Completed From the Root

[Bebin Theros]

Three Years Ago

It had been several days since they had left the safety of the Monastery and traveled north and east toward the Spine. Their packs had been well supplied, and hunting and foraging kept them in good stock. The dry goods, the jerky and flat breads, fruit leather and roasted nuts, those they could save, as fresh game and the wood's bounty made up most of their meals. And while they ate around the camp fire, night after night, swapped stories and played little games in those moments, quiet and still, they all knew why they had been sent out.

Brigands had seized a minor trade route that connected many mountain villages in the spine. Spread their grasp across the surrounding area. Mercenaries turned bandit when the lords that had hired them had sewn for peace, their squabble settled, the transgressions that had been their pretense for war had been deemed accounted for, or at the very least no longer worth the cost. Too many men. Too many supplies. Too much gold.

So, off the mercenaries went. Off to find another means to their wealth. Off to find Red Rust Gulch.

It was far enough from major settlements that no lord would deal with it outright. Found it easier to take the longer routes around, pad their caravans with extra muscle whenever the accountants advised that the time lost was too costly, better to take the upfront cost of well armed escorts. Even a more professional troop of bandits would be deterred by the bristle of trained spears and the shimmer of good steel. At least, as long as there were smaller, less equipped caravans to pick off. And there were. Of course there were. And those villages and towns were too poor to pay for quality mercenaries. So they would pay for protection.

A tithe to the Stone Hearts.

This was why they came. The Knights of Anathaeum. A pair of Duskers and Dawnlings. They came to run out the brigands. See them scattered to the wind, and gone from Red Rust Gulch, so that the people of the spine could find some modicum of peace, if only for a short while more.

The forest was growing thinner as the foothills grew steeper, more rugged and barren, the soil turned rockier, the terrain rougher. Bebin mimicked a bird's call, a mountain chickadee, sharp and high and small, three tweets. He stopped upon the slope of the hill, low to the ground. "It won't be long now until we find sight of them," Bebin said to his dawnling counterpart. A response call came on the wind, two tweets of the same tone. It was clear. "Will like stumble upon a patrol or two tomorrow, if not tonight," from the shadows of a distant rock outcropping came two figures, their armor dimmed, and painted. Even the Dawnling had muted the usually bright and polished steel of her plate.

Bright eyed, Syr Demiex closed the distance in a hurry. "No sight yet, Syrs," he said, somewhat breathless.

Syr Merrycourt smiled warm behind him, her emerald eyes sharp, despite the tired in her gaze. "We did, however, find old tracks, not two days old if my eyes are worth trustin," she wasted no time in getting comfortable. She dropped to a crouch, and worked her pack off her back, began to dig through it, pulled a strip of jerky, and tore a chunk off with her teeth.

Bebin frowned deeply at her. "Too soon to be eating into our dry rations, Pursuant," he scolded.

Linda waved him off. "We've caught plenty, and besides," she took another bite. Exaggerated some, to add emphasis. Chewed, then swallowed. "I stashed some extra caches for our trip back home," she winked at Bebin, who huffed, but nodded. She looked to Faramund, and offered him some of the salted strip of dry venison. "Care for a bite, brave Syr?"

"Eat it quick, its our turn to patrol," Bebin said, and already had his bow at the ready.

Linda turned some in her squat, and pointed with her hand toward the direction she had come. "I left some signs for you to find," she sat down. "For magicked eyes only," she said, and pulled her water skin free from her pack.

 

[Faramund]

"Rather eat into your rations than mine, brave Syr." Faramund replied from the gloom, the clink of muffled chainmail marking his approach. Taking the strip of salted meat from his fellow Dawnling, the man dipped his head in gratitude. It had taken them a week and then some to make it this far. Footsore, saddle-sore, they had made the climb in search of bandits.

Now, the prospect of combat seemed like something to look forward to. An end to a journey. An end to the... 'quest.'

For Faramund, this was just a job like any other. At least that's what he told himself. Merrycourt believed there was more to him than what was on show. But then the same could be said of any sentient creature. "Didn't run into any trouble while you were out?" He asked, chowing down on venison. The Dusker, Demiex, turned to him, a strange look on his face. "Like I said... we caught no sight of them." Faramund nodded, pausing his chewing to reflect on some half-forgotten memory.

"Are you okay, brother?" Merrycourt asked, the smile gone from her eyes.

"I'm fine." Faramund lied, forcing a smile onto his face. Turning to Bebin, the big Dawnling saw off the last of his meal before snatching up his pack. The meat was tougher than old boot leather, but much more appetizing. "Right," he said, fixing the hood of his cloak so it sat low across his forehead. "Shall we?"

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin fixed a stern look upon the younger Dusker, and hummed beneath his breath. "You look ragged," he said, and then looked to Merrycourt. "Be sure he gets first watch, will give him more time to rest come nightfall,"

Merrycourt smirked. "Yes, thank you uncle Bebin, I am well aware of how to rotate the watch," she shook her head, small smile back upon her face. "Go on now, we did our patrol, you go and do yours, and leave the camp to us,"

Another hot breath left the large Dusker's nostrils. "I did not mean,"

"I know, Syr Bebin, we will be fine,"

Demiex came out of whatever strange daze he had fallen into, and he met Bebin's eyes, nodded. "We are fine, Syr Theros, I, just had a hard time with the climb," he smiled weakly. "I am not used to these elevations, the thinner air, it... wares on you."

Bebin nodded, and looked back to Faramund, and nodded to him as well before he stepped toward the boulders and trail that Syr Merrycourt had marked, his hand grabbed up his own pack, and slung it on, made sure to get a good fit. His eyes flashed silver, a quick and aquatic sheen that faded as quickly as it had come, and he could see the way stones that Merrycourt had marked with her magic. Green blips of slowly ebbing mana.

