Completed In the Eye of the City

[Faramund]

The intersection was where they had agreed to meet in case things went wrong. Standing on his own, hood drawn against blazing sun, Syr Faramund waited for his companion to appear. What had transpired in the cellar of the butcher's hut had shaken him somewhat, but the fear and confusion had ebbed considerably since then. Now, he barely recalled why he had been afraid... Strange, that.

Scritching his jaw, the big knight decided to let it go. He could think back once he knew those he cared about were safe and sound. Josai, Bebin- even that hothead, Lenry.

Where was Bebin, anyway? It was unlike him to be late. Very unlike him.

Reaching into one of his belt pouches, Faramund withdrew a battered old compass. Timeless, or perhaps time-withered, the navigational tool had been a gift from the Spear Witch herself. Enchanted, its purpose was not to help one find North. It could, however, find that which had been lost. Namely, one Bebin Theros.

Flipping the lid, Faramund watched as the needle stirred to life. As if sensing his intentions, it span and span and kept spinning until it had figured out the direction in which he should travel. 'Well, here goes nothing.' Stepping out into the street, Faramund let the tidal wave of bodies sweep him away.

One with the flow, he paid close attention to the compass as it turned hitherto. Down ram-packed streets and dingy alleys he went, searching for a man who, by all means, couldn't be found unless he wanted to be. Crossing a plaza constructed in honour of Lady Luck herself, the big knight paused as the needle stopped suddenly.

Quivering, it began to spin wildly. Looking around, Fara noted the time displayed on the nearby clocktower. Mid afternoon. 'Looks like I missed lunch,' he sighed, staring forlornly at the little compass in his hand. The needle continued to spin violently, and damn near burst free of its frame as Faramund gave it a hard shake.

Righting itself, the needle pointed west. To a side street big enough for one cart and little else. 'Where to now?' Faramund wondered, booted feet ringing out as he strode on. The buildings closed in around him, and his world fell to one of shadow as he followed the compass's unerring direction.

To the... sewers?

'How lovely,' the knight said, sighing to himself as he tucked the compass away. 'Trust Bebin to get himself knee-deep in shit!' Drawing his sabre, Faramund gave the rusted lock a few lovetaps. The chain came away with a loud clangour. He threw the bars open.

'Down we go, then!'

Bebin Theros

 

[Josai]

It was upon hearing the name of the order that Windri's eyes went wide. "Ser!" she called out. "That's them that helped us in the siege! Know the ones, stood on the walls with our men, one of them even rode out against that great green lizard and its horde!"

The other guardsman nodded. They all remembered the siege. Part of why they were so spooked.

"Aye, heard one of their kobold knights gone and killed the bloody lich that roused that stinkin horde of undead," the square headed man spit at the memory.

Sargeant Mardu growled. "Right then," lowered his guard. "Get your bloody lizard out the city, and carry on with your business," the look in his eye said they weren't going anywhere till she followed through. "Good lady knight,"
​

---

Lenry gawked from behind the cover of the great door that sealed the Ashrose. "Shit," he cursed, and looked back to the others inside. They likely wanted no trouble. He couldn't blame them, their order had already brought plenty of woe their way. But, he couldn't move forward. Couldn't help the newly sworn sister that stood surrounded by the guard.

Syr Darthinian would have to rise above this under her own strength.

Suppose it helped that she had a dragon.
​

---

Petra Darthinian Ysilia Iliandar Faramund

 

[Bebin Theros]

Shadows clung heavy to the damp bricks of the sewer way, and with step after plodding step, the pewter eyed thing, all spines and ribs and fluctuating mass, hunted.

Its spines, like frills and antenna, bat and stirred the air around them. Its upper eye, slashed through, laid still, its lower eye, with its rune made pupils, spun and ground and seemed to scan its path.

Step, after plodding step. The pewter eyed thing marched along tunnels, and Bebin followed, a shadow within the shadows, guided by sound, more than his own sight.

Filth covered, it was only training and discipline that had him continue breathing. And he could already feel the toxins working through his system. The fetid waste and disease that incubated in such places.

His time was limited.

And he would not be able to operate at full. Already wounded as he was, his rivers and streams purging the disease with the innate resistances he had earned over decades of inoculation and exposure. Minutes, ten at most before he needed to tend to the spread. Burn the poison with the magick of life.

Breath, short and controlled. His heart steady.

Step after plodding step, the construct ventured further through the depths.

