Gabriel stirs to life, his eyelids heavy and resistant. A throbbing pain dances behind his temples, intensifying as he attempts to rise. The dawn's first light has not yet graced the horizon, but an enticing aroma of roasted beans and a hint of burnt caramel beckons him from his nightstand. Bracing himself, he manages to lift his eyelids, revealing a steaming cup of dark brew, its tendrils of steam catching the soft glow of a lantern nearby.
In the lantern's muted radiance, an array of glass vials and beakers stand, where Katherine works with intense focus. The wine pitcher from Uther's tent is nearby, along the glasses they used. She delicately adds a few droplets of the tainted wine into a clear solution. As they merge, the wine's crimson hue vanishes without a trace. Katherine exhales a silent, weary sigh, allowing her eyes a brief respite.
Gabriel walks up to her, looking at the array of potions, scenting the mixture of alchemic plants and minerals, realizing she's making reagents for various poisons. Having unwittingly escaped her notice, he asks, "Do you need help?"
Startled, Katherine lets out a brief, muffled squeak. The vial in her hand dips slightly, but she catches it as quickly as she dropped it. Turning to her son, she whispers, "Why do you always do that?"
"I don't, it's just how I move," Gabriel responds, just as he always does when confronted with the same question.
She exhales deeply, the dark rings beneath her eyes revealing a night devoid of sleep. She gently places the vial on the table and asks, "Now that you're up, could you fetch a pouch of sulfur, five mindshades, and an acidcap?"
Holding his cup, Gabriel steps outside, replying, "Alright." Dawn's first light is just beginning to brush the horizon. He takes a tentative sip of his drink, but his tongue immediately recoils from the intense bitterness, reminiscent of charred toast. Owen, walking towards him, relieves Gabriel of his cup as a grimace contorts his face. Stepping into the tent, Owen quips, "Thanks for the drink," and vanishes from sight.
Emerging into the camp, Gabriel is immediately struck by the tense atmosphere that hangs like a thick fog. Mercenaries, usually found brawling, laughing, or sharing tales, now move with calculated purpose, their expressions tight and eyes vigilant. Torches planted in the ground cast eerie, flickering shadows that dance upon tents and faces alike. Several groups converge around a central point, where a makeshift interrogation area has been established.
Isabel, Uther's fifth wife, meticulously questions every inhabitant without resorting to violence. Although flanked by two of Uther's most trusted soldiers, it's her presence that sends shivers down the spine of the man sitting before her. Her lengthy, almost ethereal pale blonde hair veils fiery orange hawk-like eyes, locked onto her target. In stark contrast to her peers, whose armors range from makeshift to enhanced military equipment, she dons a pristine white steel plate armor, intricately engraved with blue ice crystals linked in chains. Resting beside her on the table's edge is a slender, lightweight longsword, a weapon Gabriel had glimpsed only once before. The blade constantly exudes a chilling mist, which, upon contact, freezes the flesh, inflicting damage far beyond the visible wound.
"You claim you were at the feast the whole night until you were inebriated to unconsciousness. However, three witnesses have attested to you being absent for at least fifteen minutes," she states, her voice chillingly detached and even.
He attempts to divert his gaze downwards, but her piercing orange eyes hold him captive, their intensity suggesting they could snuff out his life in a heartbeat. Fumbling for words, he finally manages, "I met with Dalla."
Isabel gives a subtle nod to one of the guards, who promptly exits. "Why did you meet her?" she questions.
"Well –", His response becomes muffled and distant as Gabriel walks away from the tent.
Navigating his way, Gabriel finds himself drawn to the medical quarters, a vast portion of the camp bathed in the soft lamentations of the wounded and punctuated by the dim light of flickering lanterns. The familiar scent of medicinal herbs wafts from one tent. Inside, Gabriel's gaze settles on Astrid, carefully rewrapping a linen bandage around her injured left arm, her fingers moving with a mixture of determination and pain.
Beside Astrid, her mother, Orla, stands over a newly recruited mercenary, her voice steady as she chants a Valkyrian prayer. Her hands, stained with the aftermath of a recent surgery, tell a grim tale. The ground beside her bears the somber evidence of a recent amputation, bloodied tools, bandages, and the severed shredded foot of the young warrior. The man, though pale and drawn from pain, recites along her.
