Chapter 5: Toxic Charms

"You won't abide by cutpurses and apostates."​

The edge of a blade sticks just below your Adam's apple, drawing out a trickle of warm blood. A young woman is out of sight, kneeling just behind you. Her voice is heavily accented. Not from Corcaea. Certainly not from the church. "Didn't hear us comin' over all the fuss you were makin', didja'?"

From much further back comes an airy, detached, and far more refined voice. It's another woman who's calling out from beside the demon. "He's wounded."

The rogue at your back snaps. "You think I was born yesterday?!" Muttering. "Always pointing out the obvious. You'd think an immortal would be a little more tactful." Bloody intent whispers right in your ear. "Listen up, hotshot. I'm going to kill you right here and now if you don't come clean. We aren't risking a damn thing with you. What the fuck was that?" With a free hand, she shakes your shoulder slightly. "What are you?"

The sudden movement shoots waves of pain through your side. If you weren't soaked from head to toe already, it would be obvious how badly you're sweating. You don't dare to swallow, but can risk a sharp breath of air. The sound of a dog panting and whining from far off in the distance is music to your ears. "Ray-?!"

Turning your head sharply is halted in an instant. The woman behind you firmly grabs your shoulder, and sticks the knife deeper into your neck. "Hey hey hey! No sudden movements."

"You found him?!" You can barely restrain yourself, and put up every inch of struggle you dare. "You have my dog! Ray—?!"

The grip on your shoulder turns into a vice."I'm the one asking the questions here! Talk! We'll deal with the dog once I know you aren't going to kill all of us."

It's your duty as a Father of the Church of Mercy to serve more than the Gods. You are sworn to protect, to heal, and to exercise restraint. Both hands are clasped in prayer, longing for Vengeance. Your gut is telling you that this must be Ray. There can't be that many people who would take a dog into the ruins.

You tighten your hands, and swallow the red you've been seeing. A trickle of boiling blood streams down your neck, as the blade presses deeper still. "Talk."

This is just another misunderstanding. I just need to keep calm. I need to keep her calm. Be a decent man. Do the right thing.

You pick a few careful words, aiming to not cut yourself further on the blade. "I'll talk." The woman doesn't relax her grip on your shoulder, but moves the knife aside just slightly. You close your eyes, and try to keep your composure. It helps. "I know you're scared."

"I am not." The rogue bristles behind you in offense, and leans in even closer.

"Everyone's afraid of what they don't understand. I'm only a man. My Gods can work through me, to— to help others. To protect people. What you saw when I fought that demon is something I can control. I would never use the Gods' blessing to harm an innocent." Speaking at length is agony. Digging your hands into the wound kept you awake, alright. The pain has been building ever since you exacerbated the injury. You wince, leaning forward slightly to try and take some of the pressure off of your side. Between ragged breaths, you wheeze, "I couldn't hurt you— even if I wanted to. Killing that greater demon— nearly killed me. I may— be dying— right now."

The woman takes the blade away from your throat, clicks her tongue, and shoves you forward. Unclasping your hands, you instinctively catch yourself with one hand, and put a hand to the cut she left. The sting of your filthy palms uselessly smears the blood over your wet skin. "I see." The woman is agitated. She calls out behind you, "Gwen! Hey! Get over here! He's bleedin' out on us!"

You fire a glare over your shoulder. The motion is excruciating, but well worth it. You're afforded a glimpse a halfling woman. She would scarcely come up to mid-thigh if you were standing. The petite, sickly looking thing is shrouded primarily behind an over-sized, deep-blue cloak. It's fastened with an ornate, colorful, and shining gem in the shape of an eye. It must be enchanted. Your eyes trail up to her bushy, straw-like hair. Freckles and a bright blue gaze snaps towards you with an unhinged, filthy smile. "Like what you see?"

​

You avert your eyes from the heretic, and painfully turn away from her again. Her presence here in the ruins is baffling. Halflings are notorious for farming and craftsmanship— not for risking life and limb in demon infested pits. You've only seen her peoples once before, safely behind the capital's high walls. Protected by human guards. Here there's only smoke, and flame, and ruin. "Where's my dog—?"

"They're coming. Stay put. No funny business."

You can't help but turn around, and watch her walk away. There's scarcely a ripple in the water from her utterly silent steps. With a wave, she hails a figure from around the side of the greater demon's corpse. "Will you hurry it up?!"

