Cairbre Gobha's eyes rested on the form of a girl laid neatly and gently upon a soft bed. A white blanket was draped over her body, just to her waist. It rose and fell in a way that was almost impossible to see unless you knew to look for it.

Her face was pallid, and her body cold. The girl's breathing was ragged and slow -- and yet it was a far sight better than what Cairbre had first seen of her. That was only two days ago, now.

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The dwarf held a small golden ring between his index finger and his thumb, carefully etching into it with a drypoint needle. Delicate runes lined the side of the ring in the path behind the needle, an important component of this type of item. What he inscribed here would determine what sort of benefit the ring itself would provide to its wearer.

But he had done this hundreds of times, and these runes had become second-nature to him. Only on rare occasions did he stumble upon runes he had never seen before.

Blue lines floated just above the ring's surface, forming the runes that were to be written next, though only Cairbre could see them. Light pulsed through the lines, moving in the path that his needle needed to take to complete the item. Those helpful lines always appeared when Cairbre did his work, but he tried his best to avoid using them whenever possible.

He would always say something to the effect of "It sours the craftsmanship."

Cairbre sat in the silence of his workshop, calmly etching away -- but that silence was soon interrupted by the sound of a firm knocking on the door of his shop. A strange thing, of course, because even some of his most uptight clientele never hesitated to simply enter without a word.

Only one group of people ever knocked on Cairbre's door.

A gruff sigh passed from his lips as he cracked open the door, greeted by another lightly-armored dwarf. He was young, and seemed to be awkwardly bowing, "M-Mister Gobha! S-sir! Nice meetin' ye!" One of Tirsollain's guardsmen.

He nodded, "Aye. What d'ye need?"

The boy cleared his throat and straightened his posture, "A-aye! E-err.. T-there was a girl who traveled with the pu-," He cleared his throat again, "W-with Miss Cirix! Green hair, big hat." He motioned with his hands as he spoke of her hat, indicating its size.

Cairbre nodded once more.

"T-there's been an emergency, o' some sort! We found the girl toppled over at the east gate, fiercely wounded! She was carryin' yer masterworks, but Miss Cirix was nowhere t'be seen."

His mind went still, and he finally allowed himself to fully pay attention to the one in front of him. He abandoned all thoughts of work, and began to fill the void with frantic thinking -- trying to piece together whatever he could.

Had their dungeon run gone wrong? The pup had a way of biting off more than she could chew, but she always managed to scrape by. Always. With Morgan's apprentice accompanying her, 'scraping by' should have been more than a certainty.

There was no mention of Adeline being there, though -- just the lass. He gritted his teeth, it was Hyperion, it had to be.

"Where's she at, then?"

"T-the east gatehouse, sir!" He bowed slightly again as he spoke, "I can take ye there!"

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"No need, lad." Cairbre stepped through the threshold of his shop, patting the young guardsman on the shoulder.

Stone trees and buildings passed him by in a blur, his feet carrying him even faster than his racing mind. The pair had traveled east, intent on tackling the dungeon that dwelled in those old mines. It wasn't the easiest dungeon in the world, but it was well within what those two were capable of, he was sure. There were naught but low-ranking demons there -- and Adeline had even managed to survive it all on her lonesome.

That was years ago, and she had come back covered in stab wounds. But she had survived.

Fiercely wounded, but not dead. That was the most important bit, or so Cairbre thought. Morgan's apprentice yet lived.

He steeled himself, coming to a halt before the gatehouse's door, the guard posted there reeled back in surprise, and then quickly opened the door. He stuttered out something like, "M-Mister Gobha, sir!" stepping aside to make way for him to enter the building.

So long as she lived, he could keep it that way. That's what he vowed to himself, at least -- even as he was led to a small bed where the girl was being kept. Her hat had been placed on a table beside the bed itself, waiting for its owner to once again don it. Teinegi's Fangs were just underneath it.

Cairbre's fingers tightened, his hands balling up into clenched fists. His nails threatened to pierce even his thickly calloused palms. There she laid, Morgan's apprentice -- Sybil.

She had a peaceful expression on her face, in spite of the rest of her. Messy hair covered a good deal of her face, and it was horribly matted with dried blood. Some still remained in splotches on her face, where it had dried before the rest was wiped off. In spite of his body refusing the order, he rolled his vision downward, scanning over the rest of her.

He barked an order idly to anyone in the room who could hear him, "Get Maeve, if ye please -- tell 'er to bring everything she's got." He heard the shuffling of a few footsteps, and then the door opening and closing.

A deep cut ran from her left hip all the way to the top of the right side of her torso. The fabric of her cloak had been torn and tattered, along with the shirt underneath. The barely knit-together skin was visible below, along with a much more ghastly wound.

It looked as if someone had gouged a hole straight through to her heart. The injury seemed to have been repaired somewhat. He assumed that whatever healing had been used on her mostly went towards repairing her heart -- the only reason she was still breathing, undoubtedly.

What concerned him more were the remnants of scorch marks that lingered around the hole. Bits of her clothing were still burned and blackened by whatever flames had been there before.

A flaming sword -- it would have to be the techniques of Adeline's house.

It could be no one else besides Adeline's dear aunt, Commander Cirix. None of the others would have been able to slip through this territory without him catching wind of it. Somehow, the Crown Hunters, or Cirix acting alone, managed to intercept the pair during their travels.

Cairbre took a seat at the table, staring down at the floor below. Anger was searing through his veins like nothing else.

As a Pioneer, he had experienced countless losses. It was expected for Pioneers to lose the things close to them. Family, friends, allies, lovers. The countless conflicts and quibbles of the world orbit around the Pioneers, drawing them in closer and closer like a raging whirlpool.

Despite that, every single loss was like a sucker-punch to the core of his being. Each and every one of them threatened to send him down one last time, never to rise again -- but this one hurt all the more. Cairbre had treated Adeline like one of his own, simply a niece from far away. Now, she was missing -- and her captors had the good graces of not taking those blades with them.

And now the one Adeline had fallen for, the apprentice of the woman who saved him all those years ago, sat on the brink of death. The Pioneer of Forging had no means or methods of saving the girl, other than relying on the connections he had made over the course of his life. He would save her, and he would save Adeline.

Hyperion had overstepped, and they would come to realize it.

He sat there for quite some time, thoughts running rampant while his vision was occupied by the stone floor. Eventually, the sound of the door opening interrupted that idle thinking.

There was the sound of clinking bottles, and then a familiar voice, "Uncle Cairbre, I've made it!"

She had finally arrived: his eldest niece, Maeve Gobha.