Prologue

The Dao Vae believed that the Arid Lotus only grew in the most desolate of places. This much he knew from his time with them. They were gone now, like so many of the others--like everything would be, eventually, but he would keep his memory of them with him always, and he hoped in the end that would make all the difference.

Even through the gentler light of an evening sun and the smoked glass goggles Merris had made for him, the unrelenting glare of it all still dazed him, the towering crystal blades and snow-white sand blinding him like a thousand glaring mirrors.

The Glass Desert. The stories were true. Other stories: of pockets of fiery slag, of wind storms that could mill steel like flour, and even worse, racked his mind with foreboding, but the King Once and Future forcibly banished them all, centering himself with the gravity of his purpose here.

He slid gently from his horse; these dunes were too perilous to rely on the surefootedness of hooves, divine or no. Perilous only for himself, of course; Enbarr was unmoved, as always, offering not so much as a squint, still yet seemingly unbothered by the dreadful sight. Enbarr’s Form as a horse was a simple convenience anyway; the immortal being of the somesuch place outside the Realm of the Real it truly was, was divorced from such trifling notions as searing hot pain or the threat of being impaled by spear-sized shards of glass. He envied it.

He didn’t even have to take the reins for it to follow him, for with but a thought Enbarr, or Devdatta as he was called in ages past, heard him and obeyed; it was the most immediate and noticeable advantage of having their wills entangled by the Magic of the Geas.

He adjusted the sword slung across his back, The Sword in the Mirror, Sword of the World's Eye, twisting the old woolen plaid he’d found in his things that he now used as a makeshift sheath and adjusting the small silver cauldron that accompanied it over his shoulder--they had both been jostled loose upon his last miscalculated step across the Great Isthmus between the worlds. With a sigh he then led on. The ground crackled beneath his Solaristine-soled sabatons (yet another one of the great Merris’s suggestions) as he descended the first of the many dunes to come, and he mulled over the prospect of using that most sacred sword of ages ‘cross his back as a walking stick to steady his footing when he almost slid and skewered himself in the moonslight. Behind him was the last Crossroads he could sense, the last time he could take respite in the Otherworld, and he knew there was no turning back now, though he never would even so; this was the culminating task of a hundred lifetimes, and he would see it through, then the False Flame would be gone forever.

They climbed another dune, and another, until the astrums above filled the skies, and before he knew it he could see his breath. Sweat soaked the insides of the white linens which blanketed him from head to toe, but he felt it fleeing fast, as the chill started to grip him even now. It had helped deflect the sun a little, for what it was worth, but would serve poorly to keep him warm when the sun finally fully succumbed to the engulfing maw of night.

He sat with Enbarr on the most hospitable patch of ground they could find. From the folds of his clothes under his belt he produced a hefty bronze idol, and placed it on the ground before him and with folded hands closed his eyes and was silent for some time.

The item in question was very old. This was good. It meant that while its Form had depreciated its Nature had remained the same. What's more, it contained Salamandras, the Subtle Airs of Flames, meaning it had even more Magical potential for his purposes--if one believed such things.

Such could be said of old things, that they held Magic, especially if cleaved to dearly and for long enough; he’d come to learn that the Dao Vae and their descendants in Kyogode burned old items in temple rituals for this very reason, for fear that the objects could grow dangerous, even come to life. This statue could be Worked for sure, and easily, as it was both very old and very dear to him, qualities Thaumaturgy both valued.

He recited the Galdr, the words of All Creation, to rend the statue from itself, one from another, then he recalled the Seithr, the motions and gestures with which one Wielded Essence.

He pictured the intricate circles of the Great Work in his mind needed to break the bonds of its physical state, the movements of his Seithr recreating them in four dimensions. These movements allowed him to recall the words in the Tongue of Shadows which was the Spell--Anwyn, as it was called, slipped from the mind forever upon reaching one’s ears unless thus reinforced. When he finished, with an energetic ‘whoosh’ the bronze statue ignited, an effigy now in Magic flame that roared like a bonfire with no conceivable fuel.

It would burn for weeks if he’d let it, disintegrating into literal nothingness as its Essence burned away, but he wouldn’t allow that; he’d promised to return it someday.

He’d sat the cauldron down upon the fire. A simple cookpot this was not; The Cauldron Chalice could give a man anything asked of it. It could grow to any size (it was once even mistaken for an ocean). It was going to be part of his plan for making a shelter during the day. It could feed armies. It could bring the dead back to life (if the dead wanted to do that for some unthinkable reason) and even grant him Immortality if he’d wanted it (but he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy). No, after fumbling for a small mess tool he whispered a prayer, kissed his fingers, and touched the Cauldron of All Wants, as such imparting to it his wish: his mother’s spaghetti casserole, piping hot.

He slept little despite Enbarr's vigilant gaze watching over him, knowing that entities that existed before this world wanted to spill his blood for what he was trying to do, coupled with the uncomfortable cold even in the fire of the statue, and the fact that the sand shifted unnaturally, making the ear-piercing ‘pop’ of breaking glass every time he was almost sleep.

It also rumbled from time to time. It was not anything he’d anticipated or heard of being a phenomenon in the White Sands, but it almost seemed like the dunes slowly rolled like the tide of a great ocean. It unnerved him for some reason he could not place.

Before he knew it, dawn would be here. Restlessly he decided to perhaps make some more headway before he would have to take shelter of the day. He quenched the Spell he’d pronounced upon the statue with a piece of himself, allowing it to resume normality, and pocketing it and putting away the Cauldron he headed on.

This was about the only time he could gain ground, he was told, in the hour or so it took the Moon of Days to swallow the sun and usher in the night, or just before it fled. Only there would it be not too hot, not too cold. Finally reaching the peak of the next dune, he fought the steam and bewildering mirages for his quarry. Nothing. He expected as such. He’d once, in simpler times, spent the majority of a day watching the journey of a caterpillar as it embarked on its traipsing exodus from one side of a corn field to the other. At first it occurred to him that he envied the fruitive results of the thing’s progress, for it was no doubt wrought from some inner spirit of unbridled enthusiasm that he could only wish to match, but the thought came that the caterpillar well could’ve been just as bored to undertake his journey as he was back then to undertake the task of watching it all the livelong day. The caterpillar, after all, (as far as his understanding of caterpillar reckoning went, which wasn’t far) had no aim or purpose to his trek. It had no call to adventure, no rhyme or other reason to journey but to go, and when the King realized this it he was forced to conclude that it was this, not his own slow-going that he resented, but this, the carefree, unchased caterpillar itself, and the unrealized fear and anxiety in it that needn’t ever be allayed or otherwise dispelled, the dread that, whether for the simple lack of understanding to be found in its tiny mind or otherwise, had never been stirred in it. He envied the mind that saw the at-handedness of time to alot all the livelong day to the observation of a caterpillar’s crawl. He envied purposelessness, that they themselves had no good need for one, nor understood or had the capacity to care how important it is (surely) to have one.