Some way away from their camp, with the others out of sight, he spoke. "Something between you and the boy?" he asked.

 

[Faramund]

Walking out into the encroaching darkness, Faramund took point. Picking a careful path through the rocky terrain, he stopped to wait at the first waystone. "Considering you're the man with the magic eyes, maybe you should be the one to lead, eh, Dusker?" Turning to the dark figure that was Bebin, Faramund smiled, displaying a surprisingly intact set of teeth. "'Course you could leave me to it, but my eyes ain't what they used to be, alas."

And if they stumbled into an ambush, Faramund didn't want to be the first one to get a chestful of arrows.

The smile faded as Bebin asked him about the boy. "Demiex?" The burly knight asked, knowing full well that was who the Dusker meant. "I barely know the man. Why? Has Merrycourt said something?"

 

[Bebin Theros]

Wordlessly, Bebin moved before the Knight Sworn, sure to follow the motes of magic which marked the scouted path. "Maybe there in lies the problem," Bebin grumbled. "There seemed to be some tension between you two, that is all," he provided, though he thought that maybe he was piecing things together. "You and Merrycourt," he went on, nose flicked back at the camp they had left behind, and Bebin slid his gaze onto the dawnling, feet still careful as they marched across the rocky terrain. "Would she have reason to say something?"

He would be surprised if the ex-mercenary answered.

For all his ability, Faramund was not raised in the order, far from it. He had just been recruited not a year prior. And, with so little time among the Knights of Anathaeum, it was only natural that he had yet to learn the importance of its core tenants. Trust and unity. Dusk and Dawn as one, an extension of the other, not warring ideologies or arguments that required victory to hold validation.

Without the palm, the blade cannot be drawn, and without the blade, the palm cannot ward away the evils that assailed them. As individual knights, as the order, as well as those they sought to aid and defend. Still, Bebin knew the man had some good to him. Short as his tenure with them had been thus far. Bebin had to trust in the judgement of his fellows, in the decisions that would place such a man at his side. Else they would likely die, so far from the green pastures of Astenvale.

Besides. New dawnlings always seemed to take longer warming up to the cold reality of the Monastery. For rare were the places upon Arethil were the dark magics were seen not as evils, but as tools, pursuits of knowledge to guide a mind to greater understanding. Dangerous, yes, but so too was the fire, and the sun's light. Why, Bebin oft wondered, did the men and women of Dawn find it so easy to mistrust. To question and scrutiny? A weakness in their own hearts, perhaps. Fear of the darkness they knew so little of, and they felt within themselves.

"Come, the trail leads up," Bebin nodded at an old goat path that zigzagged back and forth across the steep hillside. IT was near vertical, and would make for a slow ascent, but it would see them above the outcropping. Out in open space, there were boulders scattered about, and some ditches and bluffs, but the plateau was mostly flat. In the distance there were more bluffs, large pieces of the mountain, jutting out like jagged spears, and he could see the end of the green marked trail ahead. "Not much beyond that boulder there," he pointed out a fat round rock that looked like a jagged dragon's head, slumbering upon the earth. "Got a feeling we will come across something out here, sooner rather than later," he nodded, as he scanned the horizon.

He can't a spell beneath his breath, gestured with his hands, and exhaled slowly as he pushed out his own magic. "Light of the Loch, to obscure us," he said briefly to Faramund. The dawnling would see his own arms and armor fade from his eye, ever so. Greyed, made murky, it would blend with the surroundings one moment, then re-appear the next.

"It requires a part of my mind, to keep us cloaked," Bebin went on, and began marching, his figure too, like turbid water, ever trying to settle and clear, the light around him bending, like it did around clouds in the sky or the water of lake. "You lead now, dawnling. I hear you can track well enough, and my attention is split." He jerked his head forward. How would he do in the lead, the Dusker could not help but wonder.

 

[Faramund]

"None that I can think of, friend Bebin," the Dawnling replied, surprising them both in the process. Who was he to say what thoughts dwelt in Merrycourt's foreign mind? Most of the time, he barely understood his own. Maybe that was why she had brought him to the Monastery to begin with. Perhaps the she-elf saw in him a lost soul in need of salvation. Or perhaps she saw in him a devil, worthy of disgust, and redemption.

Perhaps neither.

Bebin didn't dig further after that, and Faramund didn't bother to elaborate. There was no need, really. They had a job to do, after all. Bandits needed slaying. The usual mess. Following after the Dusker, Faramund picked a careful path up the mountainside. The ground was stony underfoot, and damp. Treacherous. Bebin seemed to be doing just fine, though, and Faramund didn't struggle much either.

A lifetime of walking the lands had its boons, he guessed.

"You hear correctly," the Dawnling replied, slipping past the Dusker to take point. Even without the magic muffling his steps, Faramund moved silently. Two decades of scouting for a mercenary band in the hard north had moulded him into a ghost. A spectre of steel and cloth and flesh. The skills he relied on to survive were those of a mortal man. He did not need to channel some unseen power to know where to step, and when. He trusted in his hearing and his sight- both of which were reliable despite the self-deprecating jokes he frequented.

He was a man born to this kind of business. The shadow-work, the subterfuge. Shit, maybe I shoulda been a Dusker, he thought, slipping into a crouch as they passed the last waystone. "We stay low now," he said, his voice a whisper on the wind. "And move swiftly. Do not trip or falter. The bandits will have listening posts out... Watchers in the dark." Or they would if they were competent, Faramund realized. He would have to assume as much.

He hated assuming things.

"See that fire there?" Faramund asked, pointing to one of the distant, weatherworn bluffs. "That's a lure. These men know they are being hunted." No self-respecting traveller would come this high, after all. None with any sense, anyway. "I estimate maybe three... four bandits between us and that there warmth. They'll be positioned up high, with bows and slings." Fara shrugged. "Least that's how I'd do it. Good news is, they won't be too happy." He smiled as he turned to his comrade.