"Oh, oh, Liro, look, look," Bebin could hear the parting of lips. The wet squelch of flesh pulled wide across wet gums. "Our little joy is back, its back,"

"It's damaged,"

"Ohhh... so it is, so it is..." a tut tut tut of the tongue. "Come here, precious, let ol Fandle take a look at you,"

A whisper of steel pulled from its sheath. "Something else is here,"

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Something else is here.' A voice echoed through the turgid depths towards Faramund. Up to his knees in watery shit, the knight felt he was already deep enough to warrant catching a break. Looking over his shoulder, he waited for the voice to recede. Bebin was down here somewhere, but Faramund knew they had not been his words. For one, who did the dusker have to talk to besides him? Lenry? Josai?

The Everwatcher?

Good one, he thought, smiling despite the somewhat shitty situation he found himself in. Trudging on, his feet swish-swooshing through the muck and flotsam, Faramund continued the hunt for his missing partner. The compass had led him here, and for the past twenty minutes he had trusted in its ability to find that which was lost. But now, with the stench making him nose-blind and the darkness crowding his senses, he was starting to doubt its judgement.

Or, as was more likely, his own.

Venturing on, Faramund's movements began to grow muffled. He could not stop the waters from rippling in his wake anymore than he could blot out the sun. But he had learnt early on in life how to move quietly, so quietly he moved. On and around and, in one foul-smelling instance, over.

Until he found the man he was looking for.

Pausing to allow his eyes to adjust and his hearing to adapt, the knight turned his gaze to the wall where Bebin crouched, black against black. 'Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes,' Faramund whispered, leaning close to examine the dusker's face in the dark. 'Hate to tell you this, old friend, but you look like shit.' He took a whiff. 'Smell like it, too. What happened? Run into something you weren't expecting to?'

Water lapped against his legs as something moved in the darkness ahead. There were more words, hushed this time. A slender, tall figure appeared in the whispering grey. Too tall, too slender to be human, it waited at the end of the tunnel, black on black. Like Bebin. Like him.

'Thought so,' the dawnling sighed, readying his sabre. 'Guess I'd better go introduce myself. Can't wallow here all day, though, you seem to have made yourself at home.' Smiling, Faramund waded on. 'Make it count!' He called over his shoulder, breaking into a run as the strange critter loped towards him out of the darkness.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin stared at the man, "Faramund," he uttered in a whisper that rolled like smoke from his lips. The dawnling went on, trying to play it off. Trying to ease the mood.

The Dusker could not say he was unmoved by the big man's words.

A sound down the tunnel told him what came next. Bebin let out a long breath as Faramund drew his own conclusions. But before he could give the brute directions, the big dawnling made ready, and waded out into the muck.

The construct moved forward. Its pewter sphere ground, one way, then the other. Runes shifting, each taking turns as the false eye's pupil. The lattice of scry-lines and rune work woven about the focal glyph, created the illusion of an oculus. But the creature went on, step after plodding step. Its false eye blind to the man who bound toward it with saber drawn.

"Well, if that ain't a curious thing,"

"Oh! Oh! It... what?" the screechy voice of Fandle worried and wondered. "Its, its eye must be malfunctioning!"

Bebin remained hidden. Wove no magick.

The calm baritone of Liro rumbled. "No, I think it's working just fine..." he laughed. Arrowwood knocked gentle against the bow, and the bend of bow arms sounded soft against the splash. A hard twang and thrum as the string let loose the missile.

A glint of silver that raced toward Faramund.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund made no effort to disguise his movements. Running fast, or as fast as the murky waters sloshing about his legs would allow, the knight hove towards the half-blind creature barring his path. He could see the marks Bebin had left on its greying flesh and across its upper eye. Wounded, but far from spent, Fara surmised, preparing himself to dodge at the first signs of hostility.

The arrow came first.

A silvery pinprick in the gloom, it clattered off of the knight's raised vambrace with enough force to bruise the skin beneath. 'Ohhh, he's quick!' Liro laughed, nocking and loosing a second arrow in the time it took to blink. Punching through the darkness, it sliced a neat line across Faramund's cheek. 'Not quick enough.' Liro continued to laugh and loose, laugh and loose.

Giving voice to his anger, the big dawnling threw himself into the flesh construct hard enough to drive it back towards the archer and his meek accomplice. The spines covering its back flinched in surprise, reached out like feelers towards them. The slick carapace protecting its abdomen from nape to navel started to glow softly where Faramund had rammed it with his shoulder.

Staggering backwards, Faramund grimaced as his skin started to crawl in response. For all his considerable strength, he felt like he had just run headlong into a brick wall.

Spinning on its axis, the pewter eye searched for him despite the proximity between them.

Closer still was the sabre. Slashing diagonally from his left, Faramund blinded the second and last eye just as Liro swept around from the side. Exposed, Faramund twisted to avoid the blade thrusting towards his neck. Steel nipped at his earlobe, carried on past him. The cultist tried to compensate for the near miss.

Laying the edge of his blade against the side of Faramund's neck, he went for the draw-cut.