He crossed half a dozen more heaping hills of sand in the sun’s corona. The Moon of Seasons haloed the horizon, throwing a violet blanket over the night, and brought a twinkling luster to the sand that reminded him of a winter's night back home.

He knew he was probably going too far, doing too much. Several times he had filled the Cauldron with ice cold water; it had started heating up again, and the sun was still hidden. His plan was that he would hide in the nearest valley, and bury himself in the sand, wrapping the cauldron in his white linens to reflect the sun and use it as a shelter, wishing for ice shavings if he must--at least he hoped it would work.

Scurrying over one last dune, he stopped dead in the halflight, in awe of what stood before him. Stark black, and enormous even at a distance, its dark spires stretched upward like a great hand clawing at the heavens: Ezaiadus, the living fortress. He didn't know he would have to draw so close to it.

He'd heard of it, of course, heard of the prison made closest to the sun. It was the only gesture the Formerians could muster to stifle Slaugh Gora’s power. It was futile, as now it served only as his stronghold and place to torture his previous captors. Then Enbarr turned his head for him. Movement.

In single file they danced, their long shadows cast by nothing. They were the Slaugh, the prisoner’s servants, the hoary host of the King of Shades. They normally dwelt in the Deep, far away from cleansing light, and he’d seen them there many times, but here, brazen enough to be caught in daylight with no place to hide...cavorting to the raucous tumult of dinless drums, frolicing to unheard melodies from unseen horns, was unheard of.

He could see that the precession was only just passing them. Leading them was the silhouette of a shape some would call ‘Kindred’--meaning having arms and legs like a person. In a few moments it would intersect where the young King was going and draw near.

It was riding a dromedary, cooling itself with a fan, wafting the flowery smell of exotic perfumes into the stale air.

“You. I know you.” it wasn’t the most elegant way to start a conversation, but the utter disbelief begged it of him. “You’re Grimory. Pimonia.” it came out almost like an accusation.

It was difficult to tell if Grimory were male or female. He’d heard Malacasta once call him ‘he’, but Pimonia, or Grimory--he was never sure which, was quite obviously not. ‘He’ wore a king’s crown tightly around his otherwise bare midrift, which would seem somehow impossible to fit over his...buxomness. Otherwise he would appear as any other albeit attractive woman, save for a lithey tufted red tail that peeked from above his silk sarouel that always whipped about like it had a mind of its own and a pair of faintly-glowing golden eyes.

He wore a garment called a Heraldrix, a garment consisting of a pair of long sleeves connected by a length of cloth, the swath between them worn in various styles and colors. In ancient times it was called a Bahuvastra Sudre, and the colors and style in which it was worn denoted one’s Magical Tradition and level of skill. It was worn by the well-to-do nowadays, viewed as posh, and he would’ve fit right walking around in any metropolis in the Southlands, its esoteric meaning forgotten. But his was black, and meant black, and worn crossed around the neck and down the back. It had probably been Transmuted, like most worn by the skillful were, made to deflect or absorb Magic.

Pimonia squinted, blocking the sunlight with a fan he incessantly had been known to hold, even in the snowy chambers of the Winter Queen.

“Oh, you." He sighed dejectedly. "I suppose it was always you. Is always you, if there ever were a you to begin with.”

“You were sentenced beneath the ice at the World’s Heart, Forgotten.” he reminded the demon.

“Me? Ha!” he guffawed “And Forgotten?! Never, thanks to you!”

“But how did you escape the Rathlands?”

“Escape! Te hee! I was never her prisoner, oh Dreamer! I was there to bide and bargain on our behalf.” Pimonia’s voice was effeminate and meek, with a certain hoarseness to it, giving it a tinkling sound like clinking champagne glasses. “I should thank you for freeing us.” he said. The twisted tongues and minds of Immortal things always left him struggling to decipher their motivations; he wasn’t sure whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. "Oh, you Hyu’manii with your bottomless lusts, so busy squiggling around like that, here and there, you never even realized you were unbinding us." That made it apparent; he'd forgotten that Pimonia never missed a chance to deride those perceived to be beneath him.

“You’re welcome.” The King figured he’d be obtuse as well.

“You still have that odd shaped body, the squiggly one. Here let me take it from you.” he splayed out his hands, and the shadows slithered and swarmed. They would rend him to nothingness, much like the bronze statue, he knew. It was their purpose, to return all to nothing.

A dozen shapeless nightmares from beyond the comprehension of the mind cloyed at him. He clasped the sword in his hand, and its light, bright enough to pierce the dazzling day even where they stood subsumed them, banishing them before he’d even shown its foible.

“So it is true! You do have Claimh Solais. Have you come to give it back to him? He may still let you enjoy a few more trips around this place if you did, you know, before he returns it to nothingness.”

“Back to him?”

“It was his first.” he explained. “You’ve no idea.” he feigned being appalled at the stupidity of the man. The ground shifted beneath their feet for a moment, making the both of them shuffle to find footing, but Pimonia dismissed it. “It wasn’t always like this, you know. In the beginning there was no One and the Other. No death, no time. Then She got involved, wanting to ‘go there’ and ‘do that’, and going on and on about this invention of hers called boredom.”

“Selean.”

“ ‘The Great Goddess’.” Now that one was slathered in enough sarcasm to be understood. “You know, it takes nothing to create a place like this, this All Creation from within the Sea of Milk. I’m not impressed.”

“I’ll stop you, for her.”

“Oh hushaby, Hyu’man!” the Forgotten’s face twisted in disgust. “Before you were born, He was! And will be when you’re gone. He is eternal, and you are tiny. What measure of hope do you have against the All Ways? You could live a billion lifetimes for all we care, gather all the knowledge your little mind can handle and compared to eternity all of those years would still equal precisely zero." The demon pinched a clump of sand from the King's shoulder, grinding it between his fingers. "To Him, YOU never happened at all. You are nothing!“ he punctuated it, flapping the fan closed and turning up his nose. “Don’t know why I’m even bandying words with you anyway, I’ve a world to crush." He then proceeded to brush and straighten the young man's shawl judgmentally.

