Valencia had ceased to pray, some time ago. Not for a lack of faith or respect for her makers, but because she could not. Every heavenward whisper of thanks stirred the evil within, threatened her control. Every moment of supplication and succor defiled by the monstrosity that lurked beneath the human shell. Yet now, safe -if any form of the word could ever apply within this waste- in the cold grasp of Famine’s Throne, she gave thanks.

A bowed head, a clasped hand, a whispered prayer were all she could give among these ruined lands. But she gave freely. Thanks she whispered, for their mad dash across the hell had not seen them all lost, by divine protection.

She straightened and took stock of what remained, after a few moments.

Gathered forms awaited her inside the basin of rock Ilorath’s portal had led them to. Many were gone, and those few who remained would not be the same, she reckoned. A handful of Grafted remained, silently scattered about as their minds struggled to process the profane horrors they had borne witness to. No one entered hell and escaped unscathed. Only her. Only the false human.

Her back turned to the light, Valencia descended down the blighted rock. Heat stirred beneath the weakened rays of the afternoon sun as sunrays struggled to penetrate the haze above. The ever-present cloud that hung above the Throne neutered all chances for life to ever flourish inside these wastes. A concern for others. For now, hers lay in the path ahead.

Johann and Ul’eth, at the very least, were jovial.

The orc and human sat with their backs pressed against each other, triumph writ upon their features. And who was she to fault them?

“We have defied the hells themselves!” The blackguard practically glowed with pride. “Defied their might and emerged whole!”

“My heart swells that someone has found reason for merriment after this ordeal.” Ilorath mumbled, dour enough that Valencia might suspect her heart was not indeed swelling.

“There is pity and sadness enough to slake the world’s thirst a hundrefold.” Ul’eth grinned. “Let us enjoy this moment of happiness, for tomorrow may bring a different fate.”

“Your friend Rodan is gone.” The elf replied, words lacking emotion. “Taken to a fate that death would seem a mercy when held next to. And you laugh.”

“Would tears and anger change his fate?” Johann tossed back, muted but still merry. There was a content expression hidden beneath the blackguard’s massive mustache. The look of a man satisfied with himself after so long. Valencia simply folded her arms and watched silently. Ilorath’s pain, she shared on some level, and yet the two had every right to celebrate their escape.

“Should I perish tomorrow, would you smile and laugh as well?’ The elf snarled, anger seeped from beneath her expression. “Truly, must be a life poorly lived if not even those I have saved countless times would grieve for me.”

Ul’eth blinked at Ilorath’s words and shifted to fully face her. The orc simply shrugged, expression still happy.

“We are monsters, one and all, elf. You know this. It is why we are are here and not somewhere cool and shaded and safe.”

Valencia pre-empted any retort from Ilorath as she stepped forward and looked down at her crouched form. She took in her blank eyes, slack features, dark hair and darker clothes. Noted the clenched fists that trembled upon her lantern’s chain before she spoke.

“I would waste no time upon tears for you.” The words came bluntly. “For there can be no tears within the abyss as I come to drag you back to the light and return you to my side.”

She waited until the myriad of hurt expressions upon Ilorath’s face had passed before she continued.

“For I find myself in want of your company, your insight and skills. Death will release it’s hold upon you before I.”

“A powerful thing to proclaim, for one so young and short-lived.” The elf spoke after a moment of silence. And yet a tired smile crept onto her face. “And yet I do not doubt your sincerity, If i do remain in doubt as to your methods.”

“My methods work.”

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“Crudely.” She admitted.

“The worst has passed,” Valencia spoke briskly, subject swung aside. “But in this waste, that means little. We have yet more trials to endure before we might reach the relative safety of the Outlands.”

“You know the dangers.” She looked around at those who gathered with her. Her Gray Company, or what remained of it. “As do I. So why are you sitting here without filters? Or do you crave a slow death driven by every lungful of poisoned air after you just escaped a hell?”

“We would go and see if any of them survived, but unfortunately, I admit I am not quite capable of movement just yet.” Johann groaned as Ul’eth laughed behind him. Valencia nodded, turned and strode off to do it herself. She had forgotten what it was like to endure a broken body. But not the sensation of it being broken.