Gabriel's eyes meander through the tents. A few beds over, a man with greying hair clutches a cloth to his side, staunching the bleeding from a reopened gash. A young man works diligently beside him, whispering words of encouragement as he restitches the wound. In another corner, a woman with a deep, blackened bruise surrounding her eye sits upright, assisting a nearby healer by grinding medicinal herbs with a mortar and pestle. A low groan draws his attention to a woman lying prone, her leg elevated and wrapped tightly. Her face is etched with wrinkles of pain, her knuckles white as she grips the bed's edge. A young woman hovers close, slowly administering a potion that seems to ease her discomfort, as her tensed muscles gradually relax.
Venturing deeper into the camp, the acrid odors of stale ale and vomit assault Gabriel's nostrils as a staggering man narrowly avoids bumping into him. Mercenaries are strewn haphazardly about the sleeping area, many still lost in slumber, their empty mugs testifying to the previous night's indulgence. Others, wincing against the day's first light, try to pull themselves to their feet with groggy determination. Nearby, a cluster of them gathers around a barrel, dunking their heads into its cold depths in turns, each emerging gasping for air, faces glistening wetly in the morning sun.
Among the cacophony of hungover groans and water splashes, Gabriel's keen eyes catch an unusual movement near the camp's palisade. Yorick, recognizable by his long black hair and slender yet athletic form, appears to be discreetly making his way out of the camp. He casts suspicious glances in every direction, ensuring nobody sees him. Gabriel's guts tighten. Yorick looks around and disappears through a crack in the wooden palisade.
Gabriel maneuvers with agility through the sea of inebriated mercenaries, their loud snores and drunken murmurs creating a dissonant lullaby as he makes his way between the disheveled array of tents.
Before him, the forest looms other the camp, a formidable barrier where whispers of malevolent beings and treacherous underbrush are the stuff of nightly campfire tales. It's a place where dangers, both seen and unseen, are concealed within the thickets, and even seasoned warriors tread it with caution.
Despite the foreboding woodland, Gabriel steps into the embrace of the outdoors, the change in scenery marked by a drop in temperature and the earthy scent of untamed nature. The first light of dawn casts elongated shadows, creating a tapestry of gray on the rugged terrain. It is here he spots Yorick, his form a fleeting wraith among the intertwining shades, moving as if the shadows themselves lent him their cloak of invisibility.
As they delve deeper into the forest, the canopy thickens overhead, weaving a dense tapestry that dims the burgeoning daylight. The path becomes a complex labyrinth of ancient trees, their roots snaking across the forest floor. The air grows cooler, heavy with the musk of damp leaves and the subtle hint of decay.
The dense foliage eventually gives way, revealing a concealed clearing, a secret sanctuary carved within the forest’s heart. The abrupt openness of the space is almost jarring, the sunlight, though filtered, seems harsh after the comfort of the shadows.
Yorick glances around with suspicion, then sits with his legs crossed. With care, he draws a silver necklace from beneath his shirt, releasing an intense aura emanating from himself, tightening Gabriel's heart.
Hiding behind the dense foliage, Gabriel is stunned as he tries to process the scene before him. Yorick closes his eyes and begins to chant in a tongue foreign to Gabriel. The atmosphere grows heavy, almost suffocating, as if the air was bending to Yorick's will. Suddenly, a flash of red fills Gabriel's sight as Yorick summons a raging flame between his palms.
Sweat pours from Yorick's brow, and his breathing turns ragged. The flame, no longer a controlled entity between his palms, swells and engulfs his hands. Gabriel hears the sizzle of scorched skin, and Yorick's anguished cry pierces the still morning air. Embers, like fiery fireflies, scatter into the surroundings as Yorick frantically flings his hands about. Mustering all his focus, Yorick manages to utter a sequence of words, and the flames are extinguished, leaving his hands red and raw.
Gabriel hurriedly moves closer, his voice a concerned pitch. "Yorick, are you okay? Did you get hurt?"
Yorick met Gabriel's gaze. The emotions in Yorick's eyes aren't just from the visible burns but from an unseen terror, one that chills him to the bone. As Yorick backs away, his voice quivers, "You saw, didn't you?"
Gabriel, confused, nods slowly. "I did, but I don't really undest—"
"No!" Yorick's voice is edged with desperation. "They'll come for me, like they did for Gayle. I've been so careful, and now…", his voice lowers to a mere whisper, "…now you know."