“You thanked me for saving you. Were I nothing I wouldn’t have been able to do it. If I am nothing, then nothing matters.”

“Right. It does.”

“You mean doesn’t.”

Pimonia’s eyes narrowed. He had talked to enough of these types of creatures to know that they always seemed to need the last word, especially him. “Beg pardon?”

“Nothing matters. You’re right.”

“Wait, 'nothing' as in the lexical notion of the absence of a thing, or 'nothing' as in the primordial everlasting abyss of unfathomable dimension into which all invariably falls?”

The Dreamer shrugged, you could almost see the smile on his face through the cloth over it.

Pimonia's face twisted with agitation, “Pish posh, you’re one to talk of mincing words. The one trying to kill Death.”

“Nothing lasts forever.”

“True.” Pimonia smiled. “It does. You’ll see, soon enough.”

“Nothing lasts forever.” the King said one final time.

Pimonia let out a feral growl of consternation that broke the facade of his femininity, then promptly departed.

The sun peeked out from above the moon now, the way its first rays pelted at him like a forge fire or the hammer, he wasn’t sure which. Pimonia spoke of he and his host as being an inexorable, indomitable, inevitable power which none could repel or resist, his Shades bothered the King Once and Future no more. Though such was the ways of Immortals; he'd wager equally his motive being playing the long game, being genuinely fearful, or (most likely) being unable to view the King as much more a threat than an ant. He looked about befuddled. The terrain had changed. Shifted. The castle could no longer be seen. He knew it was not likely enchanted with such Magics as to do so, Enbarr could see through illusions, and only the Forest of Exile had such Otherworldly effects as to physically distort the world itself--this was something else entirely. Then it all came to him. Breath. It was breath that moved the world in the night for him, the breath of a beast so immense that an army might march upon its back--that he may walk upon it for a full day unaware--one that began to lift its unfathomably enormous head.

The beast was everywhere. Literally. Eternities of dust and sand rolled away that it might glare at the impertinent speck astride its back. Yes, breath it was, and he knew the creature would not relent while the King still drew his.

Chapter 1: The Grigor

"...Past's long shadow stretches over the Last City, where he stands all day until the sun sets and he reveals his purpose as a messenger of woe. He tells the people that his master, Death Himself, would soon come to claim them. The people panic and try to leave, but Past will not let them; all night he looms over them, watching.

Now, Death can only come out at night, for only those in darkness can one fall prey to his powers, but Past says that for them night is eternal, for his enormity blots out the sun. The faithful people of Shambaya will not accept it, and rally themselves to climb the hill where every day they paid homage to the gods unabated, and at the first light of dawn a fire from the heavens, a great bird, wreathed in flame as bright as Past was dark appeared before them. A terrible battle occurred, a battle that destroyed the Last City as they toppled from the mountain, and Past, knowing the truth: that no night could last forever, retreated to safety, but a great stone had fallen and crushed the..."

Laina's mouth slammed shut as if she might be able to gobble back up her words if she'd done it fast enough when the bellowing beckon of Bearch Buckroy came from the cracked double doors leading outside. "Adi! Stop lolly-gaggin' and get on your coat!"

"I'm so sorry. Again." She said. "You do always get me on the flight of fancy when you speak of those dreams you have." She took up the mug from which he'd drank his cider . "Hurry along." she waved him out, as with a sluggish lurch he stood and stretched.

She'd once told him that their people came westward from across the great waters, fleeing from the clutches of Death (Himself), and led by a great bird of fire. She even bore a mark on her cheek of a feather to mark her as her devotee. The mark never came off, no matter how it was washed.

Adimus always enjoyed her stories, that while far-fetched they were they always seemed to have a strange ring of truth about them that he knew his ears couldn't quite follow or his mind dare not lead him to; he’d be remiss to admit he always liked stories like that.

The boy donned his outfit: A quilted tartan of green and black thatch, pinned at the shoulder with a brooch in the shape of a crescent moon and decorated with owl's feathers, over a mail made of fat brass rings. His hair a thick mane spiked with lime, bleached almost white with the use of the mineral; a wool cloak, noticeably patched. A targe bearing a great white stag on a field of sable and vert. A Skea Dhu: a ceremonial dagger of sorts. His sounding horn, The Horn of Suul Vale, and last but not least, an old iron broadsword, only slightly rusty and even more slightly sharp; all were special regalia and munitions of the Grigor.

The brisk air slapped him in the face when he flung open the door. It was going to be a long night. The rouge leaves glowed like embers, the kindling of autumn's hearth. Several large farmsteads stood on the other side of the creek, their squares of worked land stretching off into the distance. This was Balfour Village proper, Bearach had reasoned, because "the houses were closest together. Too close together and within sight of each other to be in danger.” he'd said. There was a path called the Beat, a colloquial name taken from the grassless runs used to mark the property lines between plots of farmland that also serves as footpaths. It was also where the place from whence he had just come received its name: The Green Beat. Maev was referring to a beetroot, as the etched sign above the door would imply. She always thought the name was clever, despite the misspelling. ‘Not that any of them could spell.’ Adimus might muse if asked.

His path would take him in a large circle tracing the outer reaches of farmland on the edge of the village, a journey that took nearly two hours. A boring task to say the least, but on most occasion he enjoyed the scenery. On most occasion. There was a rough path through the old woods. It was beaten into existence almost exclusively by the feet of the Grigors; he and Bearach and Eichgun and all the other Grigors in generations before them. It gave him a little solace; nothing ill had befallen any of the previous of them since the time of the war, and before then it was men, not Nissies or Red Caps or the Tuatha, and besides the occasional squabbles of politics inland, the country was at peace as he understood it.

He crested the hill behind the Beat, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. He gazed upon the lake in the gully and Blaise's Parish beyond, visible only from the very top of the hill.

That, now that was an unsettling enough story of its own to begin with, a veritable set piece for the unsettling happenings of late.

The lake had erupted from the ground overnight, they'd said, in a calamitous tumult that threw down houses, even hewed the very stone from the tor, sending a mountain’s worth of rock cascading into the chasm of Pangor Vale. Ever thereafter the pristine lake sat, the very summit of the highest mountain of the Blade Peaks buried in its depths.

