Private Tales For What Do We Bleed?

[Elliot Aldmar]

It was a satisfying sight, Dornites killing other Dornites. Not even the result of some tragedy, wherein those rebellious against oppressive rule were being slaughtered by agents thereof, no. This fight was as it should be, similar to what Elliot himself wanted to instigate: it was loyalists to tyranny killing fellow loyalists. So far as Elliot knew the force that had come to liberate D'avore and her military accomplice were loyalists. And if they weren't? All the better. Rebels scoring a victory.

In this bloodshed, the downtrodden of Dornoch would prosper, the regime which stood upon their faces dealt a staggering blow.

Elliot saw the pegasus charging through the melee, but, as he loosed more shots, it did not register to him that the animal was coming for him until its maw was about his shoulder and he, in his surprise, went staggering along. Had he not seen the pegasus earlier and knew which side the beast was on, he would have drawn his daggers and slashed at its throat. Still, even knowing that they had been made allies by a common enemy, he could only wonder what in the hell--

The tent (what was left of it). D'avore. The military man, still bound.

And the draconian woman.

Elliot almost made the attempt buck his shoulder from the pegasus's mouth and to go on his way, turning his back to that scuffle. But that little thought, of the satisfying sight, impressed itself upon him again. Both D'avore and the military man were responsible for it, and, as he had considered earlier, their continued existence would be useful. A Dornoch divided was a Dornoch weakened, and the amount of strife readily available to observe all around him seemed proof enough that D'avore and her military puppet were, inadvertently or purposefully, doing astounding work at enfeebling Dornoch.

So be it then.

Elliot discarded his Bow--the possibility of "friendly" fire was too great. He drew one of his daggers and fell upon the draconian's back, stabbing the blade down into the scales of her neck.

And, incredibly, the draconian woman threw him off. Elliot hit the ground and the air was knocked from his lungs momentarily and he rolled until he came to a stop by some of the collapsed and burning canvas of the tent, a look of amazement and admiration in his expression. For someone so grievously wounded, the draconian had a lot of fight left in her. And that manner of raw strength and unwavering commitment did not escape Elliot's notice, nor the bestowment of his respect.

Nevertheless. Elliot scrambled back up, ignored as much as he could the stinging in his hands. The draconian woman was still trying to finish D'avore. And again Elliot fell upon the draconian's back, hooking one arm around her neck from behind, his face next to hers, and then stabbing, again and again, his dagger into her kidneys.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Gypsy would have done anything - anything - to ensure the elf helped her Master and the woman-who-gave-treats. Even if that had meant damaging him in the process. She was glad to see the man had some sense and enough brains to figure out what it was she wanted him for and to actually go about doing it. It left her to her own devices. With surprising delicacy she picked her way around the edge of what was left of the flaming tent to the crumpled heap that was Elijah. When the pole holding his chains had snapped he had not had the reflexes to get his feet under him, not that he was really sure if he could have used them anyway. He was certain Lyssia had healed him but they still felt... broken.

"Gypsy," he rasped and with effort opened his eyes to look at her as she placed her soft nose against his cheek in an affectionate manner. Elijah raised trembling hands the bare amount to rub down her nose and return the gesture of love. The pegasus gave a soft snort and then the pure white horse, a stuff out of legends for some people, lay down beside the bloodied man like a tame circus performing creature. It took effort to move. Every muscle in him screamed and his arms shook as he pushed himself up and tried to pull himself towards her back. With the patience of a saint Gypsy waited, offering encouragement where she could as he pulled himself onto her back. Blood that had not yet dried smeared across her bare flank and his hands left red prints across her neck but eventually, Elijah managed to get himself onto the pegasus' back.

Once secure Gypsy pushed herself back to all four hooves and cast her gaze once more to the unlikely pair still fighting the Captain's jailer.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

The gods damned woman had the devils luck. Either that,, or he writhing made every blow miss anything vital enough to drop her in her tracks. Her hands were round Lyssia's throat once, then again, and then again. Finally, though, they fell away as the she was forced to focus on the new threat, and the sidhe collapsed on the ground, choking and gasping for air.

"This doesn't...concern you, wretch," she managed to gasp as she threw Elliot again, standing. But for a brief moment, and then all of a sudden something struck everyone round her, a wall of wind that sent Lyssia rolling and slammed into Elliot like a broom. Almost immediately, the questioner turned back again. Even as she did, something else settled over her bleeding body, and before their very eyes her wounds began to mend. Slowly, but mend all the same.

Another had joined the fray. All round them, the fighting continued on, although it was beginning to die down - and no wonder, for half a dozen lay dead or dying already. The newcomer was an elfin lady, and she held a hand before her. There was no need to speak the words for what she was: magi, and a dire threat. To Lyssia's eyes, a thread of aether ran between her and the questioner, and every moment the tether held between them, the questioner grew stronger.

Her head swam, her neck hurt, and something deep inside her ached. Blood drooled from her lips, coming from deep within...and yet she would not yield. Rolling onto her side, Lyssia found the strength to grapple with the prim, and made of it a blade of unaspected magic that sliced through the elf's spell.

The tether snapped. Both draconian and elf staggered a moment, even as Elliot slammed into her again. With a hiss of in-drawn breath, the witch unleashed fire, a wave of it to incinerate Elliot and (probably) not harm the questioner in the process. It managed to get within a foot, before it slammed into a shimmering barrier of pure light that shattered like breaking glass.