Faramund shoved the bastard's arm away before he could. 'Quick enough for you?' he asked, striking from the wrist, left to right. Liro's grin as he ducked aside was answer enough. Behind him, the ghoulish construct began to emit an eerie howl. It did little to drown out Liro's laughter as the two combatants closed, their dance beginning in earnest.

While somewhere behind them, beyond the construct and its shivering spines, Fandle worked to undo what Bebin had started.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Liro was an old hand. A close to a believer as one could be, without pluckin the eyes out of their skull and putting them up for offer.

He moved like a mountain cat. Languid and easy, till his long muscles flexed to strong strike. His teeth bared in wide grin as the construct stepped and stutter stepped. Its eyes of pewter, scratched and scraped as they tried to break into free spin.

A false-cut, a thrust, a back cut. A clang, a ring, a scrape. "Figured I'd be high enough in the pecking order," he said with a laugh. It turned to growl. "Yet here you are!" A wrath cut, down at the big knight's neck.

A light of blue shimmered before the down-swung blade. Caught Liro's edge, and slowed it before the bind of viscous magicked water snapped into a cold splash. Like twin snakes, the trails of drink sank fangs into Liro's armor. The strange, carapace-like skin was punctured by the liquid fangs.

Liro grunt, stumbled back as fresh blood oozed out of the wounds and ran across the chitinous armor.

The peweter eyed construct's spines fanned and danced, it turned. Its weight loaded down onto bent knees as if it could sense the magick that channeled in the air. Its eyes, halted, glowed, as did the soft flesh neath its hard shell.

"Yes, yes, go, hunt the mage, hunt the mage!" Fandle said with a jittery laugh. His lone eye, large behind a magnified lense, glowed a ghostly blue. "I will be your eyes, yes, through my lids doth you see, oh sweet thing, oh precious treasure mine," he snickered.

The spines shot from the construct's back, up and out, like razor ribbons of liquid steel. They arched and sought to skewer the hidden Basilisk.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Round and round they went, like vultures circling a corpse. A strike here, a strike there. Parry, riposte, disengage. A barbed word to accompany the biting touch of steel. 'You're nothing special,' said Faramund, undeterred by the way the cultist moved in the half-light. He was a wily little cunt, to be sure. Yet, underneath all that armour and evil, a heart beat its battle rhythm.

Liro was mortal, and mortal men could be killed. Cold, hard fact to rival the foolish beliefs of the cadaver as he capered from side to side, avoiding Faramund's blade by mere inches.

'No need to lie to me, Syr Knight,' Liro barked, his voice nasally and horrid. 'I know what I know, and what I know is... you're dead!' He giggled, went on capering even as the sabre caught him clean on the arm.

His sword, a straight bit of killing finery, went spinning into the murky waters of the sewer. Liro didn't seem to mind though, not when his second blade was already blurring towards Faramund's head. 'Gotcha!' The cultist cried out, bubbling laughter taking on a maniacal edge now that he thought the fight won.

Death halted His advance suddenly. Bebin, however, did not.

In an instant, the odds turned in Faramund's favour. Lunging forwards, the big dawnling threw a savage cross-cut. Liro, proud, loyal Liro, failed to face the truth even as it tore his head from his body. 'How-' he managed to gargle out, a moment before the sabre struck.

Still smiling, his eyes met Faramund's. His body, accepting defeat, began to sag, down into the brown depths at its feet. 'No!' Faramund heard a voice cry out. 'No, no, no, no, no! This is not the way it was supposed to go!' Turning, the knight's gaze alighted on the final cultist yet to face his reckoning.

Fandle held up his hands placatingly, even as his feet began to carry him backwards. 'You wouldn't hurt Fandle, would you?' the cultist asked, his appearance far from sweet. 'Poor, precious Fandle! Honest Fandle, kind Fandle!' Sweeping his blade to his shoulder, Faramund started to approach the cowering cultist. Kind or not, he was Enemy. And the only good enemy... was a dead enemy.

Throwing up his hands, Fandle shouted desperately for aid. Water lapped against the back of Faramund's legs as the construct answered its Master's summons. Spinning, Faramund deflected the first needle with his blade. The second wasted itself on plate.

The third punched clean through his thigh. The knight began to fall.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

"Haha!" came the mocking voice of Fandle, who hopped and skipped away from the wounded Dawnling. "Traitorous, treacherous! NO GOOD FOR NOTHING," his voice choked, dead in his throat. His eye bulged, huge and blue behind the thick lense of glass. "What," he rasped. Grabbing at his throat. His eye looked down, desperate, saw nothing but his hands. Felt a pressure building in his neck.

From the darkness came the glow of cold blue eyes. Their light as deep and clear as the distant summer sea. A blue so true it cut clean through the murk and the stench of that dark place they peered across.