The woman that comes slowly walking should not be here, either. It's an elf. Lithe, and scarcely clad. Smears of mud and paint are along her limbs, snaking under and around the daggers and knives strapped over her form. You shift your gaze up to her silver, star-speckled eye-level. Though she'd nearly reach your height side-by-side, the creature possesses freakishly long, pointed ears. They twitch as you glance past her distant gaze, and struggle to focus. Slender fingers brush aside a few soft strands of her cloudy-white, ethereal hair. "Is he still conscious?"

​

Your vision is swimming badly, or Gwen's motions might be suspended from Time herself. You've heard myths of how elves spend their immortality guarding the edges of the world— though from what is a matter of great contention. By her side is a beast of a figure. A reminder of reality. You could faint. The blood and soot on your face cracks with a smile. "Ray!"

Trying to stand— let alone to run and greet him— is impossible. The pain in your side is reaching critical mass, and you can barely stagger upright. As you return to one knee, your boy walks over. He doesn't care about the blood— be it yours, or someone else's— and licks excitedly at your hands. You could cry. It's painful to move, but you can't help but scratch behind his ears, and give him some love. "I'm so happy to see you. Who's a good boy?" The fuzzy silhouette of the elf and halfling come closer to you. You call out to them, as they stand a few feet away. "Where was he?"

"I found him hidin' in one of the corridors outside of this room. Was hurt pretty bad. Gwen patched him up." The halfling's stern face is visible even as your eyes swim. "You need some help, too."

The elf takes a hesitant step towards you. "I have a tenuous tie to Magic. If you wish, I can heal the worst of your injury. I must caution you, however: it will hurt a great deal."

You can barely see. Ray whines next to you, licking at your robes. Fatigue is starting to overwhelm the pain. Before you can reply, the elf makes an elaborate gesture with her hands. A strange incantation leaves her in a language you can't understand. You don't recall her carrying a walking stick, but a long, gnarled, and wooden item is being kindled into an unearthly flame.

Starlight and sorcerery.

There's musing from the halfling to her companion. "Maybe I shouldn't have roughed him up." You can't make out a reply, if the conjurer gives one. The voice speaks to you directly. "Can't just letcha' die out here. Not after killing that monster. This ain't really the best place for medicine, though, eh?"

"Let the man speak for himself, Ofelia."

You have no idea how long you were with Storm for, but your boy is acting like it was a lifetime. Ray looks healthy, if not a little out of sorts. He keeps licking your robes and hands. It's difficult to even look up, but you have someone to lean on, and can't help but express your gratitude. Every word is a struggle. "Thank you— for healing Ray. I've never seen him— seen him so well behaved... without me... around... before."

The starlight and space at the end of the elf's staff is pointed directly towards you. "A minor charm. It will wear off soon. You're dying. Do you want my aid?"

You nod your head, and struggle to remain upright. It's a losing battle. You slump forward, and let most of your weight lean against your dog. Ray is trained enough to know how to keep you from collapsing. A single bark at the elf is made as she approaches, but no bites. Without any warning, she kneels next to you and tears at the filthy bandages that have been holding the wound shut over your robes.

The movement is infinitely more aggressive than what you expected from such a delicate looking creature. Despite your exhaustion, you give a shout as the tender flesh is exposed to the heat and smoke of the ruins. It's impossible to not writhe against the sensation. Your tolerance for pain is high, but this is something else.

"Ofelia, hold him down."

The halfling is right beside you. She's somehow even more aggressive, eliciting another moan as you're firmly kept still. Through the haze of smoke, flame, and agony, you can see her distress. "Keep yer voice down! Here—" A rag is shoved unceremoniously into your mouth. There's no telling where it's been.

Instinct stops you from spitting it out, as the light from the end of the elf's staff intensifies. A cosmos gathers at the end of what you recognize now to be a wizard's weapon. Gwen's hair stands on end. You decide to bite down as hard as you can on the rag. Ofelia grabs onto your shoulder and hips hard, and pins you to the floor.

The end of the staff is driven straight into the wound in your side. Cloth and teeth does absolutely nothing to muffle the scream that rises. The pain is unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's as if a part of you is being pulled straight out of your body.

To your unending horror, the elf pulls the staff away from your body in a deliberate motion. A tendril of necrotic flesh comes away with it. There is no blood pooling from your body. A line of contact is maintained for a moment, as inches of black rot are drawn out from your body, to her works. Searing heat fills your abdomen. You might as well actually be on fire. The pain is so severe that you almost don't recognize the explosive headache mounting in the back of your skull.

The elf seems completely occupied with her spell, but the halfling does notice the exquisite agony you're trapped in. Ofelia's voice leaves her, high and distressed. "What's wrong with this guy—"

The sadist holds up a free hand to shush her companion. Her fingers twist around the black tendril of disease that was pulled from your body, and dissipate it with a flick of her wrist. The staff points to your side.