Her eyes locked with Lyssia's pained ones. They were clearly unevenly matched, but it was clear that while the rejuvenated questioner contended with her duel, there would be another of a more arcane nature taking place right beside it. Even as her lips curved in a vicious smile, another pair of Gloria's henchman detatched themselves from the shadows, and set upon Elijah - even as the centaur cantered into the middle of the fray.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

A flash of memory when the spell of wind rippled over Elliot. The battle at the clearing for Alexia, and the bounty hunter with the wind magic. The ambush after meeting Maranae, and the hunter there, as well, with wind magic. Now here. Fate was quite fond of occurrences in threes.

Yet the third in the series was not without its surprises.

Not just wind, but restoration and flame was well. Elliot, with wide anticipatory eyes, could only brace for a scorching impact.

But the flame broke and scattered, like a wave upon the rocky shore of a coastline, once it struck the sudden manifestation of a shimmering barrier of light. Elliot glanced back over his shoulder. Squinted dubiously. D'avore, of all people. Where she might of been hiding this abrupt display of magical talent previously, Elliot couldn't say or fathom, unless it had been her intention to be caught as well. Nevertheless, she'd contradicted her own mewls of protest about her only possible contribution to this fight being "bleeding on them." There was always a well of strength to draw from within oneself, if one would only seek it out, and it was so that primeval matters of life and death were exquisite at prompting such seeking.

Back to the draconian. What work Elliot had done was undone by the elven mage, and thus the fight essentially began anew, save with him being more fatiguing and with the draconian backed by an ally. He could only entrust the mage to D'avore--if all else failed, perhaps she could bleed on her.

Elliot squared off with the draconian, trading slashes and thrusts of his daggers with slashes of her claws, both them engaged in that deadly, weaving dance of dodging and deflecting and testing one's opponent and looking for an opening.

* * * * *​

Some of Stannis's hired help could see which way the wind was blowing. For the others, there was a certain tepid respect Taros could extend to their dedication--tepid, of course, because said dedication, while admirable, nevertheless made his and all of his ad hoc allies' job harder. Ah, but it was these two sellswords before him, both of whom had tossed down their weapons and knelt and held up their hands in surrender, that caught his interest.

Taros twirled his shamshir around his hand in a small flourish. Around him and the surrendered sellswords the fight still raged.

"Your shrewdness and business acumen has led you to a better offer, gentlemen," Taros said. "Namely, mine."

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

"You look like shit, Sir!" Nemythia said almost cheerily as her axe swung upwards in a vicious arc and caught one of the men who had been heading for Elijah clean on the chin. The finely honed metal cut through bone, tissue and brain matter leaving behind a trench of blood and gore through what had been the man's face. Gypsy reared to take care of another one, her hooves flashing towards another man's skull, and it was only the muscle memory that kept Elijah in his seat. When he finally looked up at Nem his vision wa swimming, creating three bloody Nemythia's and then five before they all pulled back to form one wobbly version. He thought he might be sick.

You need to fight, my darling.

"I feel it," he rasped and ran a hand down his sweaty face, trying to ignore the fact Samantha's face and voice had been plaguing him for days in his delirium. 'Shit' was probably too nice a term to describe how he felt. "We need to get out of here, re-group," Nemythia nodded without hesitation. Elijah had no idea of course which way the tide was going outside but he had no doubt lost men this night already and commanding when he could barely stay on his horses back was how arrogance got a man killed. When Nemythia didn't disagree - which she always did when she thought him wrong - he almost breathed out a sigh of relief. The Centauress raised a horn to her lips and blew two long notes.

The sign for retreat.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Agony.

She had thought she knew what it was like before, when she had been hanging in iron, her life slipping away on moment at a time. But that had been before she had started to play with forces she had little control over. Her expertise was healing and shielding when it came to magic; of anything offensive it was a crap shoot at best.

Quite aside from that, the amount of magic she had available to her was too low. She was no longer drawing from ambient sources, but from herself. Her chest hurt, and every breath felt like a struggle - a struggle through pain, and as though she were drowning. Blood drooled from her lips in a slow, but steady stream.

Focus. The spectral voice of someone...someone she could only vaguely remember and - for some reason - hurt her worse than her body did. Blood splattered over her as Nemythia put paid to an assailant on Elijah, but it was on Elliot and the mage that she focused.

Standing, pushing through the pain and the paralyzing terror that coursed through her. She was no combatant, and she felt as though her heart would explode in her chest if it beat any faster or harder. Any moment now, she would faint from sheer fright.

Any moment now.

Lightning came next, and Lyssia caught the spell in forks of unaligned magic and grounded it. Her insides twisted as the prim tore at her, as it ripped gaping holes in her flesh - unseen, but felt. Agonizing, maddeningly so. Lyssia stood even as the other woman looked dumbfounded at having been rebuffed yet again, and then she stepped forward. There was no thought of safety, now. Almost no thought at all. Only the endless haze of pain, the blood, the ravaging of her flesh. A trade-off; suffering now for life later, although the concept was too complicated to understand right now.

She dove forward, managing to land a hand on Elliot's leg - momentarily, and with its own risks - and sent the flood of magic into him, as well. All elements, carrying a piece of the little sidhe with her, suffused his flesh almost immediately. Not any more pleasant for him than for Elijah, but enough to take away the majority of his hurts and - perhaps more importantly - his exhaustion.

Pulling more of her strength away from her. She wavered where she stood - liability, weak, worthless, better off dead - and spit a mouthful of blood to one side. The magic pulsed within her in time with her heart, and every pulse was acid in her veins.