"There, there" the Sightless faithful managed, lifting crooked finger to point into that darkness in which the blue leer did loom.

The construct's fins rattled and shook, the one in Faramund's leg whipped out, violent as it thrashed. The spines upon its back oriented themselves. Their points pulled to the magick that gathered in the dark. One by one, they fired out of the the construct's back. Speeding toward the pair of eyes that bled loch's light into the darkness.

One by one, they sank into the shadows, the eyes, never moving, held their fathomless stare.

A blade like sapphire, burst to form from the shadows and Bebin raced forward with arm cocked, liquid weapon there. One of the spines upon its back shot out, raced toward Bebin who closed in. Caught him across the shoulder, shallow. He answered in kind, plunging the loch-bladed katar deep into its lower pewter core.

Like fingers made to fan, all the spines left upon its back rattled. The ribs along its shell shook. One such rib sprang open, hard like metal rod, it cracked against the Dusker's frame.

Bebin grunt. Was near knocked loose, but he drove the loch-blade in deeper. Took his knife from his belt with a quick jerk, and stabbed that second fang in too. Another rib cracked free from the construct's frame and whalloped Bebin across the the thigh. Something in his leg popped, and his balance was lost.

The Dusker went down hard with a splash into the muck.

The construct's spine's returned.

"Kill them," Fandle gasped desperate. "Kill them, precious thing! Kill them all!" he laughed.

Bebin burst from the muck. Gasping for breath. "Blind the seer," he ordered. "We need him," he tried to speak, rolled away from a heavy stomp from the construct. But it jerked and wobbled, found it hard to move as black ooze, like mercury mixed with blood, eeked out of its shattered core.

Bebin's dagger was still driven in, loch lit water there where the magick blade had been driven in. "Alive!" Bebin called out. As he got up to a kneel. Shit pouring off of him, one leg useless, his magick taxing him beyond his limits. Still, his eyes came to light with the burning blue of night's stars.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The wall was too thick with grime to provide much support. Slipping, cursing, Faramund tried to stay upright even as the wound in his leg bore him down. Cultists would be the least of his concerns if the damn thing got infected. Not that he would have to worry about that when he was dead.

You're not dead yet, a voice in Faramund's skull reminded him. Up, now, up!

Resisting the urge to stay down, the dawnling hauled himself to his feet. The pain in his leg was like a lit fire 'neath his skin, Burning, purging away the muscle and his ability to move, it slowed the knight as he made after Fandle. The Everwatcher's chosen disciple was too busy working himself into a frenzy to pay the wounded dawnling much heed.

'Yes! Yes, that's it! Kill him, o' treasure mine! Kill, kill, kill!'

Kill, the voice in Faramund's mind ordered. Kill him, and be rid of his filth. Fara felt more than happy to oblige. Readying his blade, the knight raised it on high. Fandle -kind, honest Fandle- turned at the looming shadow. 'Master?' he asked, all the fear gone from his eyes. 'Is that you?'

The doppler paused. It knew what it had to do, and was more than willing to take control should "Faramund" prove too resilient. Only... it couldn't.

It couldn't?!

Smashing the hilt of his sabre into the side of Fandle's head, Faramund drove the cultist down into the frothy shit-and-piss water. Blinking, breathing hard, he made to steady himself against the wall as the seer thrashed about. Down, but not quite knocked out, the bastard's head rose above the waterline.

Spluttering, struggling to get a word in, Faramund made him docile with a boot to the face. He almost lost his footing, but by God was it worth it. 'Seer down!' He bellowed to Bebin. 'Now finish that fuckin' thing off, will you?'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Seer down!

With the flesh-made eye of the construct down, the strange thing, that bled a most virulent bile, grew erratic. Its fins fanned and flickered, cascabelled as it tried to orient itself.

Now finish that fuckin thing off, will you?

Bebin grinned at his brother's words. A deep huff of breath pushed out from his proud nose. His hands held before him, at his chest, the saphires of his vambrace burned a deep blue that painted his filth covered form in that midnight light. His own fingers splayed out, stretched wide, as if tentacles of a squid, spread wide to grab their prey, wrist to wrist.

The water that traced the construct's core glowed with cerulean blue. The trails of water, like little rivers, seemed to run down and around the cracked form.

Seerless, the construct turned toward Bebin. Its spines wild and flaring.

Bebin's eyes widened all the more. His fingers flexed, as if each digit were bound to the strands of water that ran across the pewter orb. Lower and lower the water ran across that soft metal surface. His hands, whose digits looked like snaggled fangs of serpent's maw, came closer and closer. And deeper did the running water cut.