It was the stirring Formerians deep within the earth that caused such catastrophes, everyone knew. The Pardoner who lived at the abbey there had always said that such disasters only befell those, only occured when such things were forgotten--’the Eye of Crom, though sleeping, never blinks’. This much he'd been told his entire life.

The mountain’s peak still disturbed the surface of its waters as a tiny protrusion of stone. This cap, was once the summit of a mountain, but was now but a tiny island. Herespil Sul it was called, and while the ramifications of its creation were monstrous ideas about which to daydream, it seemed a shadow to the thought of the bloody ceremonies held on nights like this upon the rock in days gone by; the High Shepard of the Druids had always made sure the giants were remembered by performing acts no one could ever forget.

But this alone was not what pushed chill into his bones. Adimus held his lantern tightly now. The setting sun flickered like a candle being slowly drowned by its wax as he walked the long stretch through and around the village. It would be night long before he would be finished. It was to be a well-lit night at least; the moons were bright in the sky. Nights as these were as twilight, and he'd always heard that the worst of monsters feared such times.

It had to be bandits, Bearach said, perhaps from the Ruined Road. But he'd heard from his uncle Anwell that Niall told him a much darker story of what happened that night. But, Anwell was always the storyteller--especially around Ellyllon--but as much as he enjoyed an occasional tale about ghosts or Faerii he didn't think he would turn such a serious happening into an anecdote.

It well could've been bandits, simply imitating the behaviors of Goblyns: stringing up people's dogs, tearing up books, breaking mirrors and windows, spilling trophs and buckets and other man-made vessels. It would serve well to scare the townsfolk, to obfuscate their identity. But…

From the hilltop between the trees he could still see into the valley where the charred bones of the old house stood.

The smell of smoke still lingered in the air near old Niall Anstead’s farm, even though it had been three days; it was a deep burning fire that left marks on more than just the man’s home.

Leaves rustled and winds whistled, an incessant wall of noise that could mask any foe’s approach, fictional or not. The youth struggled to push the thoughts to the back of his mind and keep his senses with him and not in some nightmare daydream.

He finally reached the bottom of the steep hill. He let out a relieved sigh; he could now see the Green Beat across the creek, and his house just a stone’s throw up the hill behind it. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and dry his brow. Now he would just have to begin his journey back. He crossed the well-made bridge over Lochgully Creek. The path from the forest intersected with the large road. Setting foot onto the stone blocks still felt good after a night of marching on the rugged trails. Broad and sturdy, it had been here long before the village ever stood, he'd been told. The large and wide road that the forest path intersected was part of a highway laid here by an army long ago. Its paving stones uprooted by trees and upheaved with weeds and dirt, this, and the single strange-looking statue in the village square its only remnants. The very post of Watchkeep was said to come from those days.

It was an honorary title, Grigor, or Watcher it was sometimes called, passed down for as far back as anyone around here would care to remember. The young man reasoned that it was more out of comfort than necessity, the stuffiness of it all. The almost mystical-sounding names of his accoutrements and the heavy-handedness of the ceremonies surrounding his post together was like a talisman to the people of the small village that warded against the unknown dangers that no doubt lurked beyond the hillside. He'd always felt like he was an actor in a play, like an Ormondian Bard when he marched, portraying some great hero in an epic, leader of a gallant one-man parade.

But he wasn’t for being a Grigor this evening; he wasn't even really sure why he was chosen for it in the first place--but in this one in particular he questioned more so than normal.

He wasn't the most inspiring figure. He never felt that he gave that certain air of ease or comfort, that people think themselves safe by his mere presence. But tonight...the call of the evening made him shrink, and no amount of obligation could push his shoulders back or straighten his neck.

The march ended across the square, passing the statue of the great cloven-hooved figure to which the elders of the town paid tribute with garlands of wildflowers and tiny jasper coins. It overlooked the edge of the plateau upon which the village sat. The road ended abruptly with some of its disheveled stones hanging over the sharp edge of the cliffside. Stories said that a powerful Spell had been heard here during a battle against the west, renting the road in twain and carving the immense valley that served as a hazard between here and Kessellon when the Immortal of Slaine warred with them. The new path into the village from the Ruined Road began here, a swooping slope down the hillside to the road below that served as the only entrance into the village from the entire plateau.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Beside it was the blacksmith's house, whereupon reaching he would ring the iron bell that sat outside it, marking the completion of his march.

Just then he heard a voice. It startled him, naturally, but not so much as when he identified from whom it had come.

“Adimus!” It was Tolten Blaise, the Pardoner. It had come from the porch of the Beat. “I got something to say to you…” He said with crooked finger.

Age and a malady of the bones always kept the man leaning heavy on the crook Niall had made especially for him, making the hurried way he ambulated down the long hill toward the Watcher show well his urgency, quickening well the boy’s dread. It reminded him of one of the many nightmares he’d had, the kind where he is being chased but his legs won’t move.

He tried to yammer an excuse to try and leave as he approached, something like ‘I’ve got to ring this bell’ or ‘I left the kettle on.’ ‘My dog just died.’ nothing came out “Good evening, Pardoner.”

He heaved with strain, doubled in exasperation to keep up with him, but no less hastened by the subject matter. “It’s a fine night. Walk with me, Watcher.” It was a sweetly stated sentiment but compulsory act, He knew it wasn't for want of a conversation, though he could feel a scolding looming, like the venomous snakes which he handled in his ceremonies on Almsday, poised to strike.

"They got into the cloister out back." He said plainly. The Grigor had heard about it already, but he feigned ignorance to hear the man tell the tale himself, that all of his ledgers and notes had been torn to shreds. What's more, one of the graves there on the property had been forcibly exhumed, and the writing on several gravestones had been vandalized, a gruesome detail Meav had left out.

"Father thinks it is bandits. What do you think, Shepard?" The Watcher had managed to reach the end of his Precession, the bell at the edge of town before indeed the rebuke began.

"Fool boy, that is your job to suss out! And it couldn't be done sooner. But there are more pressing matters, now." He gave Adimus a stern eye, “Grigor Buckroy, Meav tells me you’re listening to those Mansii's stories again.”

He knew it wasn’t true. Meav would never gossip such a thing, much less to the Pardoner. But Adimus was always bad at hiding the truth, and the old man knew that a hinting at accusing the boy was enough to know it. Adimus scratched at his head nervously, a habit he’d picked up when at first the limestone bothered him.