The call to retreat washed over her, but she did not hear it. She simply stood ready to run defense of the only person she could see that was not currently trying to kill her - oblivious to Elijah, Nemythia, or the others. In fact, she held onto consciousness by a thread.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

This was why Elliot despised so-called "honorable" battles. Though his duel with the draconian had not started off that way, it had inevitably morphed into one by circumstance, with the elven mage restoring the draconian's wounds and with D'avore running interference on the mage's further attempts to assist. It left Elliot fighting the draconian without any noted advantage. A one-on-one fight, facing each other with comparable arms and protection--an "honorable" battle. Yet the concept of honor held no worth in nature, and thus Elliot found this fight to be more difficult than it otherwise could have been, if in no other measure than the inefficiency of spending this much time on it.

Neither Elliot nor the draconian woman scored any meaningful hits on one another, so evenly matched in that instance were they. And at the sound of Nemythia's horn Elliot and the draconian had disengaged from close combat with each other, the draconian acrobatically flinging herself away from Elliot's last slash and Elliot hopping backward and landing in a crouch, securing his Bow he'd landed beside, and in a well-practiced flash having an arrow nocked on the bowstring.

Lyssia touched his leg, and Elliot's nostrils flared, his muscles tensed, as her particular brand of healing worked on him in its agonizing way. He kept his focus on the draconian, but he knew that D'avore was behind him. He recognized the oddness, the unlikelihood of the moment, in that he was out in front of Lyssia, could be seen even as protecting her. Strange bedfellows, as the saying went. Made so by circumstance. Let it be so then, this peculiar allyship. Necessity forged extraordinary bonds.

The draconian interrogator and the elven mage cast curt glances about their surroundings. And, keen on not being caught horrifically out of position as the two forces were separating from one another, they would make to hasten away and to the company of more friendlies.

But not before the draconian cast a harsh finger to Elliot, to Lyssia, to Elijah, all three seemingly swept up in the single gesture, and hissed, "This is far from over."

And they hopped over the remaining flames of the collapsed tent, disappearing amongst the parting of the fighting forces.

Elliot grimaced heavily--some of the aftershocks of Lyssia's healing, that phantom pain were he'd suffered minor wounds and injuries. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. Saw that D'avore looked the exquisite picture of death, standing there unsteadily as she was.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

There was three beats of steady silence as purposeful as any note before the two long, drawn out bellows of the horn came again. Elijah's forces knew exactly what it meant and a new vigour engulfed them as they either finished with the opponent they were grappling with or turned to the task of trying to haul as many injured out with them as possible. The signs of retreating were picked up on by the hired help but also the enemy who quickly began their own similar retreat. The two forces begun to back away from one another like wary stray dogs daring not to turn their backs until they were closer to a clear exit.

Inside the tent Elijah could on stare blandly after the draconian who had been the source of all his pain for the past week as she disappeared into the smoke and ash beyond the carcass of the tent.

"I can go after her, Sir," Nemythia offered in a low, too-cold tone. She had been watching the direction of his gaze and had assumed what his thoughts were. "It wouldn't take me long," Eli reluctantly stopped watching the shadow he thought was the inquisitors back and looked over to his Second to shake his head.

"I need you here. Gather as many of the wounded as we can, I assume you made a camp nearby?" she nodded curtly and he grunted in approval. "Go, we'll be right behind you," she cast him a look that should have been copied down into the dictionary next to the word doubt but she did at least go to carry out his orders. He let out a sigh once she was gone and let his shoulders sag some. If Nem had realised she had only seen the half of his state she would have never left.

Gypsy wandered without the need for command or touch over to where Elliot and Lyssa stood. His lips pressed into a thin line when he came close enough to recognise the elf but he said nothing as he looked to Lyssia and held out a hand with the intention of hurling her up onto Gypsy's back.

"Thank you," he said gruffly to Elliot and it was clear he did not find the fact he had to say such to a criminal an easy thing. But his own morals were winning out against his dedication to his country and Dynast.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Wavering, on the verge of collapse in more ways than physical exhaustion. Elliot's words echoed down a long hallway of pain, and she blinked at him blearily. The fact that the fighting had ended was lost to her; she remained poised to fight in the same manner of a boxer with one too many concusions.

"...," she said, mouth opening but nothing coming out but a thread of blood. It looked worse than it was, but it wasn't good in either case. She had been sorely used and pushed herself far beyond anything approaching reasonable limits. She was not a fighter, had never been - the bleeding cuts on her arms, half-healed scars split open by rough treatment a testament to her lack of physical prowess. "Don't...know," she managed after a moment, and then blinked at the hand that suddenly appeared before her. She felt heavy, and her limbs felt unresponsive and sluggish.

Taking Elijah's hand, the full weight of her slender body hit that arm as she collapsed in his grip, head lolling to one side.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Elliot slowly rose from his crouch back to his feet, with the same languid motion returning the nocked arrow to his quiver. No need to go loosing arrows into the mass of moving bodies. Both sides had bloodied one another's nose and were evidently keen at backing off. All the better to select a future battlefield, should such selection prove needed if outright evasion failed, where a more solid advantage could be gained.

Even so, Nemythia's offer to the military man was enticing.

Elliot let out a curt chuckle. Said in manner only half humorous, "Let her go." It wasn't going to happen. But, enticing, the thought of it, nonetheless. An absolute shame that the centaur's devotion was so grievously misplaced as to be given to Dornoch.

D'avore, of course, couldn't walk. She might well only be standing by some subtle act of necromancy, some rigidity of her skeleton straining mightily to hold up her drooping and leaking flesh, akin to a cadaver on strings. Exaggeration, but she looked the part. It was unfortunate that her present suffering paled in comparison to the mass suffering she inflicted on others through her willing participation in the perpetuation of the Dynasty. At the very least, both D'avore (with her military puppet by extension) and Gloria had done something right: namely, trying to kill one another. No tragic blood had been spilled here tonight.