You manage to spit out the rag. Knitting your eyes shut, every attempt is made to curl up and plead. "Not again!"

Ray's warning growls almost drowns out her reply. "The infection is gone, but your body is in a state practically beyond my care. A full recovery will be impossible other—" The elf acts as if she's going to continue speaking, but instead drives the buildup of starlight straight into your side. You can't process the sensation. The pain is too much.

You black out.

Faint lights pass you by. The heat of a fire. The smell of real food. Something soft and warm, pressing against your face. Your eyes slowly open.

This can't be right. I've never been with a woman. Why is one leaning over me now?

The woman's hand leaves from your forehead. She moves away, leaving you alone. You come back down to earth.

Alone.

Disoriented and dizzy, you try to look around the small, poorly-lit, and dry space you're occupying. Your head is still throbbing. There's a humble and barely-lit campfire on the rocks. Roasted vegetables are cooking in a little pot beside it. Ray is laying down across from the food, eyeing it hungrily. It's a sight for sore eyes.

You find, remarkably, that there's no more pain in your side. No more water or flame. No electricity in your eyes. You're warm, and dry, and someone seems to have changed you into the spare set of robes from your backpack. You start sweating at the thought of it. A few memories come back to you as you nervously lay back down. Being carried by the elf through the cavernous hall, beyond the greater demon. Passing through corridor after corridor, concealed by her magic. The memories are fuzzy.

You want to ask questions, but the heretic is back. The halfling. You close your eyes, too exhausted to even look at her. Her hushed voice is directed towards someone in the shadows, as she leans over you again. "He's still breathing."

Gwen replies. "Keep an eye on him. We still don't know what he's capable of. Humans are dangerous, Ofelia."

"I can't fucking believe you wanted to bring him here. He would have healed fine without us."

"I told him that only so he would let me pull out the infection. Humans are weak. This one is especially fragile. It is beyond me how he was alive when we found him..."

"Unbelievable. Waste of our fucking time. You're going to be the death of us, Celegwen— and I mean that."

Before you can move to get up or retort, Ofelia's hand goes back to your forehead. Muttering. "Elves. Too fucking valuable not to keep around. Come on, handsome. I bet you know a few tricks, too..."

It doesn't matter if she's being sarcastic or not. The comment stings. Badly.

You knit your eyebrows together, slowly open your eyes, and try to find your voice. It's hoarse, and feels like you haven't drank in days. "I'm... awake, you know."

The horror on Ofelia's face can't be hid. Not even by the shadow of her cloak. "H-he's awake, Gwen—"

Shifting to get up is an ordeal. "I've... been awake."

"I know," Celegwen's voice calls out, from across the campfire.

Ofelia looks twice as horrified. Realizing that you're trying to move puts her horror on hold, in a scramble to keep you still. "Cut it out—"

You brush her hand away. It's difficult to believe your own words. "The pain is gone. I'm fine."

Ofelia still looks irate. "You heard us talking?"

"Yes." You manage to completely sit upright. Now that you aren't staring at the ceiling, it's easy to see that the elf was sitting just out of view.

She's keeping a safe distance from Ray, while eyeing your torso intently.

You bring a hand to your side, and feel the skin. It's mottled and twisted with new scar tissue over the old. It can be felt even through the fabric of your robes— but the pain is completely gone. You grimace with concern. Scars are one thing. Imagining what might have happened if you weren't found is another. "I wanted to thank you." Your voice remains soft, and your gaze is kept far away from anyone else's eyes. "For healing me, and Ray. For getting rid of the infection."

Celegwen perks her ears up with a faint smile. Pride is all through her voice. "I haven't been able to use the spell often, but the wound should be completely healed."

"You didn't have to take care of me, either." A nod, towards Ofelia. "I can't possibly express my gratitude. I have no idea how I could repay you."

A click of her tongue. The gaze on the solid gold holy symbol you carry around your neck is searing. "I can think of a few ways."

There's a terribly awkward pause between the three of you. Ray barks.

"But it was no big. Really. You saved us from that— what didja' call it— greater demon? Not even Gwen's spell slinging coulda' taken that beastie down. I still don't get how you managed it. You're not exactly a normal guy, are ya'?"

Meeting her gaze, you make a point to place a hand over the outstretched palms of your holy symbol. A hand over your heart tactfully hides the item from her view— and further reassures yourself. She must have realized how brazen she was being, and glances away.