Those Grafted who remained were scattered about the basin they had emerged in, unsteady and in fitful rest. While Valencia had initially wanted to immediately push on, reality had emerged from it’s grim recesses. The hellscape had taken a massive toll on the magically sensitive Grafted. Mortals like Johann and Ul’eth who were blessedly without magical abilities had borne physical wounds, and they were lucky for that. The Grafted suffered scars upon the soul and their very being, for none emerged from a hell unscathed. She watched as they sat hunched over, or stood gazing blankly at the expanse before them. Sapped. Fed upon. Scarred.

She approached a seated mage and clapped a hand down upon his shoulder. There was no response for a moment until he slowly turned to her and she saw the scars that ran down his face. Valencia flinched inwardly at the thought of what had been wrought unto this man as her eyes beheld the legion of scars that indicated grafted materials beneath his flesh. So much potential for magic, and so much more exposure to the hell’s corruptions. His eyes ran thick with fluid even as darkened veins extended across a pale, square face.

“Who carries the filters?” She asked, and received only a blank shrug in return.

And so she left him behind and moved on. The next group were also in ignorance as they huddled, comforting one who cried. She had naught to give but pity, useless as that was.

All needed those filters. They were the only reliable way to keep the poisoned air of the wasteland at bay, the only method that allowed them to travel without succumbing to the toxins that permeated this bloated carcass of a landscape.

“Maros carried half a satchel of them,” A woman in tattered red robes and leather finally told her. “I carried another. Do’linor carried the third.”

“And they are?”

“Lost to the hellscape.” She replied, her eyes tired and expression blank. “My own satchel was torn, and most of it spilled away. I dared not stop to collect them, on your orders. And with the demons on my heels.”

“What remains, then?”

The woman grunted and hauled up a torn bag from her side. Dread nestled in Valencia’s stomach as she noted how light it was in her grasp. Only to be further exacerbated as hands that shivered uncontrollably pried it open and revealed the woeful load within.

“We have so few.” She sighed.

‘And so many people to supply them with.” The woman’s voice cracked, dread and despair mixed within.

Valencia stood at the basin’s edge with her, away from the crude camp as she considered what must be done. Back turned to the sun, she gazed out across the dusty waste and weighed her paths. Possible actions and their consequences. They were a week away from the nearest shelter, on foot. Harsh land that lacked any forgiveness stretched before them, filled with dangers mundane and supernatural. And behind it all, the ever-present threat of the machine.

“I suppose this is where we decide who dies so others may live.” Came the mage’s voice. “Cull the weakest so that the strong may attempt the journey.”

Valencia dug into the bag and clamped down upon a filter with metal fingers. It squirmed in her grasp, the rough flesh unsettled by her steel touch. What was it, save for an amalgamation of hide, flesh and magic? That something so crude could decide lives in this waste seemed ludicrous.

“No.” She decided, voice hard. “We lack enough for all, so we will make more.”

With that, she grasped the bag, handed the filter in her hand to the woman and strode back to where her flock gathered. She knelt next to the broken, scarred mage and turned his face towards her with an iron grasp. The creature squirmed as she applied its flat, round surface to the man’s pale face. But it adapted, and slowly, its tendrils latched upon the skin over his nose and mouth. Thick, rough red skin ballooned outwards as it began to work its purpose. Poisons remained on the outside, and clean air was siphoned through. Satisfied, valencia stood and began to distribute the filters among the others.

The bag was nearly empty as she drew near to her group and tossed the last few to them. Johann grimaced but applied the creature, mumbled protests about how they ruined his mustache ignored. Ul’eth sighed with regret and shoved hers against her face, while Ilorath methodically went through the motions.

And at last, there were none. Valencia alone stood without a filter, for now.

“The creatures will last for several days. Shorter than strictly optimal, but they have been supped upon poison and hellrot for some time now, so their life is near its end. We require more, and soon.”

Any replies that were spoken came in mumbles through the pulsating flesh of the constructs that now covered everyone’s mouths. Valencia simply nodded at whatever had been said.

“They are but flesh given primitive life through magic. We need only acquire more flesh to make more.” She paused and looked around. “And the wasteland holds many monsters that would relish the opportunity to end us all.”