Thank you. Hmm. Words Elliot would have scarcely imagined hearing from a Dornite.

"We endure what we must," he said. His daggers he collected from the ground and sheathed, not taking his eyes off of the military man and his pegasus as he did so. A healthy dose of mistrust kept his vigilance up, for the last thing he wanted was to be taken back into custody, now that the fight was coming to a close and the common enemy was no longer immediate and he was soon to be surrounded by Dornites.

Taros Athos came by the collapsed, flaming remains of the tent then. Two men clad in gear common among moderately well-off sellswords flanked him on each side. He still held his shamshir in hand, and he spread his arms out wide as in welcome.

He said to Elijah, to "Winnipeg," to Elliot, to Lyssia, to all of them in general, "High time we bid our friends yonder a fond farewell, wouldn't you say?"

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

If Lyssia had been the size of a human her sudden dead weight might have taken Elijah off his horses back entirely. As it was he gave a grunt and steadied himself with his hand on Gypsy's shoulder before pulling her up into his lap. One arm wrapped about her waist and held her close against his chest, practically cradling her like a mother would a child, whilst the other kept a steady hold of his Pegasus' mane. It was a motion he barely seemed to register with how often he had done it now. Instead his mind seemed to be more occupied with chewing over Elliot's words which had caused a deep frown to weigh down upon his brow. Had he realised the effort it had taken for him to say thanks and was now mocking him in some way? Or did he too, this criminal, find it hard to admit that two groups who would usually be foes had needed one another?

He was cut off from saying anything further by the arrival of a man Elijah also recognised, quickly followed in by Nem who he shot a surprised look at. Taros was a man Eli had met in his childhood and where Elijah had chosen one path, the other man had chosen the opposite. He had been one of the first Elijah had approached to be his eyes and ears in the parts of Dornoch he could no longer go unnoticed. The Centauress hated him with a fiery passion. She must have really been at her wits end to have enlisted his help.

"The camp isn't far," he said by way of agreement. Gypsy cast Elliot a look that on any human would have said 'behave or else' before trotting from the tent remains. As for himself, the Captain couldn't care less if he chose to follow though resolved food and healing would be given to all who did.

Despite not having seen the camp himself, Elijah had not been wrong about its proximity. Nem had set them up as close as possible without given themselves away with their cookfires. Camp hands who had stayed to watch their things and prepare for the worst rose onto their feet as the battered group of soldiers and criminals traipsed back in. An elderly, rotund woman with grey streaks in her dark hair was the first to stop her gaping and quickly whipped those in a state to help into shape. Soon the seriously injured were being laid into beds in the largest tent, though it had no walls, whilst the rest found a campfire to sit beside dazed.

Elijah slid from Gypsy's back with Lyssia in his arms, smearing bright red blood down her snowy flank. His legs buckled and he found himself kneeling, breathing hard, with her cradled in his grasp.

"Sir--" Nem went to reach for him, at his side like a worried shadow, but he shook his head and forced himself to stand.

"Later," once everyone else had been tended to. He knew they would find nothing wrong with him anyway: it was not the first time Lyssia had healed him. Every step to the tent felt as though he were walking on shattered legs but he set her down gently on a cot before he allowed himself to stop.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

...th, er way, it...

...tters not one whit if we gather the evi...

...etched girl, you should do us all a favor and go...

...eed to learn how to care for yourse...

Floating in a sea of darkness. No body to feel, no mind to thing, no mouth to speak. No ears to hear...and yet hear she did, as she drifted in the inky void. Words cast down through the years, uttered from friend and foe alike, but only fragments of what had been.

Fragments of a shattered life.

Bereft of a body, could one truly call the swell of self loathing that stirred within something that came from within, or did it come from the nebulous universe without? In that sea of darkness, where the waves that washed over her were simply pain - pain of the body that she did not possess, pain of benumbed mine, pain of the absent soul - it was not a question that could be answered.

...orth is what you make of it, child...

"Your worth is....what you...," she whispered, lying on the cot in darkness. Barely above a breath, barely audible...but still there. She did not stir nor sit up, but instead dove deeper into the welcoming darkness and allowed oblivion to claim her again.

Oblivion, and a smiling familiar face that made her heart lurch even as she slipped into the deep sleep of the dead.

***

Voices all around, muted and low. It was still dark; wherever she had been deposited - not on the ground, thankfully - there were others round and the night had not yet ended. Or she had been out for far longer than she thought. Or she was blind.

Or dead.

The last would be a blessing, being truthful; joints ached, her chest hurt with every breath. Every quick and brittle pulse of her heart sent a jagged stab of pain through her skull, as though some giant had decided that every heart beat was to be a fatal blow. For a long minute she simply lay there with her eyes closed, reluctant to keep breathing for the pain it caused, trying to will her heart to stop.

Pain was but one excuse. Self recrimination another altogether else.

Haunting memories of the melee rattled round in her head, sluggish as the rest of her thoughts were. She sat up with the arthritic slowness of an ancient mummy, regretting even having been born for that effort. Glass in her joints, knives in her chest, and the coppery, tangy taste of blood in her mouth as she unleashed a gusty exhalation, a suffering groan of misery.

A sudden stab of anxiety, a ball of ice in her belly. Elijah. The events earlier on were a haze of pain, but she distinctly recalled healing the man. Healing, and not terribly much beyond that point. Pain had a way of altering memory, and if her current suffering was anything to go by...

Had he survived the night? Getting to her feet was a mistake - a wave of nausea and stabbing pain in all the joints she had, including ones she was sure her body was making up just to add insult to injury. She wavered on the edge of blacking out again and simply folding up on the floor...but some sliver of steel in her spine kept her upright. Gritting her teeth, she fought off the darkness that threatened to close in again, trying to push the raw panic and and even rawer, darker well of emotions that crowded close behind that into a corner.

