had only checked to make sure that everything from the old campsite was safely in his pack, but he did not look through the notes again. Such things could be studied by the elder seer, and they concerned not his ranger duties. He was a woodsman and not a holy man, but what was a woodsman to do when faced with difficult situations that only a holy man could make proper sense of? What would he even say?
Of the fate that befell Dákk and Handor, they knew not whether to speak in truth or in lies, for an explanation would be required. Two heroic deaths, perhaps, fighting against wild and twisted beasts of evil. It would be a dishonorable thing to have them remembered in a lie, but even if dishonored, their legacy might not be wholly tainted in the minds of men. Neither spoke directly of what it was they saw, for they had both witnessed it clearly and felt not the need for it to be repeated so soon. Yet, to inform others of their final moments would require exactly that, and with a decision not reached after much discussion, they shook their heads and did not speak for a long while. Elbregn still remained many days away, and for now at least, the option to distract themselves with other thoughts presented itself, however difficult such a thing might be.
So thus Górin and Troíde walked northwest back through the Silver Hills. Blighted land still lay ahead of them, but it frightened them no longer. Grimly resolute, they feared only a Veil now, and for those, they would take no chances if an ill shadow should be spotted upon the edge of the horizon. Looking back at Kaðrosedd in the far distance behind them, the black shade that hung over the town was no more, but a dark sear coated the land. Like the sacred flames of the Stékkr, the powers of Jynge had flowed about the hill and burnt away whatever miasma surrounded it. Perhaps such a cleansing would not last forever, and another venture into the lonely town by a witch would need to be made properly. That was well enough for the two, they figured. The terrible shade was gone, and Kaðrosedd could be entered safely, for now. Yet for whatever next step the campaign held, both agreed that neither had any wish to return to the place, cleansed of blight or no. For while the shroud of twilight had been cast from the town, a new kind of shade lay over it. It was not one that could be seen, but a deep association and memory that lay only within the minds of Górin of Dormedon and Lady Troíde of the House Elórdn. In the final stretch of land before entering back into the rolling mists of the Silver Hills, they took one last look back to the quiet roadside town upon the hill, long abandoned and forgotten. Upon that black hill, they saw only the memories of madness and despair.