"No-one likes freezing their bollocks off, y'see. One of life's many truths."

 

[Bebin Theros]

Try as he might, that last bit had a smirk cut across the Purusant's lip. "A truth indeed," he said with a hush. His eyes looked over at the flame. The flickering tongue meant to draw them in, he heeded the Dawnling's words, looked for high places. The boulder with the dragon's head, for one, the bluff, yes. He could see them. The unnatural slumps and clumps that were just a little too round against the rock, looked a little too soft.

"There," he pointed at two shapes against the rocky wall of the bluff. An archer sat, just ever too high above his cover, the lax sway of his head hinted at conversation, a turning and talking to his fellow. "Two perched high," he scanned the horizon below. Looked for any dips in the terrain, trenches and breaks where a clever hunter might hide. Nothing though. Not that he could discern with his naked eye. "Not enough, there must be more hidden away," he muttered, and his fingers adjusted their grip on his bow. "Be ready, I will search another way,"

Back into the depths of his mind, Bebin went as his eyes came shut. The wind that howled across the stones, the breathing that left his nose and Syr Faramund's own sounds. Their heartbeats, the flow of their blood. The crackle of the distant flame, and that fire, so clear and gold and hot in his mind. All of it blurred away.

Out rippled his mana, his magic web, spread across the terrain. Faint. It pinged against Syr Faramund, he could feel him, heavy and sure and rooted in the earth. Two more, spread wide across the field. They were the mouth of their kill box. The fire, he felt that too. Its warmth.

Bebin's brow furrowed, and he opened his eyes quick, sharp with a flash of anger, like fire across dark steel. His whiskers curled up as he grinned. "Five," he warned, and nodded far left and far right. Two shapes stirred, slinked against the stone in retreat. Tightening their defenses. "The last one is by the flame," Bebin looked out, could not see the man, but had felt him, there behind the wash of gold. "A mage," Bebin knocked an arrow against his bow. "And they know we are out here," his grin turned proud smirk. "But not where we are," he said as his form rippled in shadow and loch.

 

[Faramund]

"'Course there's a fucking spellcaster." Faramund cursed, peeling his hood back. Now that darkness had fallen across the Spine, he would need every little bit of light he could get. To find the observers, to watch them. And to hunt them, he thought with a grim certainty, when the time comes. "Best let Syr Demiex know what we're up to 'fore it gets too nasty." The Dawnling advised, rechecking his cloak and pack to make sure they were fastened securely.

"Unless you're thinking discretion might be the better part of valour on this one?" He asked, eyeing his brother with a look of understanding.

 

[Bebin Theros]

"I have marked the danger for Merrycourt and Demiex," Bebin assured, though his eyes stayed fixed on the fire ahead of them.

Dark eyes calculated darker outcomes. How their ploys could fail. Arrows they could send, and arrows they would take.

"The mage complicates things," Bebin admitted, though there was no less certainty in his eye. "I did not sense his ability," He could see in memory, his own shadowed theatre of thought, that shimmering pool of consciousness amidst the expanse of pitch and murk. A window, but one he had tried to break through. Glass, while a fragile defense, made a mess when you broke it carelessly, and could cut. "He is trained, may even be college trained at that," he said, and looked to Faramund, unsure if the new bit of information mattered much to him.

"The shadows will be our armor, brother," he said with a smirk. "I will give you a boon, it will give us precious minutes of loch-born cloak, so we must make haste once it is passed on and our tether cut," again, the turbaned knight closed his eyes and focused his magicks, a full breath pulled in to his big lungs, his stalky frame expanded with air, and he pushed it out once more, planted a seed of magic in his fellow, which sprouted and spread. "The cloak is set," he smirked, drawing quicker and shorter breaths before he steadied himself.

"Let us take the front two first, quiet as we can, then I will take the mage," he looked up at the darkening cliffs. "I leave the snipers to you," he looked one last time to Faramund, and nodded. "Trust in the Dusk, so we may see our next Dawn, brother Faramund," and he slinked off into the shadows, a swirl of murk that diffused into the fading light of twilight.

---

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

"As you say, friend Bebin. Stay safe, and try not to get caught too soon, eh?" Slapping the Dusker on his back, Faramund returned the knight's nod. Though it wasn't meant as a farewell, Faramund couldn't shake the idea that this might be the last time they saw each other. Not that it would matter much in the end. We are both dead men walking, after all, he thought, taking a steadying breath, his eyes locked on the distant fire. Tonight is not our night to die, alas.

No. No, tonight the bandits would do the dying. Poor bastards.

"Right." Slipping away after Bebin, the Dawnling picked a careful path towards the crag. Somewhere up on high, the first of the lookouts awaited him. Shrouded in darkness, and hidden by Bebin's magic, the knight made the climb with relative ease. Before long, he had reached the bandit's perch.

Unaware, inattentive, the man placed there to watch the approach neither saw nor heard Faramund until the steel touched his throat. And by then it was too late to do anything except make peace with his Maker. Not that there would be any peace where he was going, Faramund reckoned.

"It's the deepest, darkest pits of Hell for you, mate," the knight whispered savagely, using the man's gambeson to wipe his rondel dagger clean even as he twitched the last of his life away. "Save a spot for me, yeah?"

 

[Bebin Theros]

Through the shadows Bebin did lurk. A figure that was there in one moment, gone the next. Already low and to the earth, clinging to cover beneath the cloak of night as he crept and slinked and shuffled from boulder to boulder.

He could take the forward scout out with a shot of his bow. The distance was no longer too great. It would be safer. Easier. But there was always that little variance that occurred when you let an arrow fly. The wind could carry it off. The string could snap. If the gods were feeling particularly cruel, the arms of the bow could snap, splinters let fly to the sound of a horrid crack.