On tottering legs, she managed to catch the outline of tent flaps, and pushed her way forward. Outside, the orderly arrangement that spoke of military discipline greeted her; no one seemed to be immediately present, and so she went off with painfully careful steps to look for someone who could tell her where Elijah - who lay behind her - was, and ease the gnawing guilt and deeper, darker abyss that waited behind that.

Surely....surely he must have...

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

"What are you doing here?"

Elliot was sitting down in the camp of the rebels. He didn't know if "rebels" was the most appropriate term to describe them, but he had settled on it nonetheless. He had his back to a tree, wary of leaving it open in his present company. He wasn't the only outlaw here, but such knowledge did little to assuage his apprehension of being surrounded by Dornites--"rebels" or not. Yet the conspiring of circumstances had made it so that being in this company was better than being outside it, for they were still well within Erdeniin territory, and Stannis would be rabidly keen on hunting them all down again.

The freelancer Taros was beside him, watching as he whittled a thin branch into something akin to an arrowshaft (though in truth, it provided an inconspicuous means to have his dagger in hand). Elliot was trying to take the man's measure: a Kaliti man, evidenced by his deeply tanned skin and his western-styled sword. Genial, talkative, for Taros had been the one to strike up conversation with him. So what exactly was he doing aiding the Dornites, rebel or not?

Taros spread his hands openly at the question, smiling broadly. "I'm the very picture of a man who lives in the present. A rider of the winds. And though opportunity comes and opportunity goes and those very winds of fate spiral about to their own tune, all along my journey it is I, yes I, who is the chooser."

"Do you know for whom you are fighting?"

"I've been all over Arethil--not so laudable a feat when Portal Stones exist, I will admit. But I've done work for any number of--what polite nobility might call--dubious characters. Even on indirect behalf of Menalus of Molthal, at one time, if you can believe it. What gold doesn't spend, my friend?"

"Hm. What gold doesn't spend," Elliot repeated, a touch derisively.

"Exactly. You see, I've dispensed with the worries of the world--who's right, who's wrong, good and evil and all of that hogwash. Lines in the sand, I say, drawn and redrawn at anyone's particular convenience. Perhaps you've some manner of grudge with our esteemed Dornites, seeing as how they had you clad in irons back there. But not I. I'm far too concerned with enjoying all of the wonderful reasons there are to be the sole Taros Athos that lives and breathes upon our fair Arethil."

Carefree. Self-centered. And most importantly to the Dornites, or even to the Obanese--unprincipled. While men like Taros weren't direct subservient and sycophantic supporters of these crushing regimes, to Elliot they helped enable them nonetheless. It stung all the more that Elliot could see shades of himself in Taros, back before he had firmly established an ethic to live by.

Taros spotted Lyssia limping out of a nearby tent, and lightly swatted Elliot's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Look there, Bonfire's finally awake. Perhaps we ought to go express our gratitude, no?"

"Our gratitude. That's awfully presumptuous."

"Oh come now, she'll be so delighted to hear it especially from your lips that she'd swell with enough joy to double her already formidable height."

Elliot looked up at him. Smirked slightly. "You certain enough to make a bet on it?"

Immediately: "Not that certain." Then Taros grinned, "But let's go anyway."

With a begrudging pace, Elliot rose up to his feet. He tossed away the branch he had been whittling and, after a moment's consideration, ended up sheathing his dagger. And then he and Taros started to walk toward the embattled Lyssia.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

"Rest."

Elijah stared up at Nem through bloodshot eyes and debated if it was worth trying to fight her orders. The Centauress had taken it upon herself many years ago when he had saved her life that she would become his 'carer' in a fashion after Samantha died. She had owed him hэр as the Erdeniin's called it and it was a hard thing to dissuade someone from once they had decided it. As such he now found himself confronted with a stubborn force whenever he needed to do something at the detriment to himself. In this case, at this time, the Captain didn't think it was worth the battle.

Sat in nothing but his kilt the healer finally finished her inspection of his wounds - which had all vanished as he had explained, several times! - and pronounced that all he needed now was rest. He shot her a look that accused her of conspiracy with Nem but the woman merely looked back at her with the irritated look of a medic who had dealt with one too many logger-headed fools this evening and her patients had run out two patients ago. He sighed and nodded then waved her from where he sat.

Nem helpfully pushed his shoulder to send him sprawling onto his back. He might have been in good health but he was as weak as a lamb.

"We should be packing down the camp," he said roughly and rubbed at his face, trying to pass off that he had laid down because he had chosen to and not because he had been forced like a child.

"There are too many sick to move yet. We can afford a few hours," Nem countered and poured him his nineteenth glass of water. Elijah laid his arm over his eyes so he could pretend he didn't see it.

"I'm not sick, Nem, you heard her. Perfectly healthy," and plagued with Phantom Pain which she hadn't been forthcoming on saying when would go.

"You're exhausted. You've been in that woman's care for a week now," if tones could kill he thought Nem's anger would conjure a whole army and he kept his eyes behind the shield of his arm so he didn't have to face it. She sighed and carried on. "You can afford a few hours of sleep," Elijah grunted but he didn't argue again. He was exhausted beyond anything he had ever felt before. Perhaps a few hours wouldn't hurt...

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Oblivious to the two men, she tottered out into the camp. Away from them, inwards towards where the others were taken and - unbeknownst to her, Elijah as well.