A tense silence hangs between the two boys. Gabriel steps closes, his hand raised towards Yorick's hands. "Yorick, I promise I won't tell anyone. I've kept –" his words are cut by a low growl emanating from the trees behind him.
Gabriel joins Yorick's side in a leap, turning to face the sound. From the smoke generated by a now smoking bush a shape is taking form. A hunched figure with a grotesque silhouette gradually materializes. Its skin is patchy and coarse, like old, weathered leather. Its unkept, matted fur, a mix of gray and brown, sticks out in tufts, revealing parts of its scarred and discolored flesh underneath. The gnoll's face is a nightmarish sight. An elongated snout, filled with yellowed and blackened, sharp teeth, jutting out in a crude, predatory grin. It's sickly yellowed eyes stare at Gabriel with ravenous hunger.
From his belt hang various blades of different origins, each chipped and succumbing to rust. His clawed hand grips a handle encased in decaying leather, methodically unsheathing a short sword, its edges jagged like brutal teeth. Saliva trails from his open jaws as he leans into a crouch, muscles tensing for a forward lunge.
Yorick, weaves mutilated hands, initiating another mystical chant. Sparks erupt chaotically before giving birth to a blazing flame, which he directs menacingly at the creature. As the spell leaves Yorick's control, Gabriel unexpectedly undermines his balance with a swift kick, sending Yorick sprawling. As he falls backward, an arrow zips through his long hair overhead, his misdirected firebolt setting a distant treetop ablaze. From a hidden nook in the bushes, a second gnoll is hastily preparing another arrow. Meanwhile, the foremost gnoll launches itself toward Yorick, its intent focused on his vulnerable legs.
Yorick’s scorched hands find purchase on the ground, and he thrusts himself up, launching a counterattack with a forceful upward kick to the gnoll’s snapping jaws. The creature reels, off-balance. Gabriel capitalizes on this, sliding next to Yorick and extracting a steel dagger from the creature's own arsenal. Without missing a beat, he plunges the weapon into the gnoll's side. Blood bursts from the wound, underscored by the creature's ear-piercing, agonized howl.
Seizing the wounded beast, Yorick’s words of power grow louder, more insistent. Fire dances into life around his hand, a wild, voracious inferno that eagerly claims the gnoll’s fur, swallowing the creature in its scorching embrace.
A whistle from behind causes Gabriel and Yorick to leap in divergent directions. The arrow grazes Yorick's side, inflicting a superficial wound. As they pivot to face the lingering gnoll, Gabriel observes with sudden alarm as Yorick clutches his chest. His complexion has turned ashen, and he's perspiring heavily, his breaths coming in rapid, labored gasps.
Once more, the creature prepares to shoot an arrow, but Gabriel, with precise aim, hurls his dagger, striking the gnoll's right elbow. The jolted shot from the gnoll's bow vanishes into the dense foliage. The screams of the aflame gnoll taper off into eerie silence as he stumbles and collapses somewhere within the forest.
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Seizing the jagged blade from the fallen creature, Gabriel charges at the injured archer. The gnoll, abandoning his bow, snatches a mace from his belt, his strike pounding the earth where Gabriel stood moments before. In response, Gabriel strikes, the blade's steel teeth ripping mercilessly into the gnoll's thigh, driving the creature down into a kneel.
The beast strikes Gabriel in the chest, the momentum hurling his slight form backward. Wounded, the gnoll attempts to flee, limping only a few steps before collapsing as crimson blood fills the ground around him.
Gabriel rises, clutching his chest, and makes his way to Yorick, who is grounded on both knees, his breaths coming in sharp, sporadic gasps. Yorick's skin, a ghostly white, reveals veins that have turned an alarming shade of black.
Yorick's body sags, the invisible weights of his recklessness pulling him down. The aftermath of the spells clung to him like a shroud, the vibrant aura that once danced around him now a devouring void, sapping the color from his face.
Lifting his head requires an inhuman effort, but Yorick manages it, the sting of pain sharply present in his very bones. His eyes, dimmed from their usual spark, find Gabriel's. "I've... pushed too far," he admits, his voice a rasping whisper, "beyond my boundaries... recklessly."