Yes, he had the arrow ready. Rested against the wooden frame of his bow. Just waiting to be pulled back as his bow hand pushed forward. Insurance. Bebin told himself. An option he could resort to if he was made. But so far, he could see the lone guard keep his look out. Eyes on the horizon, body just a little too relaxed. Heavy with fatigue. Their mage had signaled them somehow, pulled them back.

Was he a mind mage as well? A stray pursuant of the loch? Perhaps he knew a spell or two from such tributaries of thought. But that was not his true pursuit.

The scout came closer in Bebin's eye, the be-turbaned man stalked forward, slung his bow over his shoulder, sure now in his approach. Slow, steady, as to not catch the eye of watchers distant and on high. He was behind the forward observer now. No blades in hand, though his large hands were splayed out, palms flexed, fingers stiff with a ready strength.

A snap of arms, a snatch of hands, fingers sealed shut the mouth, stopped the nose, as Bebin's other arm held tight arms and torso. He squeezed tight. A jerk from the hand clamed across the man's lower face. The pop of bone, the snap of nerves and tear of sinew. The scout had had no time to scream. He fell to the ground, eyes wide open, body limp. Bebin took a knife from his belt, and sank it into the back of the brigands head.

A mercy. For he knew the man still lived. If only as long as it took his mind to starve from the lack of air, its connection to the body severed, and only the eyes left to watch the world around them grow dark as his mind like screamed for something more.

There was nothing more, only the distant glow of the fire. Bebin whistled out the song of a mountain bird. The mimicry near perfect. A sound at home amongst these rocks and peaks.

Target eliminated. The mountain bird's song would say to those ears that could understand it. Moving forward. The last few trills alerted.


Bebin wiped the blood upon his knife against the man's cloth. Turned him over, and shut his open eyes before he crept onward.

 

[Faramund]

Rifling through the dead man's pockets, Faramund was quick to take inventory of what he found. Apart from a few simple potions and a palmful of coin, there wasn't much to find. A strange pendant shaped like a human skull hung from around the slain man's neck, but Fara paid it little mind as he dumped his pack and the looted items into a nook carved into the rockface. The bandit's sleeping mat lay inside. It was a shame, really.

"Never again will you know it's comfort, friend."

Turning to observe the grey, the knight of dawn set about rolling the bandit's body off the the ledge and into the abyss below. With a mighty heave, he sent it spilling down the jagged rocks, food for the mountain lions and carrion birds. Target eliminated, a disembodied voice spoke to him on the wind. Bebin's voice. Moving forward. "Likewise." Faramund replied, unsure whether his words would ever reach the man. Probably not.

Stepping out from 'neath the rock, Faramund continued his climb. The wind howled in his ears as he stepped from foothold to foothold, a predator scenting prey. Cold as his father's grave, it hid him and his smell nearly as well as the darkness did. At least for a time. But no good thing could last forever. Nor could a mortal man hope to achieve perfection in his endeavours.

One slip was all it took.

The clatter that followed was enough to wake the nearest watcher from his restless stupor. Ten feet. Or twelve? Faramund didn't know; all he knew was that a bandit had awoken, and turned to face him. "Harp?" A male voice called out. Fara froze as he saw the man reach for his loaded stockbow. "Harp?" It demanded again. Faramund's mind raced as he sought an answer to a question he could never have gotten right. His body tensed as he envisioned the snap of a bolt being loosed his way, of a broadhead finding his eye.

"Yes?" He answered eventually, having paused for what felt like an eternity.

An eternity was what it took for the bandit to reply. "The fuck're you doin' up here? You get lost or somethin'?" Feeling a bead of sweat slip from his brow, Faramund let out a calming breath. "Thought I saw someone comin' up through the pass. Thought I should let the boss know." Another pause as the bandit digested the news. "Are you mad?" He asked, lowering his stockbow and ushering Fara on, seemingly satisfied. "He'll skin you alive for abandonin' yer post, what with them cult buggers sniffing around."

Scuttling close, Fara got within an arm's reach of the bandit before squatting down by his side. He heard the man sigh. "I'll go tell 'im what you thought you saw. Maybe he'll go easier on m-" The bandit's breath cut off abruptly as Fara opened his throat from ear to ear. Grasping, clawing, his gaze swivelled to meet Fara's own. His eyes widened as realization struck, sharp as steel and just as deadly.

"I'll tell him," the knight intoned, reaching out to bundle the bandit gently to the floor. The man jerked in his arms, and for a second Faramund actually felt bad for the guy. "I'll tell him," he said again. "You just rest here awhile."

 

[Bebin Theros]

Stalk still through the shadow of coming night. The Sun low on the horizon. Low beneath the jagged peaks. The air cold and growing colder with each breath that passed through Bebin's lips. He whispered a prayer to the lady of the loch, to the trumpeter swan, Meitelfros, so that her boon may last moments longer. So that his breath, and his mana, mingled and mixed and left his coil in offering to her wreathed about light.

Yet the fire. How it did burn so bright. Its tongues of endless gold and red and white. How they ebbed and flowed, dipped and danced.

Come. They seemed to say. Come and bask in our warmth. They beckoned. Come, out from the cold and into our glow.

Bebin closed his eyes. Let breath flow out from his nose, and let his face turn to stone. The mage. He was there. Bebin could feel him. Though he could not sense his mana. Did not feel his trace.

The Purusant of Loch adjusted his grip upon his bow, and slunk closer to the ring of enchanting light. He saw a shape there, behind the flame. Tall, broad shouldered and wearing cloak. The mage. Smooth was the motion that came next. Easy.