The construct shot spine forward. Once. Twice. Thrice. The first went wide. Its strandlike body thrummed beside Bebin's head. The second punched into flesh, sliced across he rib, but the angle was shallow. The third still flew toward the pursuant, whose eyes streamed tears like comet tails.

Bebin's fingers came shut. The sphere sliced through.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

His leg hurt. Blood as dark as the water flooding his boots wept from the open wound on Faramund's thigh, soaking the hem of his mail and making his trews stick to his leg wetly. He didn't have the means to clean it, and throwing a bandage over it wouldn't do much besides help it fester. Alas, it was better to staunch the wound than let it bleed.

Reaching into his satchel, the knight searched blindly for anything that might help slow the lifeblood flowing from his wound.

Wet parchment adhered to his fingers, crumbled apart as he brought it to the light.

Shit, thought Faramund, desperately scrambling to save what documents he could even as his wound continued to bleed, forgotten if but for the moment. It had taken him some considerable effort to get these. He had fought for them, killed for them. Now, they were dripping and destroyed, all save for a few in the middle that had yet to suffer too much damage.

'Bebin's gonna be pissed!' the dawnling mused, slipping the salvageable notes into a newer, dryer compartment.

The fighting further up the tunnel died down as the Basilisk's poison finally worked its magic. The Seer's creation, blinded and brutalized by magic and steel, began to lag, stumble. A final, crushing blow from Bebin's loch voodoo saw the monster brought low.

A wave of sewage shot up in its wake, swept down to take the Seer in its grip.

Faramund caught the unconscious man by the scruff of his robes, hauled him over to his side. 'Bastard's out like a light,' the dawnling smiled, grimaced. 'Think I'm 'bout to be too, minute, two tops!' The adrenaline flooding his system held off the worst of the shock. Most of the pain. Still, if they weren't quick about it...

'Find us a way out, Syr! I'll carry this lumpy sack of... shit.'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin stared at the pointed spike that jutted out, just before his eyes. Aimed to split his skull right through. Hot breath left his lips in wisps of steam, his eyes ablaze in blue. Sarkan Sep, the Basilisk of Dreams, coiled about the waters of his mind. helped the slowing currents of his life's rivers flow clean and clear, even whilst toxins and waste threatened to overwhelm.

The knight drew in wretched breath. Felt the swell and pain that pounded in his leg.

Minute, two tops!

Broad hands clutched at mal-shaped knee, with an inhalation, a flex and a twist, he snapped the dislocated join back into place with a pop that shook through his bones. His breath shook.

Find us a way out, Syr!

A grunt came from the Pursuant. His eyes traced the downed machination. A thing of bone and flesh, as much as it was metals and oils. His eyes, still pulsed and full of magick, snapped shut, and the memory was locked deep into his mind. His hand slipped into his jacket, a hidden pocket nestled beneath the padding of his armor. He pulled from its confines a vial, the liquid inside a green so dark it looked bitter.

"Lifegiver," a potion commonly made by the order's healers. Nonmagical. Boosted energy, and helped the body fend off infections. Staved off most poisons that worked through the blood and shut down systems like the lungs and heart. How it would do against a river of shit and the diseases that lived there in, who could say. He pushed it into Faramund's hand.

"On me," he croaked, and hurried down the path, his legs like lead, his chest tight and all his body threatening to fail. Toxin. Exhaustion. The price of magick. It did not matter. They lived, and they had no choice to live on. If only moments longer.

---

Topside, Outer District

The door came open, hard and fast, the family inside stared wide eyed as the two big men hurried in. Covered in shit from head to toe, and carrying another slumped over the shoulder.

The father tried to protest. "The-what- hell- hey! Who-"

Bebin gave him a look that broached no retort.

The mother layed her hand on his arm and pulled him back, the child already behind her.

"Lay him down on the ground," the Dusker rumbled.

"What's- I mean, what's the meaning of this?"

Bebin hurried to the door, and sealed it shut. Turned back to the scared family.

Minutes had bled by. How they were standing. No time. "Guard business," he stated flatly. Gruffly.

"G-guards? You ain't look like no guards to me,"

Bebin growled. His body hot with fever. His mind amidst a haze. "Faramund, are you with me?" he asked. His eyes found the wife. "Water, please, we need water,"

She nod, and hurried away.

"Hold on, hey, you can't just go an-" Bebin turned on him, grabbed him up by the collar of his tunic.

"I need you to shut your mouth, before I shut it for you,"

The father's bottom lip quivered, and Bebin let him loose. The woman had returned with a clay jug that sloshed full of water. A small wooden basin there in her other hand.

Bebin had some time left. Though his energy waned. His lips felt dry and chapped, as his body burned the liquid inside him to stave away the deadly toxins.

"Clean rags if you can, do you have a bath?"