Extending his hand to help Yorick, Gabriel is suddenly interrupted by searing pain that rockets down his arm. A bolas whizzes past, narrowly missing him and striking his right shoulder out of joint. The weapon ensnares a nearby tree as Gabriel whips around. A towering gnoll, standing over two meters tall, emerges from the forest, flanked by two others who look diminutive by comparison.
Taunting laughter echoes around them, haunting the atmosphere. The forest flickers ominously as drifting embers ignite random patches of dry leaves. Gabriel's right arm dangles uselessly at his side. With swift brutality, the colossal gnoll drives his foot into Gabriel's chest, sending him hurtling back into a tree trunk. As pain flood his senses Gabriel fades into unconsciousness.
The beast and its cohorts close in on Yorick. Drawing a lengthy cleaver from his back, the creature raises it over Yorick's prone form, poised for a lethal blow. Suddenly, a shadow flits across the massive gnoll's vision, redirecting his gaze to one of his underlings. Spreading his victim jaws with a foot and working arm Gabriel splits them in a loud crack.
As the creature collapses, Gabriel pounces on the short sword he leaves behind, his movements exulting raw savagery. He lifts his gaze, now locking onto the pack leader. His eyes burn fiercely, the irises a deep, unnatural shade of glowing red.
The leader's cleaver descends, cutting through the air where Gabriel had been just a fraction of a second prior. Like a feral beast, Gabriel lunges not towards the leader but the secondary, smaller gnoll. Turning his entire body with each slash, as if he was clawing, Gabriel violently rips through the beast's guts.
With both gnolls lifeless at his feet, Gabriel shifts his focus to the leader. The imposing creature stumbles back a step before releasing a shrill war cry, accompanied by a storm of frenzied strikes. Gabriel springs backward, evading the onslaught. Focused on the small monster the gnoll gasps in surprise as a serrated blade pierces his stomach back to front. Yorick pulls out the blade, dealing devastating damage as the blade's teeth tear through the gnoll's insides.
Bending backwards to see Yorick the beast does not realize that Gabriel is already at his feet. In an instant he pierces the gnoll stomach before jumping and pulling out the blade, again and again. Ascending through a torrent of blood, Gabriel reaches the pack leader's throat and decisively drives his blade through, silencing the beast with a final, fatal blow.
Drenched in blood, Gabriel rises, his arm hanging uselessly at his side as he strides toward Yorick. His eyes, aglow with an eerie red intensity, fixate on the man ahead, prompting Yorick to retreat. Stumbling over a rock, Yorick topples backward, his hand instinctively raising in defense as Gabriel's sword ascends. Gabriel's momentum carries him forward, his entire frame collapsing onto Yorick just as darkness claims his consciousness.
Pain jolts through Gabriel's shoulder, urging him upright. He finds himself in a storage tent of the camp, confusion clouding his thoughts. A few meters away sits Yorick, hands bandaged, observing Gabriel intently.
"Your grey eyes are back. I thought I lost you for a second there," Yorick remarks, his voice serious and devoid of jest.
Uncertainty flickers in Gabriel's eyes. "The gnolls... did you...? What happened after I was thrown against the tree?"
Yorick, taken aback, pauses before responding. "You don't recall, do you? You took down all three gnolls. And for a moment, I thought you were going to take me down with them."
Noticing his left hand tethered to a sturdy shelf by a rope, Gabriel attempts to free himself with his right, but searing pain in his shoulder halts his efforts. As he winces, Yorick approaches and releases him from his binds. "You know alchemy, right? Maybe we can use some of this to fix us up."
Attempting to stand, Gabriel winces as pain ricochets through his body, grounding him. He instructs with a pointed finger, "Gather those flowers, the grey berries, that coal, the dark red mushrooms, this vial, and that piece of paper."
Swiftly, Yorick assembles the items, placing them before Gabriel. Step by step, Gabriel begins to guide him, "Use a cloth to press the mushroom over the vial, ensuring you press from the top to avoid burning your fingers."
As droplets fall to the ground it sizzles momentarily, emitting a white smoke.
"Enough. Now, take off the tops of three berries and drop them in." The grey berries dissolve promptly, transforming the substance inside the vial into a dense black liquid.
"Crush the coal into a fine powder and spread it onto the paper. Then, immerse the paper into the vial, as if you want to make a charcoal pit. Mash five flower petals with water and drizzle the mixture gently over the coal." As the red-hued liquid interacts with the dark substance, it begins to churn and bubble as though heated by an invisible flame.