She felt as fragile as the spun glass that she always felt Elijah treated her life. Fragile, barely held together by anything beyond sheer willpower. She had hurt before, of course, but this was a different kind of pain. Deeper, far deeper and more enduring than any she had ever known save, perhaps, when she had tried to kill herself. Shame rose in her at the memory, brief though it might have been.

It mirrored the shame of dragging that infuriatingly stubborn man into something that would ultimately see him killed. That he had endured the draconian woman's tender ministrations only cut at her soul more deeply, for it was one of many prices paid for having anything to do with her. On some level, she understood that the man was a soldier and that he had ever been in the cross-hairs of danger. Every step, every breath potentially his last. Understood, even, that his position so close to the Dynast drew an even bigger target on his back, and the fact that he was a man still a bigger one.

It didn't matter that he did it for Dynast and country. Somewhere in her soul, she had managed to convince herself that he had taken on this monumental task on her account, and therefore all the danger he put himself in was directly as a result of her own actions, at her own behest. Tied up in that ball of emotions was the fact that she neither understood why she cared about his safety beyond the fact that he put his neck out for her; worse, the thought that none of it was for her and that it was but his stated duty to the Dynast made her twist inside even more, and she didn't understand that any better.

Stumbling along, she caught the beginning of a conversation, and froze.

"There are too many sick to move yet. We can afford a few hours," said someone she could not see and only but vaguely recognized. She was going to ignore it and move on, when she heard the tired - and paind - voice of the Captain. She froze in her tracks.

It was coming from a ragged tent to her left. Twisted inside as she was, she shambled along, pushing aside the tent to walk into the muted light of a camp lantern. The centaur lady took up a good bit of the space in the tent, and what little remained at the far end was taken up by the Captain and his cot. Lyssia stepped into the light, still oblivious of the pair of men approaching.

"The others...," she said, breaking into the conversation by way of elbowing into the silence between statements. Although she sounded about how she felt - death warmed over, her typically pale skin the color of ash, eyes deeply underscored by blotchy dark circles and fiery mane dull as though with illness, she still carried some fragment of that noble's demeanor. The one that brooked little dissent. "Pray, forgive...but the others...," she began again, and paused. To catch her breath, though she took pains to hide as much of her plight as possible. "Heal them...I can heal them..."

Her eyes were drawn to Elijah. Had been since she had entered the tent. He was still alive - alive, despite everything. Alive. That had to count for something, had to even the balances a little, at least. She took tentative steps towards the man, seemingly oblivious of the centaur in the room.

"I can heal them," she said again, and stumbled, landing on one knee, hands splayed before her. "I...can't do anything else but..." The tremble in her voice was only made worse by the wavering of her strength, just then. She struggled to pick herself up, struggled to control the sea of emotion. Among soldiers that showed so little, she felt infinitely weaker, infinitely more of a liability.

In short, she felt the keen edge of her own dead weight and uselessness ever more strongly, and it simply piled atop the dark emotions that swirled in her heart already.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

"And you'll kill yourself in the endeavor," Elliot said from behind Lyssia, he and Taros entering the tent at the crest of her second statement of I can heal them. Maybe that was her goal; and if it was it was a laudable one, and served to be the least that she could do as a means of reparation to the sons of Dornoch. Yet Elliot doubted she had the constitution for that, and very likely the resolve to do anything more with her life to rectify the grievous errors of her past. But it was well enough that she continue to fight against her fellow Dornites in order to reclaim them, those grievous errors, the place the house of D'avore once occupied. And to that end? She might as well live a little while longer. Keep Dornoch divided to what measure she could inadvertently provide.

"Mayhap you'd best find a cozy spot on a cot yourself, hmm?" said Taros to her. "I'm certain the good captain could begrudge you that. And I'm absolutely certain you've looked better before in your life, no?"

Elliot said nothing further.

Until, however, Taros surreptitiously jabbed him in the side with an elbow. Might as well say what he came to say and get it over with.

Elliot gruffly cleared his throat. "I appreciate your aid back there."

A truth, however grudgingly it was admitted. The battle at the clearing to save Alexia was only one among a number of recent examples of why Elliot despised fighting mages in open combat, preferring instead to pick them off before they even had a chance to wiggle their fingers once. D'avore, despite Elliot's own opinions about her former place in Dornite society and of her character more directly, had spared him from it on this occasion.

With the scrap of gratitude dispensed, Elliot looked up, toward Nemythia and "the captain," glancing between the two. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that they would bear to suffer his presence, and that he was merely tolerated on account of an unspoken truce.

A truce predicated solely on the credible threat still posed by their mutual enemy.

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah sat up abruptly when he heard Lyssia's voice and stared at her spellbound as she begun to plead to heal the sick. He didn't need to glance across at his Second to know she was looking at the small sidhe with the same concoction of bewilderment, disapproval and doubt on her face. She didn't look to be in any better state than Eli was - in fact, looked worse - and so how she thought she would be able to heal the twenty or so still alive neither had a clue. He was about to get up to help her to her feet when the tent flaps went again and in crowded more figures. The Captain's tent was not a small thing but it was certainly full with three grown men, a sidhe and a centauress.

With a wince he pushed himself to his feet and took the small stride to the centre where Lyssia knelt and gently knelt in front of her. One hand, soft and gentle, cupped her chin to tilt her face towards him. Nothing but concern burned in those eyes when they were directed at her as he searched her depths for the true measure of how she was bearing up. He had seen her shattered and broken before but this...

"Taros is right, you have done enough," he said softly then took her hands and helped her to her feet. It was barely a conscious thing that he then directed her to stand slightly behind his bulk so that there was something between her and the two criminals before him. He had already offered his thanks to Elliot back in the burnt out tent but this time he looked to Taros and gave a curt nod of thanks.