"Dabbling with falsehoods, even in passing fancy, strays the mind from Purpose." He said. "Buckroy be Named, you and your ilk have caused enough trouble...that it was your Pa that failed to see those flames the night they happened...no doubt the blindness was spiritual in nature." His face was dower. "Wrought of wavering rectitude in the Old Ways at the very least, indeed. Still I pray for you, still I pray.” He added the part at the end, though it did little to hide his veiled threat.

" ...You feel that this more important than what's happening here now?"

He gave him a stern eye. "A weak mind is a tool for the Fae. What your eyes for the material world cannot tell that these can is that it well could be those such transgressions contributed to this ill moon over us. You and your father both."

The boy managed a jovial grin. "My father has little to do with my penchant for enjoying the fictions of other cultures, now, Pardoner. And before you make the assertion that clearly your face says is brewing, he's not any interest in taking up another wife, and hasn't shown the slightest interest in her--were that the case he'd be at door of your Meav and you know that."

The candidness with which he spoke jarred the man back to sobriety from his castigations. "Aye, still he and your grandfather…"

"What? Travelled!?"

"Yes, precisely! You must be lucid to what you bring with you, be wary to that which that carnel eye is blind! Those Lathnians in Menkara worship the heathen Fae as gods too. As did your mother, doubtless...The Eye of Crom Cruach sees right into your bones, boy.” he said sternly. “Sees what makes your heart move. Does yours move for Him, or for those stories?” his eyes narrowed. “Or for the harlot what tells ‘em?”

Adimus consciously fought to unclench his fist. Instead he manuevered to invoke pity, as that usually worked. "I don't remember much about my mother." He lowered his head solemnly. Tolten raised a brow but gave no response. "It is divine providence surely, Pardoner, that she couldn't have a chance to fill my head with those lies."

“Blessed be." He bowed his head, the sarcasm lost on him. He put a hand on the Watcher's shoulder. "But be not sorrowful. Your mother has returned to the Numinous, no doubt."

"Despite being a heathen?"

That noticeably knocked the wind out of his sails, which manifested much as a sigh. "Look boy.” he then said. Blaise pointed out over the vale, to the great gorge and the land beyond, far off in the distance. "You see that out there? You know well as I, that all the village is built upon a mountainside. Now, it looks flat, but it where if one but journey hither or thither they’ll simply find it not so." His allowing the boy to come here before his rant seemed intentional now, for it was the only vantage point in all of Balfour from which one could see over the mountain. He raised a bent scholarly finger. “Nor is the world itself flat, though it may at first glance appear to be so. The Druids tell us this, and to a learned man it is incontrovertible that it is not so." Adimus lowered his head.

"There are plenty of things in this world that seem not to be so that are, but so many more are there that are that aren’t so…” it was a dense statement, clearly. The Pardoner gave him a moment to digest it before looking sideways at him, fondly. "You oughtn’t rely your own reasoning to figure out the world, boy. Hubris and vainglory that is, and the way of heathens! This world is bigger than you, and man’s proclivity for sin and invention bigger still! It’s only by the endeavor of the ancestors, and the Graces of gods that man has found Truth. Endeavor and Grace…." he eyed him critically. “Numitorum says that you, you Adimus, are the gatekeeper to the House with Nine Gates! If you allow such things--such foolishness to be permitted, if you let it in…” he pointed a crooked finger. Adimus knew the ‘house’ he alluded to from having it pounded into him dozen times, it was a metaphor (albeit a crude one) for the body. "This is the true test of a Watcher, boy. Vigilance! In hand! Heart! Head! ” with a gnarled brow he thumped his own head with his finger to drive it home.

“Yes, Shepard...” He had started to reply. But the boy had stopped listening. Instead he focused on what he saw, what lie at the bottom of the gorge. Torches.

Suddenly his mouth ran dry. He struggled to take a breath deep enough to sound his horn. Many times he'd rehearsed scenes in his mind about what he might do if the village were under attack. They always ended with him being a hero, but now he’d found himself a fool for not considering the other outcome, but mustering his courage he sounded the proper tones from memory. The rhythm of the sounds were distinct and known by all; the sound of danger and a warning to make preparation for it, to baton doors and brandish blades, to gather the horses and ride.

"Put it away, fool boy." He gave a start when he heard the female voice above and behind him, and faster than he could fumble his sword from its sheath and wheel around, he heard another, even closer. "See?" This one was a man's.

A black cloak drifted before him. It had defeated his vision, and he gave little thought why: unwavering in the night air it draped around the gaunt figure, disturbed only by its owner's sway in its otherworldly dance, and seemed to thwart any light that might betray it, its furls as untouched by it as its folds.

"Told you we'd scare the daylights out of them."

The man's warm face somewhat disarmed him. Giving the boy a quick smile as his ghostly hand appeared from the folds of his garb to tip his funny-looking hat to him.

"Adi!" Now he really felt panic, as he couldn't help but wince. "Make way, foolish boy, we got company!" He was really getting tired of being called a fool.

“Bahh…” Tolten threw a hand up, and after a few moment of frustration at the boy’s apparent paralysis started up the hill on his own at a marked hurried pace, and reason told him that all the talk of the danger of strangers and how one must fight against their wiles these strangers had spooked even him to silence.

The man seemed to notice it too, as his chuckle seemed to show. Then with a spin that showed practice he whipped off the cloak. He watched as what had been a second earlier black as night turn to a respectable bright red. Adimus couldn't help but stare blankly at it. "He's already tending to us, thank you very much sir!" He said, throwing it into the boy's arms with a wry wink. "Tell them I sent you." he whispered. He followed the man's glance toward the caravan behind him.

It was all that the gentleman said to the boy. The voice yelling at him was the reeve's, and the comment could have very well saved him some guff, but before the boy could dispel his astonishment enough to utter a thank you the man was gone.

The faint sound from the rooftop above his head snapped him out of it. He began to glance up only to feel a shadow pass over his head, then hear the soft landing of feet plopping down behind the stranger what would've been half a dozen paces beyond the eaves of the building. Adimus looked ,and before he could turn back he felt the tap of the man that he'd realized just placed his hat on the boy's head. He only had the chance to see that man's back as he shuffled away with the other figure, who hurried off as well, swaddling the muddy hooded robe it wore and whispered something to him in a tongue he'd never heard before--but the displeased tone overcame any language barrier.

The young man still stood stilt-legged. He started to flip the cloak onto his shoulder until he noticed the heaviness in his hand. He lifted the cloth to reveal the coins that had been neatly stacked in them. Both.