Bow raised, arrow already nocked, eye already trained. His fingers pinched, he sucked in a breath and pulled back the string. Let fly. The arrow punched forward with a sweep of wind behind it. Feint trace of loch light imbued within the arrowhead. It rippled through the flames, which did not but bend around the missile. It struck-no-phased through the mass of the Mage. Bebin's eyes narrowed.

An illusion.

A call, a cry of bird song. Shrill and sharp and clear. DANGER.

Flame sparked to life at his flank, the pour of sparks and rogue motes of fire that dripped to the stone ground all but a flash before a gout of fire streamed out with the head of a hydra. Bebin grit his teeth, made himself small, and slammed his mana into his wrist as his whole body shoved toward the fire. A ripple of blue, a veil of Loch bubbled out of his wrist, and all the flame crashed against it, washed over in a tide of searing heat.

 

[Faramund]

With one final jerk, the bandit went still. Laying him to rest on blood-slickened stone, Faramund took a moment to search the man's pockets. An old habit, from a time where wealth and warmth didn't come readily. Like the bandit he'd killed earlier, this one only had a few coins on him. There was a rabbit's foot stuffed down the front of his brigandine, too - for luck, if Faramund had to guess.

Much good it had done him.

Making to rise, the Dawnling paused midturn. Around the man's neck, a pendant hung. Silvered, in the form of a skull. The first bandit had possessed something similar. No, not similar, the knight of Dawn realized, breaking the cord and palming the pendant. An exact copy. Strange. Feeling a moment's disquiet, Faramund stuffed the symbol of death beneath his mail before it's bejewelled eyes could seek to undo him further.

"Best mention this to Bebin, when I see him," he said, the gulch's cold breath making him shiver.

Clambering to his feet, Faramund continued his ascent. With three men dead, he only had one more to deal with. Taking it slow, Faramund watched as the spell Bebin had cast upon him began to flicker and fail. It was only a matter of time before the magicks disappeared entirely. Hastening towards the peak, Faramund's eyes widened in alarm as fire bloomed forth from blistered rock to scorch the night red.

Steel glinted in the firelight as the last bandit materialized in front of Faramund. Squatting down not a dozen feet away, Fara barely got his sword free by the time the bandit reached him. "Bastard!" The man screamed in his face, spittle preceding steel. Raising his own blade, Fara braced as the bandit struck, the blow forcing him back a step. "Bastard!" The bandit cursed again. "Die!"

Turning the next strike aside, Faramund bulled in close to seize the man by his wrist. "You first," he replied, bringing his forehead down on the bridge of the man's nose. Blood splattered across his face as he twisted, pulling the bandit with him. Planting his feet, Faramund threw the man backwards, releasing his wrist even as the other lashed out wildly. The point of the man's blade came within an inch of the knight's throat.

It still wouldn't have been enough to stop him from disappearing over the side, into the darkness below.

 

[Bebin Theros]

The gout of flame petered and drained, turned to trickle and feint stream that swirled and licked and tried as it might to lash and eat at the shield of blue loch light. But the bubble kept its strength, shimmered some as its surface steamed and the fires there on went out.

"Filthy dragon cultist!" the fire mage cried out. "There is but one true god of the vale!" The hooded man shouted, raising his hands up as storm clouds gathered above him. Sparked white with a charge of power. Bebin broke from his crouch, shield retracting back to the size of a standard round as he sprint in an arc around the mage. "That's right!" the man cried out. "Run in fear before the power the true god grants me!" Lightning came down from the sky, struck the cultist, but so channeled was his mana that he seemed to hold the bolt of energy in, his eyes sizzling and white with the burn of arc-fire. He cast his hand out, and the white fork of power sprang out.

Bebin drew in a deep breath. Focused his own energies, even as he darted from stone to stone.

A flash of white hot roots cracked forward. Smashed at Bebin's feet, sprayed shards of rock about with loud booms. But they pinged off his steeled flesh, and he kept running, arms and legs pumping in long and powerful strides. A second sizzle and crack and split of wyrd blue heat spider struck toward him. It boomed in front of him, the plume of debris and shrapnel engulfed him, and Bebin exploded out the other side, tumbling and rolling across the earth until he came to a hard stop.

The mage laughed, maniacal, and gathered up what energy swirled within him, turning to try and find Faramund.

 

[Faramund]

The bandit disappeared into the black abyss without a sound. Breathing heavily, adrenaline flooding his veins, Faramund stepped closer to the ledge, his blade held low and ready. The maw out of which he had climbed stretched wide open beneath him, ready to swallow him whole, should he allow it. A part of him -the negative, curiously self-destructive part- was tempted by the prospect; the more rational part recoiled at the thought of a final escape. Things weren't that bad yet, surely? He was still needed in this life, in this moment.

He had a need, too. And it's name was Bebin.

Taking to the slopes one final time, the knight of dawn bounded his way towards the fiery summit, the crackle of thunder and lightning interrupting his racing thoughts to smite the star-speckled sky his eyes could see. The afterimage left him momentarily blind. A few quick blinks and it was gone. The next time it happened, he was almost ready for it.

Of course, not being able to see clearly didn't help him much when he reached the top.

Laughter, harsh and maniacal, greeted him. "What's this? Another cultist come to do his draconic master's bidding? How does it feel, to be a pawn in someone else's game?" Shaking his head in an attempt to quell his swimming vision, Faramund almost let out a curse as he spotted the mage Bebin had warned him about. Clad in dark, bloody robes, the fire mage looked like a demon drawn from the pits of Hell. Magic, the flashy, virulent kind, swirled around his visage like a shield against the night.

Lightning crackled in his hands, snaking around fingers splayed in Faramund's direction.

