Argrave approached Anneliese, who’d slumped against the wall, and put his hands on his knees.

“Feeling queasy, or is it something else?”

She nodded to his open-ended question with her hand still covering her mouth, so Argrave did not know what exactly was wrong. He knelt down, perplexed, and looked to Galamon. He did not seem to have any idea of what to do, either.

“Those creatures,” she finally said, her voice no louder than a whisper. Argrave turned his head back to her. Her gaze was locked to the ground. “Do you know what they are?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Argrave replied. When she didn’t answer, Argrave said awkwardly, “Erm… well, they’re creatures made by necromancy.”

“Are they alive?” she asked, her amber eyes finally lifting from the ground and locking with Argrave’s own. “Can they feel?”

“They’re a soul locked in a vessel,” Argrave explained. “That’s the foundation of necromantic creatures. These ones have been sculpted to resemble horrors to damage morale. They’re usually made from the corpses of the Order of the Rose’s enemies.”

“No. I have seen other necromantic creations, fought against Veidimen who turned to the darker magics in search of greater power. Normal necromantic creations felt nothing and displayed no emotion—they were but a vessel for the soul and magic.” She ran a hand through her hair. “These things… they felt. They had emotion. They were alive.”

Argrave bit his lip, unsure of what to say for a time. He thought back to the creatures. Their appearances had been all but engraved into his memory. He felt an instinctual disgust seeing them in a new perspective, but he had been mentally preparing for that inevitability for months. He supposed that clinging to the notion that they were merely souls in vessels had been helpful, but Anneliese’s insights unsettled him somewhat.

When a long period of silence passed, Argrave tried to understand further, suggesting gently, “Be that as it may, they were trying to kill us—surely their emotions couldn’t be dissimilar to those during war. After Barden, you were fine… what’s different?”

“It’s not the same,” she shook her head. “Not the same at all.” She lowered her head once more, staring at the ground. Argrave knelt there, unsure of what to do. Eventually, Anneliese broke the silence.

“When a child is born, they lack all the usual methods of communication we possess. They cannot speak, nor understand speech.” She stared at Argrave. “As a consequence, the only way they understand others is through facial expressions, body language, or tone. One can make a baby cry by scowling alone. They experience emotions more intensely, and project them the same way.

“All I saw in each of those creatures was confusion, fright, dread, and… pain. Each was projected with a childlike innocence. It…” she lowered her head in defeat. “…it probably sounds ridiculous, having seen them. They are abominations. You said so yourself, and I myself do not deny they appear and act abominable. But there is something in them that is unwitting and unwilling. Something with all the naivete of a baby.”

Argrave shook his head. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous.” Anneliese looked up at him, some measure of surprise on her face. “I won’t act like I understand because I don’t. I won’t act like I felt it too, but I trust your abilities enough to believe you. That, at least, you can be sure of,” Argrave lined it out plainly.

“I see,” she said, voice cracking. She stared for some time, and then nodded. “Thank you.”

“The question is…” Argrave sat down. “What do you want to do about it?”

When posed with that question, Anneliese’s demeanor shifted. Her back, slumped against the stone wall, straightened, and her shaking slowed. Argrave had hoped it might have that effect. Rather than focusing on what she’d seen, she would focus on what could be done—drastically different lines of thinking, and perhaps the route to recovery.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked at Argrave levelly. “Do you believe we will see these creatures again?”

“Inevitably,” Argrave nodded. “Ruins of the Order of the Rose are everywhere, and many of them are inhabited with creatures like we saw and worse. In the future, I must enter more of them.” Argrave turned his head to the stone door they’d left. “And once Gerechtigkeit has more influence in this plane, they will roam beyond the ruins. Their creators are all long dead, and he will assume the role of their master.”

“Then I would like to know about them,” she said resolutely. “Their makings, from beginning until end. Their creators, and if they knew their creations felt this way. I am certain their emotions are genuine, but… beyond that, they are foreign.”