He pondered the instructions the man had given, ‘tell them I sent you’. Sent me for what? Before he could process it he found himself bowled over, bore to the ground by a startled stranger; he hadn't made way.

"Ack!" The woman yelped. "Watch where you're going!"

Her dejected tone was somewhat muffled inside in the young man's ears when after quickly rebounding he gazed upon the woman. He was unsure of what left him speechless, her adornments: myriad bracelets, necklaces, rings, sashes and charms clasped in her fiery red curls, of shells or coins or lustrous strung stones of aqua and amaranth and goldenrod. The leather cuirass she wore, worked explicitly to fit her quite obviously feminine figure-which she wore bust-bare and unbefitting of her baggy trousers and riding boots, or that any of this disarray could possibly draw eyes from her porcelain face and emerald eyes. "...What?" she said, not helping but notice his staring.

Adimus tried to stammer up an apology, and almost prided himself in that he could, but when an expectant eye under rustled brow fell upon him and her outstretched hand beckoned, he decided helping her to her feet was courageous enough for him at the moment. She was perhaps only a few years older than he, but the way she held herself was mature and distinguished, with an air of confidence that asserted her seniority, an air that made him, and probably anyone else, feel that if forced to address her should undeniably do so only as ‘my lady’. She pushed her curver sword down with her palm to free it from tangling her legs when he offered the hand, and took only a moment to look him in the eye and give an obliged and perhaps apologetic smile before hurrying off as she was. He could feel his face flush in the cold autumn air.

Making sure he'd actually stood aside for the armed guard that actually showed the courtesy of pardoning himself, he nabbed up the rest of the strewn coins hurriedly before the horse-drawn wagon that had just made its way up the hill might trample them. He dismissed the thought that they seemed markedly lightener than before. He glanced around to see if perhaps he'd missed a few. He didn't suppose he had.

The driver of the carriage he at first mistook for a bear, as he was wearing the furs of one, and could masquerade as one for size easily. Beneath it he wore a shirt of bronze chain links. It must have cost a fortune, much more because fitting him for it would’ve been the cost of two--he made Brian look small. His hair was short, like a Kesselonii soldier and few others. "Hail, Watcher." He nodded his salute with a dismissive tone that really belied that he was thinking of a nice way of saying 'outta my way'. At least he was attempting to be polite.

The youth timidly stepped forward "I was sent by..." he then realized he didn't get the man's name. He glanced up at the man's tall, brimmed hat atop his head, to which the man replied with the simple shake of his head and point of his thumb to the back of the wagon.

The horses gaited slowly past him, so a moment later he found himself standing at the back of the wagon. The boy quickened his pace to meet their stride and step into the open hooding. The wagon's insides were faintly lit by lantern light. The young man holding it was inconspicuously reading a by it, and upon realizing the boy was trying to board the carriage gave an outstretched hand to help him, setting the lamp on a stack of crates by the wayside.

"Umm, hello." he yammered after an odd moment of silence. The man looked down at his hand with an unreadable expression.

He looked up at him with a critical look in his eye. "...Who are you?" It was an uncoothe way of being asked to introduce himself, coming from someone so helpful just seconds before. The man looked shocked somehow, almost fearful.

Adimus awkward pressed on. "I was sent-"

Crash! The lamp shattered on the ground when the man reached for something on the table. Everything went dark; thankfully the base hadn't shattered.

"What in All Creation! Regil!" Came a voice from around the front-end veil of the wagon. Opening it there stood a long-faced, tired-looking man sporting what perhaps at one point had been very proud-looking regalia that perhaps with a shave and good-night's sleep might suit him better. A light came from the gloved man's fingertips, leaping to life on a stick of wood, he held-the boy had seen nothing like it before. "Oh, Master Juminion, my apologies." The man said, peeking behind the curtain of the carriage. His eyes darted about until they fell on the boy.

"No, mine." the man said. He paused for a moment, relighting the lantern and blowing out the small lit stick, then reaching into his pocket. "Please, allow me to pay for it." He said, putting on the pair of white gloves on the table in a way that Adimus could only construe that touching him had somehow made him unclean. Adimus found himself looking down at his person--to ensure he hadn’t fallen in manure or something.

The man shooed away the offer. "No, no. Your services have been indispensable during this trip. If anything I should pay you more than I have for what you did back there. But don't hold me to that." he chuckled at his own joke. Noticing it he was the only one he cleared his throat and look up to the boy.

"...I was sent..." Adimus started, but drifted off when the look on the man's face showed he more than understood.

"Name that Argent!" he cursed. "Every time it comes to stabling the horses or unpacking, or doing any form of labor he finds a way out of it." he said. "What did he pay you?"

"N-not much." Adimus immediately regretted his thoughtless choice of words; he didn't know whether to tell or not, so he said the first words he could blow passed his lips. He did that a lot. He was always rash-when speaking anyway-saying the first thing that popped into his head for fear that hesitance would infer guilt. He was a terrible liar because of this. Sometimes he said 'things that only made sense to him' as Luloch told him whenever he would speak of his bumble-tongue.

The man simply guffawed. "No doubt he could afford it, whatever the cost." he brushed the comment aside. Adimus could feel the tinge of jealousy. "You should've partnered with him Alfred." he added again patting the robed man on the shoulder. "Well then." he said awkwardly, then rubbing his hands together. "Start by picking up this glass, then when you are done with that ready the horses for stabling, and then..."

*****

Their leader’s name, he'd learned from his talkative associate Regil, was Baron Torrin von Krasad, a merchant from the west.

Regil (the big hulking one) was a warrior from Brousse, a hired bodyguard for the road. He spoke of his days fighting in the arena--and of the Labyrinth City, to the gaping-jawed youths and adults alike. His stories may have been interesting after a fashion, but when the boy was singled out for his position and questioned about his experience in battles things got awkward, and Laina, the treasure she was, spirited him away from it, but not before blathers of a ‘friendly sparring match’ came up.

It had been far worse than bandits or even monsters for sure: guests. And strangers at that. Adimus caught his breath in the common room with the other regulars; he never thought that he’d have to resort to such drastic measures, but there was nowhere else to go. He could hide in Laina’s room (she wouldn’t mind it), were it not for the questioning eyes of the ever vigilant patrons, the same curmudgeonly old codgers that now passed their same myopic judgement on these new folk. He’d usually be home by now, and everyone else long before that, but apparently Adimus's horn was a wakeup call that summoned every villager out of the woodwork to gawk and stare and gossip. No, instead he sat doodling on the tablet his grandpa had gotten him last Longnight (though Luloch still to this day swears that it was really Cinter Teg himself that dropped it down the chimney for him.)