"And now?", asks Yorick.
Gabriel answers, his sight on the black veins showing on Yorick's neck, "now we wait. … What's happening to you? "
"I depleted every ounce of magic within me, so when I casted that third spell, it drew on my physical essence for power. I've experienced this before, but it's more severe this time. Last time, my recovery took two months. Now, I sense it could be three or four," Yorick explains, catching the concern in Gabriel's eyes. "However, aside from the exhaustion and the pain, the other symptoms are temporary, they should fade soon enough."
The potion emits puffs of black smoke in quick succession. Gabriel gestures toward it, instructing, "Take out the coal." Moments after the removal, black vapor rises from the surface, and the liquid gradually assumes a rich red hue, its turbulent swirling subtly ebbing away.
Apprehension grips Gabriel as he gazes at the concoction. Yorick, sensing his tension, asks, "Is it ready?"
Gabriel's gaze lingers on the concoction, the rich red hue swirling gently in the vial, an ominous foreboding emanating from its very essence. The tension hangs heavy in the air, a silent dread that perhaps even the most potent of brews could not dispel. "One way to find out," he mutters, his words barely more than a breath as they escape his lips.
The moment the liquid touches his tongue, it's as if he has swallowed molten iron. The potion scorches its way down his throat, a trail of fiery agony that sears every inch of his esophagus. It spreads through his chest and stomach, a relentless inferno that consumes him from within. His body instinctively rebels against the intrusion, muscles clenching in visceral protest, urging him to expel the toxic brew. Gabriel’s hands clench at his sides, knuckles whitening as he fights the primal urge to retch. Sweat beads on his forehead, each droplet a testament to the internal battle raging within him.
He feels a tearing sensation beneath his skin, as the potion begins its work. His torn flesh and lacerations start closing, knitting themselves back together in a mesmerizing display of accelerated healing. It’s as though time itself was accelerating, the marks of battle fading into nothing more than long healed scars.
But as the external wounds heal, an overwhelming nausea takes root deep within his gut. It's a gnawing, twisting entity of discomfort that bends him forward. The world tilts precariously around him, his vision blurring at the edges as he struggles to maintain a semblance of control. Then, without warning, his body convulses, and he doubles over, a harsh, guttural retch escaping him as he vomits a stream of blood onto the tent's floor.
Catching his breath, Gabriel steadies himself, pain now a dull ache. "Don't drink it, I messed up and the side effects of the scarlet scourgebloom are still there." He leans heavily against a table, a sharp pain shooting into his kidneys.
Gabriel seizes a pot of roots and a stack of bandages from a shelf, beginning to pulverize the root into a paste that's yellow and thick, resembling fat.
As he observes Gabriel's methodical movements, Yorick inquires, "Has your mother ever mentioned anything about your red eyes, or anything related to that?"
Gabriel, without halting his task, responds, "I don't recall her doing so. … What exactly happened out there?"
"You were like a different person," Yorick begins, the memory vivid in his mind. "You pounced on the gnolls, shattered one's jaw without a second thought, repeatedly stabbed another, and scaled the largest one, using your sword like a climber's pick until you could slice at his throat."
Gabriel hesitates, shadows crossing his face. Fragmented memories bubble to the surface: the decayed teeth of the gnoll, the pressure of his own hand and foot against its maw. He looks at Yorick, seeking confirmation. "You said I tried to kill you?"
"After the large one collapsed, you approached me, blade raised for a killing blow, but then you crumpled to the ground, unconscious."
Gabriel halts his task, carefully applying the paste he prepared onto the bandages. He reaches for Yorick's hands, gently unwrapping the cloth to unveil the raw, blistered skin beneath. As he carefully rewraps the wounds with the medicated dressings, Gabriel assures him, "There will be scars, but this should speed up the healing process and minimize their size."
Yorick gets to his feet, gratitude in his tone. "Thanks," he pauses, observing Gabriel's face, "Your nose is bleeding."
Gabriel quickly takes a cloth, dabbing away the blood and blocking his nose. "Maybe apothecary isn't the best job for me," he quips with a smirk. He then begins to gather various items from around the room: a pouch filled with yellow powder, a handful of flowers with purple petals, and a dark red mushroom that Yorick retrieved earlier.
"Another potion?"