"How many were lost?"

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

His touch was like electricity to her, and despite the agonized state she found herself in, when he lifted her head so that their eyes met and she found herself staring into those icy blue pools, fathomless and deep as the seas...she couldn't be helped but be trapped by them. She couldn't have looked away if she had wanted to...and she did not want to, and did not know why.

"I...don't want anyone else to die because of...," she whispered haltingly to him, but her eyes never left his. Spellbound, rapt and unwavering. It didn't matter that she could have fallen over right then, that it was by sheer force of will that she was even up at all. "Because of me," she managed at last. He drew her up, and at last broke that gaze. There was regret there, and some sweet swell of emotion that rose within her like the ocean's tide, buffeting at the icy core of guilt and recrimination, of pain and horror and suffering. Elijah was unconscious of what he did, putting himself between her and the others, and she was no less so. She did lean against his legs, though, literally using him to support her instead of just emotionally and spiritually.

Basking in the warm glow of...whatever it was, she felt her problems diminish, her pain fade to something she could endure. Guilt still burned bright, misplaced or not - she felt keenly the pain of every death, of every hurt suffered by these men. She could not conceive of a reason beyond either rescuing Elijah from his plight, or involvement because of the things she had uncovered. Selfish, perhaps, but she had thought - foolishly - to bear the burden of righting the ship that was Dornoch on her own.

Once, anyway. But the realization was that the vessel took more hands to turn than her tiny ones, that her strength would not be anywhere near enough to see the deed done.

"I can...maybe help one or two, if they are close to death," she said. She eyed Elliot and Taros from her position behind Elijah; carefully studying as best she could in her current state. She could not help but notice that Elliot's thanks felt as strained could be, as if he were pulling a tooth out of his mouth with his bare hands. She did not know the man nor his views anymore than he did hers; unlike him, however, she held no uncharitable views of anyone right at the outset, at least not uninformed ones.

The idea of men being lesser, well, that was a thing for people like Gloria.

She did not say anything further, though. Truth to tell, if they rebuffed her again she would not press; she still felt as fragile as a newborn, despite this new sensation that filled every ilm of her being with a kind of warmth and - dare she say it - hope. Only just leaned into Elijah as though he alone could support her in that moment.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

How many were lost?

Taros had a hand on his hip, his other forward and with his palm upturned, as if he were merchant making a transaction. "Less than you'd think among us mercenaries, given the stellar assembly of warriors under Stannis's command. Some enterprising sellswords even turned to our side, so that will certainly help patch the numbers. As for your own Dornite army faithful, Winnipeg can give you a more accurate count."

Elliot saw D'avore's lips moving, heard vaguely her voice, but didn't make out what it was that she had whispered. It was of no particular concern. Louder though, she said that she could perhaps help only a few with her magic. Almost like a drunkard protesting to have just one more drink. Very well. Elliot had said what he wanted to say on the matter--D'avore was free to act however she so chose. Heed the advice spoken by her own military puppet or not.

Elliot could feel the sidelong glance from Taros, but didn't let it affect what he intended to do or say. Perhaps Taros was keen on Elliot ingratiating himself as well with the rebels who employed him. If that were so, he could just go and be keen about it as much as he liked--it wouldn't make a difference. The only difference that there was to be had lay in the actual intentions of these Dornites. Which was to say, in brief, was the term "rebel" accurate to describe them or not? Or were they, despite this spat with Stannis and whomever else, ultimately loyal to the crushing traditions of the land from which they hailed?

"None of the criminals died," Elliot said. Naturally. Their assistance in the fight, from what he saw, was tepid and opportunistic, and they'd been among the first to retreat when the horn was sounded and they saw others doing the same.

He crossed his arms. Stared down the military man. The "captain."

He asked outright, "And what do you and yours intend to do with us outlaws?"

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Kill them, Samantha's voice said coldly as her ghostly form stood beside the criminal fingering the blade he had buried her with. It was hard not to agree with his dead fiancé and a part - the more, arguably, sane part -reminded him that she had always been quick and harsh to judge criminals. Elijah had always been the one who had cautioned taking time to assess all the facts and look more kindly on the boy who stole a loaf of bread to feed his family. As exhausted as he was, however, he was finding it hard to stick to his own reasonings.

"We lost five, sir," Nem cut through his thoughts though the Captain's eyes never left Elliot's. He merely nodded. Five was not so bad but they were five letters home he would never have had to write if it hadn't been for his own mistake. He should never have agreed to meet a smuggler in a place such as that. He'd let desperation get the better of him. To Elliot he then said.

"Nothing," his voice was harsh and icy but he didn't show a flicker of caring. "You can enjoy our fires for the night and then you'll be gone in the morning," rations were in short supply and he had no intentions on wasting more than was courteous on them. "Unless they intend on joining Taros or myself in our mission then I see no reason for us to suffer one another's presence longer than we must."

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Five...

That cut straight through her heart, and the emotion - nameless, never named lest it become a curse - evaporated like mist in the summer sun. Five more, to add to the pile of bodies that had grown too numerous to keep track of any longer. She lacked the protection that each of those that surrounded her had gained through years of life in a hard world, with all of its uncertainties. She could not simply think of men and women lying dead along the road to salvation as having chosen that fate, or of having no hand in their untimely end. Whether or not she held a blade, she might as well have buried it in them herself.

Elijah might have known something of this sentiment that she held. Maybe; he was a man of war, accustomed to the travails thrust upon him.

All the same, the chill in his voice was palpable, and it stirred something within her to hear it. She reached up and grasped his belt, but did not hang her weight from it; it was merely a reminder that she was there.