The woman shook her head no. "B-but, Wilmer does, our neighbor," she called to her son. "Onli, go and tell Mr. Wilmer that we'll be needing his bath, and tell him its an emergency,"

Onli, not but eight years of age, nod, and hurried out the door as the mother scrambled to the back room.

Bebin looked to Faramund, who near keeled over. He grabbed the big man, and laid him up against the wall of the small home. "Eyes up, Syr," he grunt, controlled his breath. took a small knife from his belt, and sliced away at the shit covered cloth that clung about his bloodied wound. Tossed it away. Faramund was immune to most magic. But water, clean and pure, had a magic all its own.

The pursuant got to work, administering what aid he could through the haze of his shit-born fever.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund hadn't been lying when he called the seer a lumpy sack of shit. Fat, weighed down by sodden robes, it was a miracle they had managed to get him out of the sewer, let alone through the door. 'Sorry about this,' Faramund greeted the family awaiting them inside. Foodstuffs covered the table around which they sat, reminding the knight that he had skipped lunch to pull Bebin's ass out of the fire.

Jury was still out on whether it was worth it.

Dumping the seer unceremoniously in the corner, Faramund stifled a curse as his leg started to play up. Who would have known taking a spike through the thigh had its downsides? Limping over to the nearest wall, his breathing ragged, the big man took a moment to sit.

The room swam around him as he slid down to his haunches, then, onto his ass. 'Pretty shitty day, huh?' he laughed as Bebin intimidated the family into doing his bidding. Not that they were really scared. It was more surprise than anything. 'Twas not every day armed men broke into your home and demanded a bath of all things.

Clean water, too. Don't forget that.

Keeping a hand pressed hard against his wound, Faramund let his eyelids fall shut. The damn things got heavier by the second, and now that the fighting was done, he was starting to realize just how exhausted he really was. Starting, the knight turned his gaze to Bebin, the man stood behind him.

From down on the ground, it was easy to tell when someone was looking down their nose at you. 'It's 'cause I'm bleeding all over your floor, isn't it?' Faramund chuckled, tried to find his feet. 'Sorry 'bout that.' And he was sorry. They had burst in on this family during a private moment, a sacred moment. They had the cultist to blame for that.

Though Faramund tried to bear the burden himself. Probably why he collapsed a moment later.

'Don't call me that, fool-arse,' the knight bit off his words, waving Bebin's titles aside. 'Don't call me Syr, not when I'm dying.' An exaggeration, that. But one that felt close enough to the truth as not to matter. Lots of arteries in the human body, lots of weaknesses. Had the construct found his?

Cracking one eye open, Faramund forced a smile. Maybe. 'Hate to tell you this, brother, but you look like I feel.'

Taking a few practised breaths, the big dawnling sat up straighter. A hand intercepted his comrade's wrist, kept it from administering aid. 'Tend to yourself, friend Basilisk. I can take it from here.' Blinking, Faramund nodded, once. 'Go get cleaned up. Won't be long now 'til... 'til our friend over there w-wakes, yes.'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin met the dawnling's eyes with a hard look, as cold and dark as deep water. "Save your smooth talking for someone it works on, Faramund," a smile hinted at the corner of his lip and he pulled his wrist away. "Last, I checked," he took a knife from his belt, and cut free a swath of fabric that clung about the wound on his leg. "You weren't afraid of a little field medicine," it was an ugly mess. Flesh reddened and flush with purpled veins.

He grabbed at the jug of water, took a deep drink from it. Exhaled. A cloud of steam wisped and whispered from his mouth. The pursuant closed his eyes, drew in a new breath, cooler through his nose. He delve deep into his own workings, found the well of his own spirit. What was often called mana. Felt it wane, drop by drop, as his body went on working its own magickal defense against the toxins of the sewer.

His right hand glowed with a feint blue light, his palm opened, fingers bent gentle as he reached out to the water within the the jug. With a motion he pulled the liquid out in a clear clean glob, that fluxed and ebbed as ripples of clean blue light pulsed along its surface. His eyes still closed, he drew in a breath.

Within his minds eye he could see the flow of water that coursed through his own being. Fibers of flesh, fed by rivers of blood. He could see where his own wounds bled, and where the heat of poison being burned away flared inside of him. His mind's waters flowed toward Faramund's. The dams, the walls, the maze that he always had to slither his way through, it taxed him with each breath. Tried to push him out.

His eyes opened, a flash of blue, a flick of his wrist saw the blob of water form about the ugly ruin of Faramund's flesh. Another exhelation of breath saw the waters flux and turn. their small body cleaned and purified the area of the wound. Like some healer's salve, it worked slowly. Not but the power of nature, sped by Bebin's application of magick.

"Syr," the mother said quietly. "The bath, it, it is ready,"

Bebin's lungs filled with air and he gave a nod. "Help me move him," he said, and let the water fall back into its jug with a low glug.