"Fuck," the knight swore, clasping his sword tight as the powerful magicks lashed towards him like so many outstretched arms. Reaching for the skull-head pendants he had looted, Faramund scrambled aside as the first jagged bolt tore the air by his side, making his hairs stand on end. Two more bolts ploughed into the stone by his feet, pelting him with rubble even as he sought to avoid it. A fourth, crooked and quick, struck his breastplate plum, knocking him backwards.

The fifth, however, hit the pendants. The small, meaninglessly simple bits of silver.

And then the world dissolved into a white nothingness.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Black was the world about him. Bottomless and pitch. He, but a weight drifting down to the crushing depths. Not quite stone, for flesh was buoyant.

In that ink space, between the waking and the dream, came a memory.

Distant stars burned bright beneath a blanket of plum and moonlight. A twinkling sea above the world they stood upon. Two figures upon the wide planes, painted in pale shadows beneath the two moons' light.

"You must never forget, young Theros," the older man cloaked in deep-sea blue, runed with silver and gold threads that webbed across his cape like so many lines of ley and charts of stars. "That the mind and the body are two, yet one. The soul, yes, it too resides in the coil of our flesh, but for us," the knight turned to a younger him, more stone and steel then than anything so tranquil as the gaze that looked upon him. "The soul is but an anchor, that keeps our minds tethered to the truth," the eyes came shut. That distant night faded into black. "To pursue the Loch, is to walk between all truths and lies, and know that all are but gates that lead to new paths,"

There in the pool of the subconscious, Bebin's eyes came open.

There upon the dust covered earth, Bebin's body flexed what strength it could still draw upon. Pain. Stinging. Red. Hot. He could feel blood trickling from his wounds. Cuts and gashes along his legs. A shard of stone lodged into his side. Pain. An illusion. A signal from his mind. His eyes, their vision blurred, turned to find the mage. The storm swirled about him. Surged out.

Faramund.

Bebin grit his teeth and worked his legs under him, folded up the bloody mess that were his limbs and bowed his head. Thunder clapped. Lightning sizzled as the air was rent through by the heat. The power. Bebin dipped his fingers into his own wounds, like the nib of a pen into a pot of ink. Traced a third eye of red upon his forehead, and drew in a swell of breath.

First. His presence would vanish from the minds of all around.

Second. He would trust his sworn brother to survive.

Third. He would kill this demon. He only needed a moment.

 

[Faramund]

"You gon' spend all day sat on your ass, boy? Wake up!" Opening his eyes, Faramund let out a small groan. The summer sky was clear, the air warm. Too warm to get any work done. Rolling over, the young boy did his best to block out the sunlight with his back, content to lie there and soak in the rays until eternity itself ended.

A sharp boot to the ribs saw that dream crushed before it had barely formed. "I said Up! Get up! 'Fore I tan your hide wit' me belt!" Scampering to his feet, the young Faramund stared up at the figure who had so rudely awoken him. "Seven hells, lad, you're as white as a sheet. Seen a ghost?" With the sun at his back, Faramund's father, Faramund, leaned over his son, something akin to concern etched across his face.

It was then Faramund the Junior knew he was dreaming.

"This world... ain't real." Faramund said, his voice surprisingly childish for a grown man. "'Course it is." Faramund Senior replied, a smile twisting his lips unnaturally. "Don't you recognise where you are?" Looking around, Faramund took a moment to collect himself. In the sleep fugue, his mind slowed to a snail's pace. It was sometime before the blinding sun waned enough for him to see...

The Blightlands. Home. Hell.

"This ain't real!" Faramund cursed again, this time with his own voice, the voice he remembered. Faramund Senior's laughter was like a knife in the ribs; unexpected and painful, it hurt the knight in ways he would never quite understand. "Sure it is," the old man said, shaking his head. "This was your reality, remember? Every day was a day spent on the move, with ash on your tongue and steel in your hand and fear in your belly. You remember, don'tcha?"

Staring up at the ghost of his father, young Faramund nodded. He did remember.

He didn't want to.

"Why am I here again? Why have you brought me here?" He asked, anger and confusion clouding his thoughts, drowning out the sound of wind gusting across scorched plains. Faramund Senior smiled in a way he never had in life. He shook his head. "That's something you'll have to figure out for yourself," he said, kicking at dirt and stones with the foot he'd used to rouse his son. Strange... it almost sounded like thunder? Shouting? "For now, it's time you woke up."

------
​

Opening his eyes, Faramund let out a loud groan. The night sky was dark, and punctured by a million twinkling stars. The air brushing his skin was cool, then hot, then cool again. Light shimmered and danced in the dark of his periphery. Magic, the dazed knight figured. Always with the bloody magic. Sitting up, the big man growled as he prodded and poked at his chest.

A hole had been punched clean through his breastplate to display the skin and fabric beneath. That was odd. Faramund felt fine. From the pounding in his temples, he'd bumped his head going down, but other than that he was fine and dandy. As fine as anyone blasted by lightning could be, truth be told.

Grabbing his sword, Faramund rolled to his feet.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Upon the black mirrored surface of the Loch sat Bebin, of the physical realm, and through the polished glass pierced Bebin of the Loch, lit in a ghostly blue. Down was up and up was down, and Bebin of the Loch, fell and flew through a world of dim and drowning light. Down and up and away from his physical counterpart, sat so neatly at the surface, where feint ripples did pulse outward.

But a drop of rain, was that blue Bebin, falling through a pitch sky. Falling toward a bonfire. A blaze. Swirling and storming and crackling with white arcs of power. How the fire mage curled in on himself, like so much billowing smoke, sucked into its own heat as the cold around it kept it from running too far and fast.

A streak through the dark. A strike.

The blue drop pierced into the roil of fire and storm. Injected through the swelter and smoke. There within the center, there flickered and cackled the mage. White hot.