As such, he’d managed to learn from interpolation that Krasad and company were made all the more suspicious by, in fact, being given nothing to gossip about: Krasad told no one anything; nothing of whence they’d come, where they were going, or why they were going or coming to begin with. Adimus himself had been pestered several times now to his vehement consternation, and the fruitlessness of their questioning stopped them from speculation or the outright invention of dramas involving them none at all.

They couldn't disturb the peace too much, or Pardoner Tolten would eject them from the city and the reeve would allow it as a concession to an angry mob that with a few words could be stirred to violence if the priest wanted. Adimus shared sentiment with the villagers usually. The boy had spent years carefully crafting a persona that was conducive to being liked. It took a lot of practice and convincing and upkeep. Strangers made him nervous.

“I think they’re outlaws. Escapees from Brigden. There’s an astrolabe in their effects. That Regil chap looks like a quarryman, and that lady has the tricorne of a cap’n.” said Anwell.

“A girl captain? Surely you can do better than that. They’re obviously defectors from the war up north. They’ve a Sum Seer with them.” Said Regby McConelly.

“Sum Seer? What’s a Sum Seer?”

“A wizard.”

“Wizards?! Hah! At least I’m not dragging Faerii tales into my guess.”

“So it is a guess.”

“He’s a Magus.”

“All’khemist, he’s an Thaumaturgist.” another chimed in.

“You don’t even know what that means!”

Adimus could remember the number of times since his childhood that the village had visitors and could count them on one hand, and each time they were met with such suspicion the same. He didn't know if it were the simple xenophobia talking, but it was said that The Ruined Road was most certainly not the safest or easiest way to cross the mountains, that those who came this way did so to avoid the more patrolled and controlled northern passage. Laina was met with the same distrust when she came. Maybe they were all right, or worse.

"They were supposed to leave tomorrow, but I heard Luloch telling the driver that if they stayed for the next two days they could do so no questions asked." said Anwell Buckroy.

They all shot glances toward the closed doors of the meeting hall, wherein they all spoke.

“Who does he think he is anyway?” said Regby. “...Chief Watcher needs to mind his station.”

“Prudent, I’d say. With what’s going on.” Anwell argued.

“You’re more a fool than a fuller, Anwell. Or bloody mad. Seems to run in the family.” he said, taking a drink of ale to punctuate the insult. “We can handle our own business well enough. Why, I’ll put an arrow right through the eyes of those bandits meself.”

Anwell shook his head. “Bandits…” Anwell snorted. “Best hope I’m just mad.”

His uncle Anwell, well at least who he’d learned to call uncle, was the resident skeptic. He was a retired fuller and sheep herder, a little too old yet a bit too eager to give his farm to his heirs so he could spend his twilight gossiping and drinking. It was well into the night by the time Adimus had finished helping Regil stable and groom and feed the horses. Adimus sat quietly in the common room, patiently waiting to go home. His father and the reeve were having a meeting--it was about their new guests, if he was lucky.

"The reeve has neither the resources nor provisions to alot for their board." Adimus told Maev, standing to put the tablet by the fire that the beeswax would melt and he could start again "-That's what he said." he added that last part quickly; he had accidentally sounded learned. He'd always watched the words Luloch taught him, his family received enough derision as it was when he wasn’t considered pretentious.

"We could sure do with some strangers parting with coin though, if our larders can manage.” bellowed Brian the Blacksmith, mustering up the courage to finally talk, before Brian could still be seen staring silently into his drink--he had no business being here so late, he just didn’t want to go home.

Some still giggled with glee, and still others jeered with jealousy at what had happened earlier. The girl into whom the Watcher had collided had shown herself to fancy the man. She sang like a nightingale to him and danced like a bird of paradise. She was quite talented, versed in old sea shanties the likes which bar-folk enjoyed, as well as a few classical ones, even belting out a few verses from the Cantos of the Thrice Slain King. And he rather enjoyed being serenaded by her, watching her sultry figure with discerning eyes--that is, until his wife showed up, whereby the girl promptly left (albeit with a full belly and a more than a few drinks in her gullet compliments of Brian’s purse).

Laina giggled, sharing a knowing smile. "He wants them to stay for Ellyllon, surely." she said, setting down a sloshing bucket of hot water. Then she gave a thought “Wait until Tolten hears about it.“ she said to Maev.

“Heathen money’s still money. That’s what I’ll be tellin’ him.” Maev joked back.

Laina's pause was perhaps to tone down the pace-and thus the volume- of the conversation. "I hear they're already spending." she nudged the boy. "The one upstairs gave him and me quite a decent gratuity."

“The Bard?”

“He’s a Bard?” Even Adimus chimed in at that. Now there was someone who could tell a story.

“A real one. Bowen trained." Said Anwell. “Not some minstrel or jack that uses the name, a Whispermonger they say, from right here in the Princely Provinces." Adimus could hear the stools sliding around, and feel the eyes on him.

"Haha! You think a proper Whispermonger would boast that he were one?!" Regby antagonized him again.

“Never mind that.” said Brian. "...Well? How much did they give you?"

Adimus pulled the coins from his pocket, almost as if presenting evidence; he almost couldn't believe it himself. Maev's wide eyes darted about the table as he tallied the little coins of turquoise and jasper "Three favor and six." she managed to pull the slack from her jaw enough to say.

"He gave me four stripes just to draw him a hot bath." Laina said, drawing up her sleeve to reveal them strung on her bracelet. Suddenly he became self conscious about the grime between his fingers, and the stickiness of his skin. A hot bath. It was a luxury he wished he could afford more often. With a smile she began to waltz up the stairs with the bucket of water, all but swooning.

Adimus started to pocket his change when he heard the dejected sigh and growl above him.