He worked himself under the big knight, and gave a grunt as his knees strained to action.

---

"You're awake," Bebin's voice called out to the dawnling. His tone like stone and gravel. "Out for near a three days now,"

They were in a stone room, the solid masonry a far cry from the mudbrick hut they had stolen into when they had broken out from the sewers.

"Sleep well?" Bebin smirked from beneath his black whiskers.

---

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The Doppler did not dream. In fact, it was incapable of dreaming. Communing with its master was the closest it had ever come to doing so. Sometimes when it had something of interest to report, it would reach out through what the Knights of Anathaeum referred to as the loch. Sometimes, when it had failed to report items of interest, Master would reach out instead.

Lost in the haze of its own unthinking mind, The Doppler shivered and shrunk as Master called out to it. The Doppler did not feel fear anymore than it did confusion, but what had occurred in the sewers beneath Alliria city had left it... perplexed, for lack of a better word.

The form it had taken -or more accurately been given- did not often fight back. When he did, it was through a contest of wills. Usually, as had always been the case since The Doppler's conception, it won with ease. But not this time. No, this time he had won the day.

Master was not happy.

Tossing and turning in its sleep, The Doppler tried in vain to soothe its master's anger. Alas, the Everwatcher was not known for his forgiveness nor his mercy. This time, however, Master had seen fit to bestow upon The Doppler an opportunity. To put right the wrongs it had so eagerly helped sow. It would have to kill the Seer before he talked. It would have to kill-

"You're awake," a gruff voice interrupted his racing thoughts. "Out for near a three days now. Sleep well?"

Opening his eyes but wishing he hadn't, Faramund groaned pitifully. 'Oh, of all the sights to wake up to... could it be any worse?' Rolling over, the big knight smothered himself with a pillow. The light of day shining through the window offended his eyes, and the smells! Like being stuck in Orsolya's lab during the summer, thought the dawnling, shuddering as a cold draft tickled his feet where they stuck out from beneath the covers.

'What the fuck did you do to me?' He demanded, his own gravelly words muffled by the weight of the pillow. 'Where's Josai? Don't tell me she's gone ahead and croaked without me!'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

Bebin's eyes looked into the Dawnling's, their gaze full of scrutiny.

"Count yourself fortunate to be awake, Oh Mund of Munds," the dusker turned away from the window. The light of day poured across his frame, and cloaked his features in heavy shadow.

He was out of his armor. Bandages visible, wrapped across his arms. His fingers firm about the muscles of his arms, kept folded at his chest.

"What I could," Bebin answered plainly. "It's not as if you make it easy on us, is it?" he smirked.

Like a river that need cut through stone. Time saw much worn away.

"Your... body doesn't take to the energies of magick, but a medium," he stated. "Water, in this case," he studied the Dawnling. "It has its own properties. Carries its own power that can be... manipulated,"

Then came the question of Josai. Bebin's eyes came shut, and he moved into the shadows, leaned his back against the cold stone wall.

"Her wounds were grave, but with the Healer's help, she should make a full recovery,"

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund grunted, opened one eye to gaze blearily up at the dusker in his midst. 'Should?' He prompted. Faramund didn't know where they were exactly. But stone walls? The wash basin in the corner? The comfortable bed? There was no city stink blowing in through the open window. No sound to remind him of the hustle and bustle that he found so suffocating and yet so easy to blend into.

Bebin had said three days. Plenty of time to get clear of the city. A safehouse, then.

Rolling to dangle his legs over the side of the bed, Faramund rubbed at the back of his neck. 'And the guy we grabbed... where's he exactly?' Faramund couldn't remember much of what had occurred after the sewer scrap. He couldn't picture the shithole he had passed out in anymore than he could the face of the seer they'd nabbed.

But they had nabbed someone. And documents. Half-destroyed documents.

'That reminds me. Manage to salvage any of the notes I pulled from the butcher's place?' Fara wasn't all that interested in the written word. But words that concerned his enemy's movements? Most definitely. Standing, his head pounding slightly, the big man made his way over to the mirror.

'Gods do I need a fuckin' shave.'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

"There are no certainties in this life," Bebin said dryly in response to Faramund's question. "But chances are good that she will be... fit for duty soon,"

Another question came fast. Bebin's brow quirked as he watched the big knight work himself up.

"In custody," the dusker replied. "Syr Lenry watches over him," Faramund rose up out of bed, and made for the mirror. Bebin grumbled. "Least of your worries is a bloody shave," he huffed. Smiled and shook his head. He could understand a bit of vanity.