The cultist laughed, both in the Loch and in the physical reality. "To think! You would challenge me here!" his eyes found Faramund, and there was a wildness to them. A hunger. "Arrogance," he raised up his hands and lightning arced between both extremities, sizzled through his splayed fingers. "Sheer and utter arrogance!" he brought his hands low in a sweep, and lashes of lightning whipped down and sizzled and cracked across the stony earth about Faramund. "Your dragon god cannot protect you here, ye pests of Anathaeum!" He lurched his body forward, to smash his hands together before him.

A clap. Paltry. Muffled and unclear.

"What?" the cultist looked at his hands with incredulous. He scowled and clapped his hands together again. A crisper clap this time, but nothing more. "What?!"

The cultist went rigid. His eyes went blank and his arms snapped to his side. His head leaned up and he gawked at something unseen. His lip quivered, and he seemed to contort. joints bending at odd angles.

Within the Loch space, Bebin stood where the fire once roared with such belligerence, his eyes shut, his posture tall and straight, and his hands clasped together at his center, forefinger and middle pointing up in a seal. Beneath his blue boots, the black surface of the lock rippled, ever so.

A massive serpent, scales shimmering blue and black, coiled about the paralyzed Cultist. Constricting the life out of him.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

"Seems we're not the only arrogant ones." Faramund growled, no longer caring whether he lived or died. The mage, wild-eyed and wicked, had frozen mid-spell. Or perhaps he'd been petrified. Faramund knew of creatures capable of performing such a feat. Last time he'd checked, he wasn't one of them. Fuckin' Bebin, he thought, brandishing his sword as he closed with the mage.

Slowly, calmly, the big knight came to stand before the spellcaster. Up close, the mage wasn't much. Bedraggled, worn down, he had crow's feet around his eyes and fleas in his beard. There was dirt under his nails, and Faramund thought he scented the familiar reek of ale on his breath. "Lost your tongue?" He asked, meeting the fire mage's eyes.

Trapped, with his arms down by his sides, the man couldn't even nod in response.

Shrugging, Faramund drove his sword through the man's chest. Blood bubbled around the opening steel created, then began to torrent out as Fara twisted and shoved in close. No longer frozen in the place, the fire mage stumbled backwards, pulling free of Fara's blade, his mouth yawning wide to display rows of yellowed teeth. Behind him, the campfire flickered and burned bright, shadowing the dark form of Bebin Theros.

The mage twisted and fell face first into the flames.

Faramund let him cook.

 

[Bebin Theros]

Stench. Grime and fat and hair and flesh, burned in the roaring camp fire. Crackled and hissed. Popped as tongues of gold leapt up higher as the moisture of blood was quick to cook out and new fuel fed the rippling fans of flame.

He did not scream. That twisted mage. Could not. For the coils were too tight. The mind, so lost in the Loch, it could not signal his mouth to shut. Could not feel all burn away.

A small mercy.

A second gush from the fire. And all the mage was engulfed, his form featureless beneath the blinding light and wash of heat.

Bebin let open his eyes, a-lit with silvery blue. Breath swelled into his lungs. The stink of the burning mixed with the coppery tang of his wounds. He let out another long breath. Felt tired. Spent. He grimaced and forced his bloodied legs under him, despite the call of pain that sprang from the fibers of his muscles and torn flesh that twitched to work still, he stood.

"Syr Faramund," the turbaned knight croaked out as he looked across the rocky ground. The heat of the fire beat across his back and cast heavy shadows across his features, painted maddening yellows and reds. "I believe it is best we rendezvous with Syrs Merrycourt and Demiex," he glowered at the craggy landscape that stretched out before them. "However, I would be loath to give up this position we just dug out, and have more of these... weeds take root,"

Bebin turned his gaze on Faramund, lip upturned at the smell of burning mage like he smelled some stale piss. "How do you see it, brother?"

 

[Faramund]

Faramund gave his wounded brother little thought as the man appeared from the darkness, battered and bleeding but otherwise whole. His eyes, as bright and distant as the moons, instead remained fixed on the mage. Or what was left of him. The flame had engulfed him fully by now. Faramund could not recall hearing the man scream or cry out despite the considerable pain he was sure to be in, but then he couldn't recall much of the last fifteen minutes either.

Brushing at the hole in his breastplate, Faramund took a moment to calm himself. His hand shook as he stared down at it. Blood, wet and damp in the moonlight, stained his palm.

His blood. Or that of the enemy. He couldn't quite remember.

Mostly because he should have been dead right now.

"What?" Snapping out of the trance he was in, Faramund turned to regard his comrade, shock replacing his usual calm stoicism. How do I see it? The big knight thought, wiping his bloodied hand clean using the folds of his cloak. "I doubt we will have to face anymore of this rabble tonight," he mused, studying his counterpart closely. "Probably for the best. A strong gust of wind is likely to do you in, given the circumstances."

Moving away from the fire, Faramund retraced his steps. His mind raced and his arms felt heavy, but he was in surprisingly good state for someone who had just taken a lightning bolt to the chest. "Stay here. I'll fetch the others and grab my pack on the way down. Merrycourt'll see to your wounds once we get back." Looking over his shoulder at Bebin, Faramund's expression took on a sombre, somewhat unseen expression. "She's always possessed a healing touch..." Nodding as if he'd said something profound, the knight began his descent.

"Light guard you, brother."

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Eyes lit by the light of loch scanned quick across the frame of Bebin's battle brother. A web of flame still traced about Faramund. Feint, but there. The Pursuant could see the swirls and lines of lightning, made manifest by the pursuit of flame. But traces, as thin as spider's silk, sizzling across Faramund's breastplate. Swirling about a hole, like a tiny whirl about a drain.

So. Faramund's condition had changed. Curious.