Argrave nodded. “Then I will tell you what I know. Perhaps, in time, you can learn even how to make them yourself. I can make that happen,” Argrave spoke calmly. The words made Anneliese frown, but Argrave carried on without heed. “I would not suggest it. It would be a waste of your talents.”

“I would never create such things,” she said firmly.

“Oftentimes one cannot fully understand something until they do it. I certainly didn’t,” he reflected, thinking back to the month he’d spent learning magic.

His words sent Anneliese into a deep introspection, her amber eyes growing distant as she was lost in her own head. Argrave waited for a time, and then eventually spoke again.

“I will explain all of what I know of the Order of the Rose and their nameless creations. If you still feel unwell, we can rest and talk for an hour or so. Otherwise, we will ride slowly back to Jast, and I will explain what I know.”

“Dusk will be here in an hour,” Galamon finally broke his silence.

“We’ll be fine,” Argrave dismissed. “Don’t let that concern you. If you need to rest, rest.”

Anneliese shifted, and then rose to her feet. Argrave stared up at her from the ground. “Your words and consideration towards me are respite enough. I will follow your example.” She offered a hand to Argrave.

Argrave took her hand and pulled himself to his feet. “Then let’s be off.”

Anneliese walked past Argrave, meeting with Galamon and moving towards the horses. Argrave cast one last glance at the stone door.

“Babies, huh,” he muttered. “Just when I was getting used to sleeping better.”

#####

“…so, in essence, what divides the creations made by the Order of the Rose from other, less aware necromantic creations is their permanence on this realm and their capability to perform independent action,” Anneliese sought to confirm, speaking to Argrave on horseback.

“Correct,” Argrave nodded. “Can’t know for sure why they do what they do. Maybe it’s some last directive from the Order of the Rose. Maybe it’s just their nature. All said, the things we killed today have been wandering those ruins for hundreds of years.”

Anneliese digested the information in silence. Argrave turned away and watched the black box containing the spellbook for [Electric Eel] bounce up and down in tandem with Galamon’s horse. The box was strapped to the horse with a makeshift strap, and Argrave was somewhat concerned it would fall.

“If they’re capable of ‘independent action,’ that difference has to come from somewhere,” Anneliese reasoned, pulling Argrave from his concern. “Perhaps that cognition—no, that emotion, both enables them to act without direct command and experience life. Presuming one has a soul from birth, if a soul is used in the construction of a necromantic creation, it would be very similar to a baby’s—inexperienced, naïve.”

“Sure,” Argrave agreed, finding no fault in the theory. “But I’ve told you all I know, so that is only conjecture. You now understand as much as I do, I think.”

“I see,” Anneliese nodded, adjusting herself on her horse. Argrave turned his focus back to the road ahead.

Their party finally neared the black walls of Jast. Off to the side, Argrave spotted Foamspire once again, and his gaze followed it. The sun reflected off its marble walls quite splendidly, and for a brief moment Argrave considered it was a shame that it would be falling into the ocean.

“There you are,” came a gruff voice from ahead, drawing Argrave’s attention. “Mmm, look at you, taking your leisure time. I suppose I would be in no rush to return what’s borrowed, either, but then that’s my profession.”

A man with a pockmarked face sat on a tree branch, one leg bent atop it and the other dangling leisurely.

“We spoke near a week ago. You’re Rivien’s man,” Argrave called out. “Here for Rivien’s horses, I take it?”

“Partly,” the man nodded. Argrave and his party brought the horses to a stop just below him. He shifted, turning more of his body towards them. “Boss said he contacted some of the porcelain elves, just as you asked. They’ve been waiting for you before proceeding. Might be they’ve left by now—they’re the skittish sort. They’ll sail for their homeland at the drop of a shoe.”

“Cautious sort,” corrected Galamon. “We know well the cruelty of humans.”

“Is that right?” the man proceeded. “You elves might well be bold in your own eyes, but being cautious of cruelty is just a polite way to say ‘afraid.’”