He could tell exactly who it was, as could everyone else. She was in nothing but a silken sheet. "Psst. You!" She whispered loudly. It took Adimus a moment longer than everyone else to realize that she was signaling him, and eve then he didn’t want to make eye contact, quickly looked away; perhaps she, and in turn the situation, might go away if he ignored it, but when she swiftly stomped down the stairs past poor Laina and right up to his table and slapped the table frustrated Adimus jumped to his feet. "I need you." All was silent with the exception of his heavy breath and a stifled chuckle from Anwell. "Now." she growled, grabbing his hand and jerking him out from behind the table with the hair-splitting scrape of his chair raking the wooden floor. He recoiled nervously, and she gave a wry smile which was meant only for her before turning back up the stairs. Adimus glanced about for a moment to confirm the fear in his mind that everyone was indeed watch this whole event transpire. Her soggy footprints stained the varnished oak staircase which his eyes trailed to the top where she was standing, arms folded.

The Green Beat was by far the largest building in the village, having both an upstairs and a basement. It had actually belonged to the reeve's family Cayden McConell, but the man had already moved on to claim a larger estate, and knowing an opportunity when he saw one sold it to Maev. The upstairs area had been a loft, but when he renovated it for her he added a kitchen on the base floor and a set of rooms that would replace the loft windows upstairs from that, turning the floor into the common room. The rooms were originally for Meav and her sisters from the abbey, as what became the tavern was going to be a new parish for Pardoner Tolten. It was by no means fancy, and such luxuries as silk sheets would not in a millennium be found here. He wondered who would bring a clingy, somewhat see-through silk sheet with them for travelling, but shook the thought from his head to steady himself for the task at hand, which would no doubt take mindfulness if he were to survive with any amount of masculinity intact tonight.

Adimus passed the door to the room where Torrin, Regil, and the spectacled man stayed, then Argent (who had a room all his own) where she stopped, before just before hers. She waved him past.

Rather than the loft being an opened area it was separated by a thin wall which created a shallow hallway, made even more shallow by the piles of chests and crates that filled it. Awkwardly he brushed past her.

"...That case. There." She pointed at the very corner of a chest at the bottom of a towering pile of bags and chests that had been heaved on top of it. "I need it dug out." she explained. "Someone stole my clothes!" she yelled, loud enough, she made sure, for everyone, perhaps the perceived culprit to hear. Caddy-corner cases padded with saddlebags towered above his head, crowned by a precariously perched rundlet of leaking spirits, probably whiskey judging from the smell. Adimus had brought this luggage up from the carriage himself, and didn't remember placing it as such. He himself would have a hard time lifting it above his head, but by mustering his strength and patience he undid the terrible mess over the span of the next minutes, and fetched the case for her; the biggest, heaviest, and most awkward one of the bunch. She stood with arms crossed again, waiting. The stance she bore was perhaps out of modesty, Adimus had thought, as between having just apparently bathed the sheet was drenched and clung heavily to her, but when she pressed against him to hurriedly squeeze through the cramped doorway before he’s made it through himself he realized that such concepts must have been foreign to her.

He finished pulling it into her room, as she’d instructed. He sat the chest down, and wiped his brow. The sweat was not from exertion.

She looked over her shoulder and down the hall before coming in, then shut the curtain behind the both of them. Adimus dumbfoundedly thought to excuse himself, but found that he couldn’t make the noises with his throat needed to articulate the thought; he thought back fondly to the time he blew his horn in the face of danger, a fond memory indeed.

She walked up to it and knelt. The chest was curiously sealed with a palm-sized pad-lock, to which she produced a dagger she'd kept somehow hidden in the fold of the sheet and a crook of iron from within the locks of her hair and proceeded to jimmy the lock clear with a skilled twist of her wrists.

Adimus's eyes widened when she opened it and a tiny little person appeared. "Tirlag, you filthy Breather! I'll scalp you!" it screeched. The girl slammed the chest shut again nervously, and shot Adimus an awkward grin to hide her surprise, the muffled voice still spitting curses. When they’d stopped, she cracked the chest and lent down to whisper something in a language he didn't understand. Whatever she’d said, it placated the thing. Tirlag opened the chest, now more confidently, clearing her throat expectantly.

She stood only a thigh's height. Her hair was made of locks of verdant vines and scarlet blossoms, the eyes embedded in her fleshy green face reminded him of smooth hazelnuts and to his astonishment seemed by all accounts to be so. She was clad in a hempen robe and irons chains which dangled from her wrists, which were perched angrily on her hips. "A week." was all she said.

"Three days." Tirlag replied.

"I could feel the sunlight through the cracks! One week!" It said. The lady hushed at her-at least Adimus supposed it was a 'her' as it did have feminine features and a high tone of register.

"There was a village! And we were stopped by the Order of Jasmine! It was a good thing I hadn't taken you back out yet!" Tirlag tried to explain.

“You could’ve just called me your slave.”

“Not in Menkara! Your people are free here.”

"Backward Hyu'mans--make up your minds. I'd rather go by myself. Better off in the wilds with Nissies and Shades than dealing with you savages!"

"You wouldn't even know where we were going if it weren't for this savage!” she pointed at herself with her thumb for emphasis. ”You little...hob!"

The creature gasped. Apparently she’d taken offense. Then she looked Tirlag up and down and her tiny face twisted with even more outrage. "You were just opening the chest to get your britches!" she realized. Having read the look on her tiny face Tirlag quickly reached in to grab the garment upon which it stood. "No!" the creature snatched it from her hands and clammed herself back in the chest when the girl grasped at it.

It took her wedging the dagger between the opening and twisting it to, then squeezing her fingers in and prying before it relented. “I can’t believe you!” it cried.

She still clasped the garment in a death grip. Tirlag stopped for a moment, and lent in with a solemn look in her eye. "Delaney. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-" The 'to' came through gritted teeth. Started to tugged at it again, hoping that she had loosened her grip. She hadn't.

"Your honeyed-tongue won't work on me, sweetie!" it hissed. Tirlag pulled again, hard enough to lift the little thing off the floor. "You...forgot...about...me!" She yelled, holding fervently on as she attempted to flap the creature off it. “And what’s worse, I know you don’t care at all!”

Finally, with an audible rip they came free. Tirlag looked down at the torn fabric, face frozen in shock, far too concerned to notice the brisk breeze that brushed her bare skin now that the creature had run off with her sheet. Adimus, of course, had been looking on at the sight the entire time. He tried to stammer a word of discretion, he really, truly did.

"Wait. Who is that!?" he was cut off by the squat creature mirthfully swaddled in the swath of linen, who had easily (he'd hate to admit) managed to sidle up to him out of his view.

Tirlag spun the sheet out of the creature's hand. "That's-" she paused a moment to rewrap herself and think of what to say, which she covered as a dramatic pause for what she would announce, "Our accomplice."