Bebin exhaled with force, his eyes losing their glow, and he set himself down upon the ground once more as the fire went on, crackling and devouring its fuel. "Very well," he let out, and felt the itch of the drying blood glyph he had painted on his forehead. " I trust that despite taking a bolt of magicked lightning, you have strength enough to make the journey," he ground his teeth, and shut his eyes as he fell into another pool of calm and focus. "Go with haste, and may the darkness veil you, brother."

His powers depleted, Bebin did not chance willing his mind to connect with Faramund. The dawnling had always been hard to work with in that regard. With little aptitude in magic, at first the Pursuant left it to nothing more than a matter of sheer ignorance. Thought that Faramund was man so far removed from his own inner mind that the pulls of the Loch were as feint as a cloud across desert skies.

In time. Bebin had hoped the soil of the former mercenaries mind would turn fertile. Take hold of the lessons of the Order. A year was not long. But it was not so short either.

Through that barren scape Bebin had learned his way. As water does through even the most parched earth. Troublesome as it was. What boons he could grant never lasted long. As if Faramund's being rejected the very magick that swirled about their world. Not quite inert. A filter, as fine as cheesecloth. Rejected the particulates and slowed what flow did manage to work through.

Troublesome. Yet, that same trouble had kept him alive. Had it grown stronger now?

For now. Bebin could not but wait upon that plateau. Mind stilling though the flames behind him hissed and popped. Embers in the air, stench thick as smoke swirled about. Portents of what would come, to be sure.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

"Give me a hand here, will you?" Turning from his place by the fire, Faramund took a moment to regard Demiex as the dusker struggled with what remained of the fire mage. Charred, and smelling faintly of bacon, the spellcaster's corpse looked every inch like something you'd find on a battlefield. The man dragging him didn't appear to be in any better state. "Come on! Stop sitting around and help me!"

With a sigh, Faramund cast the last of his salted beef into the writhing flames before climbing to his feet.

"As His Lordship commands," the big knight grumbled, stepping over Merrycourt's outstretched legs as he made his way over to Demiex. The man appeared deathly pale in the moonlight, his skin the pallid colour of a corpse. Clearly he hadn't spent much time disposing of dead bodies. Faramund, on the other hand, was something of an expert. "On three," he instructed, stooping to seize the fire-touched mage by his legs. "One, two..." Hustling the twisted, flame-shrunken body over to the nearest ledge, the pair were quick to cast it into the darkness below.

As soon as the deed was done, the young dusker sank to his knees, clearly sickened by what he'd just experienced.

"First time?" Faramund asked, his voice halfway sympathetic. Demiex nodded. "Thought so. I'd like to say it gets easier, but... well," he shrugged, placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Take a moment for yourself, okay? I'll be by the fire."

Releasing Demiex's shoulder, Faramund wandered back to his place by Merrycourt's side.

"I see our friend still hasn't woken up." He commented, sitting down. "Resting, I take it?" Smiling, the half-elf turned her bright-eyed gaze towards the comatose form of Bebin as Fara made himself comfortable. "Aye, just resting," she said, confirming Faramund's suspicions. Amusement warmed her voice as she continued, "takes a lot out of you, casting spells. Not that you would know anything about that, talentless heathen that you are."

Faramund shrugged.

"Well, he couldn't be in more capable hands if his wounds do worsen, I s'pose." Grinning, the dawnlings fell into a companionable silence, the fire crackling gently in front of them. Over by the ledge, Demiex's shadowed form remained huddled against the night. His cloak, a lighter shade of grey, fluttered and flapped around him as the harsh wind sought to drag him from the bluff.

Some indeterminable amount of time passed before he found his feet. Turning, the dusker took a step towards them, only to pause, one hand covering his mouth. "Oh shit!" The garbled words came before he rushed off behind a boulder.

The guttural sounds of a man heaving up his guts echoed on the wind. Merrycourt frowned.

"Poor lad," she said, a touch of sympathy in her voice.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Within the realm of the Loch, the Knight Pursuant did find himself. Cross legged and sat upon the mirrored surface of its endless expanse. The fire. Warm and still jumping with life, popped and hissed and whispered its ephemeral song. And Bebin would listen to it. Just as he would listen to his breath.

The touch of life still kissed his wounds. Its warmth still spread and webbed and rooted in his flesh. Held his rent flesh together, all the better for his own energies to flow and heal.

Meditation upon the Loch, it could help further speed along the recovery. Both of mind and body. If the user rooted into the energies of the world around them. The gust of the gales, the sturdiness of the stone, and the warmth of the wavering flame.

Yet, he found little rest within the waters of his mind. His peace disturbed by the hiss and crackle, like little laughter and cackles.

"To think! You would challenge me here!"

Came the words of the vanquished.

Little more than bravado. One part of Bebin's mind assured him.

Yet, another part of his mind begged to ask. Why here?

A smell, acrid and foul punched into Bebin's nose. The turbaned knight huffed out a breath and shook his head in disgust. His eyelids twitched, and his eyes came open, angry and squinted as they searched about. "Anything new?" Bebin asked the two knights who lounged about in the pit that gave them some respite from the howl of the winds. He rose up to his feet.

"Sides you gettin up out of your mind cave like some undead snake slitherin from its hole?" Merrycourt said with a proud smile across her lips. "No, Bebin, nothin new,"

The fire crackled and hissed and laughed behind them. Bebin grunt, and looked to where Demiex was losing his lunch, then his eyes fell back to Faramund. "Our reports should have mentioned a mage," he said certain, and looked to Merrycourt in turn. "Especially one so capable,"

Merrycourts' expression grew serious. "Could be they caught wind of our approach,"

Bebin grunt and looked about the terrain. "A likely story," the mage's corpse was gone. Bebin's eyes cut to Faramund once more. "Did you find anything?" he asked. "Earlier,"

Syr Demiex came back from behind the boulder, and weakly sat about their makeshift camp.

Faramund