She looked back in the direction that Gloria's hired swords had melted off into, heavy eyes filled with unease. "Morning?" She sounded as though she did not understand what it was Elijah was saying. "Surely we are not going to stay here?" Asked in defiance of the fact that there was a camp made here, and that she had rested on one of their cots not long ago. She turned her eyes to the centauress with the question in her eyes.

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Taros kept his own counsel, but, inwardly, he was pleased. Quite pleased. This was very likely to go the way he imagined it would go. You see, he didn't need Elliot to trust him necessarily, oh goodness no. He only needed Elliot to prefer his company over that of the Dornites, to be the one friendly face and accepting personality around this whole camp for him. It was something that people naturally gravitated to, and, as Taros found, it was oftentimes a far more effective strategy than the straightforward brute force employed by most bounty hunters. Here it was practically guaranteed to work, what with the mutual disdain Elliot and the Good Captain and Bonfire had for one another. All Taros needed to do was simply let it play out.

Meanwhile, Elliot kept his gaze level on D'avore's military puppet. It was clear that this group of Dornites were not rebels in the sense Elliot had provisionally thought of them, no. Part of some internal squabble, mostly or entirely on D'avore's behalf, so he reckoned. They weren't seeking any meaningful change. Only a transfer, likely, of who held the baleful reins of power. If they got everything they desired, the sons of Dornoch would still suffer in their miserable state, the boot stamping down on their faces merely replaced with a different boot.

There was some level of desperation with them, however. Unless they intend on joining, the puppet had said. Reinforcement of the stark fact that they were even willing to work with the likes of Elliot and the other criminals in any capacity. For Elliot and his endgame, of course, the best conclusion was no conclusion at all, that D'avore and the loyalist Dornites continued to tear at each other's throats for as long as possible. Every dead Dornite was a boon.

D'avore, down at her puppet's leg, had spoken up. Elliot paid her question no heed. It was irrelevant worrying that achieved nothing.

To the captain he said, "'Our mission.' And what might that be?"

Lyssia D'avore Elijah

 

[Elijah]

Elijah would have much preferred if Lyssia were anywhere else but here right now. A stark contrast to the thoughts that had comforted him through the pain of the last week. He didn't spare her so much as glance now as she asked her concerned question and instead kept a level gaze on the two men opposite. Neither he trusted. Certainly not with what their mission was either. A tense silence filled the tent that was eventually broken by Nem with an impatient stamp of a hoof.

"Stop puffing your chests out, all of you," she then turned to Lyssia with a scowl that seemed to just live permanently on her face. "Their forces are worse off than ours and more disorganised. It'll take longer than the night for Gloria to get her dogs under control again so we have the night to lick our own wounds," she left unsaid that the pair of them were such people who should be licking their own wounds. Next she rounded on Elijah.

"Captain."

A muscle feathered in his cheek but he eventually gave way and with a sigh stepped back to sit once more on the bed, gently tugging Lyssia to sit with him in a mindful gesture of her own state. He ran a hand through his loose hair.

"Elliot Aldmar wants the Dynast dead, I very much doubt that she would be interested in hearing how we plan to save her life."

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

Lyssia stiffened when that gaze fell upon her. She decided that she did not like the centauress very much, and would likely have already said something to the effect if she wasn't so thoroughly exhausted right that moment. She did, however, nod at the explanation offered even if she deliberately ignored the unspoken part of that answer. Lyssia could easily read between the lines; she was a former noble, after all, and politicking was literally nothing but reading between the lines, and inferences, and a thousand other things besides.

"Thank you," she said with a delicate and disapproving sniff. Her chin would have come up a little, but for being so tired. All the same, her tone was as frosty as winter itself.

She would have offered resistance to Elijah's insistence to take a seat, had not the gentle tug nearly put her on the ground. As it was, she had to take a moment to steady herself enough to even take the step forward to jump up and take a seat beside him, a proper distance away. Even clearly unwell, she still fiddled with her skirts as primly as though she were an old lady, adjusting everything to show the least amount of skin. She especially drew the sleeves of the dress she had been given down to hide the scars on her arms, self-conscious as those made her feel.

Her eyes widened at Elijah's declaration. "Wait...why?" She asked almost as the words left his mouth. Lyssia turned her eyes to Elliot, question raw in them. "Why would you want her dead?"

 

[Elliot Aldmar]

Wanting the Dynast dead. Not an accurate assessment of him (likely one fed to the captain by his superiors), but not an entirely inaccurate one either. Her death would mean nothing if the beast of Dornoch itself was not slain, and her continued life would not be of any particular concern if the beast did fall while she survived. The Dynast was not the hydra--merely its most dangerous head.

But there was no need to disabuse them of what they thought. Even if he decided to attempt it, what would be the point? It would not be so different to when he was directly asked about his allegation, "Did you do it? Did you murder her?" What answer would sway someone convinced of their preconceived notion? A "yes" confirmed their conviction, and a "no" was something a murderer would say anyway.

D'avore's questioning response, and her involvement in general, was most baffling of all. Elliot (perhaps strangely, from the perspective of those around him) cast a disappointed look her way. Such astounding loyalty, so grievously misplaced. Of what worth was her betrayal, the one virtuous act of her life, only for her to go crawling back to the Dynast, groveling, pitifully asking for more? How much did she crave her seat among her fellow perpetrators?

Elliot hooked his thumbs into his belt. Let out a small breath with closed eyes. Then opened them, looking squarely at D'avore still. His tone was patient and measured.

"You've never once considered if her life deserves saving. If all that she stands for deserves instead to burn."

Lyssia D'avore Elijah