"We were able to make good on some of the information your documents provided," he let the information sink in before he went on. "Gave the local of more Sightless cells..." he watched Faramund carefully. "Within the city,"

---

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund stared at his reflection in the mirror, and Bebin stared back. The glass had a fine layer of dust covering it. Nothing too drastic, but enough to make Fara doubt what he saw in the dusker's gaze. Scrutiny. 'I see,' the dawnling replied, examining his face curiously. Had his eyes always been that strange colour, or was it simply a trick of the light?

'Doesn't matter how many we kill, there are always more to take their place.' Stepping away from the mirror, his thoughts heavy, the knight turned to find his clothes neatly folded atop a chest by the foot of the bed. They had been mended.

'Destroy one cell and another pops up, quick as you please.' It was downright infuriating, really. Sometimes Faramund grew tired of it. 'Suppose you mean to head back into the city to root these cells out,' he said, throwing on a clean shirt. 'I'd better go with you if that's the case. But first...'

The dawnling turned to his counterpart with a smile. For all the things he had been able to work out since waking up, there was one thing that still eluded him.

'Is it breakfast or lunchtime?'

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

A grunt left Bebin's throat. He nod, and his lips pulled back to reveal a sharp toothed smile. "Breakfast," he said, and let his hands come down to his side. "Dawnling that you are, your gut knows when to wake," he chaffed. His fingers flexed, spanned wide then shut into tight fists.

There was much work still left to be done.

"We were separated for some time during that operation, Faramund," he let on. His breath steady. His eyes still fixed on the man. "What happened in the interim?" His voice was neutral, his eyes black mirrors with the feint light of concern there upon their surface.

But he looked into the Dawnling's gaze, with eyes so used to the depths of the mind. No magick there across the pools of his own sight, save the gleam of intuition.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The dawnling returned the look, revealing nothing more than the slightest hint of confusion. 'I was prosecuting a lead, same as you,' he replied. 'Strong resistance. A sister wounded. You reached out to me, did you not? Instructed I head there to finish what our comrades started.' Faramund paused, sat down to pull on his boots. 'When you did not show, I decided to press on without you.'

Contact had been broken, after all. If there had been further orders to follow, Faramund had not received them. Bebin must have figured that out by now, right?

So why the strange look? 'Three yet remained in the butcher's hut. Two died outright. The third...' The third had greeted him with an odd mix of fear and confusion. Faramund recalled them telling him something... Something important. What had they told him? 'I managed to take the third alive. For questioning, y'know.' Faramund stooped to lace up his boots, went on talking. 'I didn't manage to garner much from our conversation, brief as it was, but I got the distinct impression they didn't know much of what was going on in the city.'

Was that right? Faramund couldn't tell. He felt like it was but...

'The rest is... a bit hazy, tell you the truth. Salvaged some papers, fled from the law- found you using the compass Jos gifted me last Yuletide,' he smiled, sniffed as something small and annoying tickled his nose. 'The rest, as they say, is history.' Standing, the big man cast about for his sword belt. When he couldn't find it, he turned back to Bebin, his confusion mounting.

'Where are my weapons?' he asked. His reflection had turned with him, a beat behind. He pretended not to notice.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

"Confiscated," he said flatly.

His eyes stared coldly at the man before him. His brother by oath. But the thing inside him was no brother.

"I sensed something... in you, Faramund," he made sure to keep his posture relaxed. "It was there when I used the water to reduce the poison in your blood," so twined were his energies with the Dawnlings then. Both had been at death's door.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund felt the blood draining from his face. 'What the fuck are you talking about?' he smiled, tried looking for the joke in Bebin's words. He's not joking, the voice in Faramund's head whispered. It sounded exactly like his.

'What did you find?' asked Faramund, no longer smiling. He saw the way Bebin settled back, like he wasn't doing nothing. But Faramund knew. He knew his friend was building up to something. But why? What the fuck's going on? 'Don't mess with me, Bebin,' the big dawnling warned, his gaze unfaltering as he took a step back. 'What was it you sensed in me that has left you so... tense?'

Out of the corner of his eye, Fara saw his reflection turn away from Bebin to face him. Its eyes -his eyes- were black.

Bebin Theros

 

[Bebin Theros]

The calm did not leave Bebin's face. Stoic as stone. Cool as river water. Even as the black gaze stared back at him.

"The door is locked," he said grimly. It was sealed. Petra stood guard just beyond. Bebin's blood would see it sealed all the more.

Runes carved into the stone work of the floor, a dormant spiral of glyphs that fanned out. Bebin stepped into the focus to which they all gathered.

"You have no way out of here, save through me, Faramund," he showed his brother his hands. Empty, save for the strength there in them. "I do not know what it is, in truth," he confessed. What you are. he left unsaid. "Nor what it has done, or what its purpose is," he had his suspicions. "But you can help in this, brother,"

---

Faramund Petra Darthinian