"I was coming here to get those for my mom," Gabriel answers as he moves towards the tent exit.
"What are you going to says about your wounds, and your damaged, blood drenched cloths?"
Gabriel surveys the interior of the tent, his attention settling on a chest packed with attire acquired from a past raid. Selecting pieces that match his size and preferred color scheme, he changes with urgency, subsequently wiping his face and hair in a disheveled manner with his discarded shirt. "I'll just tell her I tried to catch that shadecrow Owen convinced me he saw, and that made me fall into a thorn bush. She's going to be so mad at him for getting me hurt, she won't pry any further," Gabriel plots, his voice a mix of nervous energy and forced mischievousness, trying to lighten his own heavy mood.
Yorick is stunned for an instant at the thirteen years old explanation of how he constructed his lie.
As Gabriel reaches for the tent flap, a sudden crash of shattering glass from the neighboring tent stops them both in their tracks.
Startled, both Gabriel and Yorick freeze in their tracks. Their eyes meet, and without a word, they spring into action, a choreographed dance of silent urgency. They quickly hide the equipment they've been using, ensuring that no trace of their presence remains. The dim light within their tent casts eerie shadows as they duck behind some crates, their hearts pounding in their chests.
Moments later a figure, shrouded in leather armor and a hooded cloak concealing his face, slips soundlessly into their tent. His movements are as fluid as a shadow, and it's evident that he's on a mission, driven by some unseen purpose. Yorick and Gabriel, now concealed behind the crates, exchange glances to guide each other. With each of his movements they change hiding spots, ensuring to always be hidden behind a crate or filled shelf.
He pauses at a crate on the floor, his finger tracing a notch in its lid. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts the lid, and a puff of fine white powder escapes, dancing into the air. Gabriel and Yorick watch in silence as he retrieves a vial of clear liquid, nestled within the crate's powdery contents. Concealing the vial within his cloak, he heads for the exit but halts, his gaze pivoting directly to where Yorick is concealed.
For the first time, Gabriel gets a clear view of the intruder's face, a young white man with a scar dissecting his lips, overshadowed by a dense black beard. He gestures to Yorick, urging silence, as his stepbrother seems oblivious to his predicament. With quiet agility, Gabriel snatches a small stone from the ground, lobbing it in a curve to the tent's far side. The stone strikes a wooden crate, and the resulting sound startles the intruder, prompting him to make a hasty exit.
In the tense quiet that follows, they edge closer together. "That was... suspicious," Yorick mutters.
Gabriel's eyes remain fixed on the now-deserted entrance, his mind racing. "I caught a glimpse of him, but I'm confident he's not someone I've seen around here before," he replies, his voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. "He wasn't in the camp, and he definitely wasn't here last night."
Yorick's brows furrow in concern. "I'll go warn Isabel I saw a stranger in the camp," he declares with determination, his eyes seeking guidance from Gabriel. "What does he look like?"
Gabriel takes a moment to paint a mental picture of the intruder. "Around one seventy in height, looks like he's in his twenties," he begins, his voice steady as he describes their mysterious visitor. "He has a dense, short black beard, and a scar cutting across both of his lips."
With resolve, Gabriel adds, "I'm going to try to spot him again and tail him discreetly to figure out what he's up to."
Silently, they split up. Gabriel's youthful eyes sweep over the busy camp warily. He darts quickly through the encampment, his slight form slipping through the throng of midday mercenaries engaged in their meal.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of the camp, Gabriel's vigilant eyes catch a fleeting glimpse of the stranger. The man moves with a sense of purpose, an invisible current guiding his steps. He deftly avoids the larger groups, his path winding like a serpentine river through the encampment. What strikes Gabriel as particularly uncanny is how the intruder anticipates the presence of patrolling guards with almost preternatural accuracy, changing is path moments before they come into view.
Eventually, Gabriel finds himself on the periphery of the medical tents. He watches as the stranger enters one of them, reaching Orla's side without exchanging a look. With a swift movement of the hand, he deposits the vial into a satchel nesting an array of potions.
As Gabriel watches, a perplexing thought worms its way into his mind, gnawing at his every nerve. Orla had to have seen, or sensed him, perhaps even glimpsed his actions. Why, then, is she not reacting? Why isn't she questioning him?
The stranger disappears through the back of the tent, leaving a stunned Gabriel behind.