“I’m bold enough to put the ignorant in their place,” Galamon said, lowering the pitch of his voice until it was deep and guttural enough to make Argrave’s hairs stand on end.

“Right, let’s save the race war for another day and focus on the important stuff,” Argrave interrupted before things could escalate further. “Mister… Man,” Argrave said, not knowing the other’s name. “Can you take me where I need to go?”

“Sure,” the man said, staring at Galamon while grinding his thumb against his fingers. “I’ll take you there.”

#####

The man with a pockmarked face led them away from Jast, walking against the fading suns. They headed in the direction of Foamspire, where Argrave saw the light reflected off its surface gradually turn from orange to a deep, rich night purple. As ever, moonlight was plentiful.

Their horses descended some rather treacherous cliffs, and as they proceeded further, the crashing of the waves grew louder and louder. Argrave recognized where they were going—a natural harbor formed within a sea cove. It was an unmarked location simply called the ‘Smuggler’s Cove’ in game.

After a bit of walking on the beach, the man leading them held out his hand and conjured magic to light the path. Argrave was somewhat surprised—he did not seem the spellcaster sort. Eventually, their escort paused, and the horses whinnied as they came to a stop.

“Have to go on foot from here,” the man said. “Leave the horses. I’ll deal with them later.”

“Right.” Argrave nodded and got off his horse, stumbling on the sand and rocks after having rode for so long. His stretched, legs feeling more than a bit tender.

Galamon held his horse’s reins, standing just beside it. He took off the black box containing the [Electric Eel] spell, holding it in the crook of his arm. The elven vampire stared at the wall, eyes darting from place to place as he inhaled deeply.

“Hard to get an exact count, but there’s a lot of people ahead,” Galamon muttered to Argrave. “The salt masks the scent of their bodies, and the waves the sound of their movements, but I can still tell.”

“There should be people,” Argrave replied, uncaring of his volume. “This place is a major entrepot for the city in the shadows of Jast.”

“Hah,” their escorted laughed. “You know your stuff. This way, then.” The man waved them along, sliding into a narrower portion in the cliffs at the beachside. Argrave followed, winding through just behind. They had to proceed single-file. Before long, their escort pushed open a wooden door, and Argrave stepped through it after him.

The wet seaside rocks opened up into a great cove, probably near fifty feet tall. Rocks carved out by both water and man shielded them from the elements, the ceiling supported by old stone pillars. Sheer gray rocks formed a natural landing of sorts. Built atop the landing was a small yet well-constructed wooden harbor that had more boats than one might expect to see. They weren’t grand vessels, but they were many.

“About what I expected,” Argrave said, reminiscing.

“Been here? Don’t remember you,” their escort asked.

“You wouldn’t,” Argrave shook his head.

The man stared at them. “Right, sure,” he said dryly. “Let’s go.”

Despite the fact night was falling, there were many people roaming the harbors. They were varied—some wealthy-looking nobles, some deplorable thieves. There were a great many simple stone buildings carved out of the cove’s walls, square and uniform.

“This place, the architecture…” Anneliese muttered.

“Indeed it is. Another ruin of the Order of the Roses,” Argrave nodded. “This place was an underground vault. Now, the years have eroded the cliffs and flooded the lower levels until it became this cove. The pillars are new additions—past thirty years or so.”

“Seems you really do know this place,” their escort noted warily. “Well, color me surprised. You seem the blustering sort, not the type I’d expect to have the knowledge to back their words.” He paused, turning. “None of my business. That room,” he pointed with his chin. “Lady Elaine is waiting.”

“Right.” Argrave nodded, and stepped into the room as directed, glancing about. He spotted Elaine and a few of Rivien’s men, leaning on one side of the room with crossbows held idle in their hands. Elaine stood straight beside a familiar crate Argrave knew held illusion spells. Opposite them, two Veidimen stood, arms crossed and backs straight. Between them was an old elf hunched against a walking stick. He turned his head at their entrance, and Argrave took a deep breath.

“Rowe,” Argrave greeted.