Your voice drops as you say, "if you wish to leave, it is entirely your choice." Both women look at you. It couldn't be more obvious how hurt you sound. The wall is intently stared at as you continue. "But if there's anything you wish to know, speak freely. I may not have any gold I can give—" You tighten your hand around your holy symbol. "—but I have my word."

A long silence passes between all of you. The fire crackles.

"I just asked ya' a question." Ofelia pokes your shoulder. "For such a skinny guy, ya' sure are thick-headed."

You frown, keeping your eyes away from her. "I'm a man of the Gods—"

"You've already told me that, but I don't get it. What can you do?"

"I— I am only a man. I can't— I can't do much." You look down at the hand over your chest. Blood may have been wiped clean from your skin, but countless cuts and scars remain. You lift your long fingers off of the holy symbol beneath your flesh. As the light of the fire glints off of Mercy's outstretched grace, you lift the pendant lovingly. "The Gods can work through me." You look between Celegwen and Ofelia. "That's what you saw. I lead the Church of Mercy, but I have a connection to all of the Gods. Storm permitted me to use his blessing. That same blessing saved our lives."

"No," Celegwen interjects. "You were on the brink of death when we found you."

Her companion crosses her arms in anger. "What kind of a God lets a church leader get like that?"

"You don't understand." The weight of the pendant around your neck is comforting, and is gently set back against your chest. Patience is prudent. "I chose to be wounded— and I chose to not ask for healing. I endured that injury to find Ray, and to fight the greater demon. By enduring the demon, I was led to you. Storm did not 'let me get like that.' The Gods respect me— as I respect Them."

The elf snips, "you're avoiding the question. You were on the brink of death— not just from the wound, but from your exhaustion. I've never encountered a man in the state you were in."

Ofelia looks like she wants to make a joke about how many men Celegwen has seen, but she closes her mouth and looks intently at you instead. You instinctively avoid her gaze.

"It takes a lot out of me." A trembling hand ruffles nervously through your warm and dry hair. You try smoothing it out, in a poor attempt to mind your appearance. "I'm only a vessel for the Gods. Using their strength is— is dependent on my weakness." Mustering the strength to meet Celegwen's gaze, you try to plead with eyes alone for her to understand. "My weakness IS their strength."

Ofelia walks around to the side of you, and extends a hand. "I don't get it, but what you did back there was somethin'." You're sitting upright, yet at her same height as she stands. She doesn't mind you staring at her hand for a moment. "Ofelia Banks. They call me 'Eagle-Eye' back home— but no one gives a shit down here. And that's Celegwen." While still holding her hand out, she gestures with the other to the elf. "She won't tell me her last name, but I probably couldn't pronounce it anyways."

You hesitate.

"You don't gotta shake my hand, but at least tell me your name."

You nervously take Ofelia's hand, and shake it. Her fingers are so small compared to yours, you're worried about hurting her. A lighter touch is used than the softness of your tone. "Father Richard Anscham—"

"Father-?! There's no way you—"

You cut her off by drawing your hand back as if you've been struck. "It's a title. As the Father of the Church of Mercy, Mercy's children are mine as— as well."

"Oh." Ofelia shifts uncomfortably. "Can I call you Rich?"

"No."

"Dick?"

"No!"

"Richard?"

"That's fine."

"Father." Celegwen gets it. "Your Gods are killing you. If you truly desire it, I will not interfere."

You've been avoiding looking at either woman, but you can't help but glance at her insults and presumption.

"Ofelia and I seek greater power in these ruins. We've encountered many strange artifacts. Most are too dangerous to touch, let alone take."

Ofelia is quick to add, "trapped and guarded, no less."

"We could use your help. If you wish to find an alternative to your Gods, perhaps..."

You bristle, offended beyond speech. A hand goes to your heart, and a silent prayer goes out for her.

"But perhaps—" The blasphemous elf eyes you curiously. "—you are here for another reason?"

"I am." Your hands fidget nervously. Staring at the wall at your back offers no distractions of any kind. "I came to the ruins to find a cure to something."

Ofelia starts. "I knew he was sick—"

"It's not like that." You're a master of quelling your emotions when need be. Compared to fighting demons, fighting your feelings is effortless. You smooth out your hands, and smooth out your voice. "The Catalyst isn't something that makes humans sick. You— you have it backwards. Humans that are sick trigger the Catalyst." Your brow furrows. "Most men and women go their entire lives without ever feeling it. Most of us— most humans— are fine."

"Then what's the problem?"

You can't be sure if she's being sarcastic. "Humans who scorn the Gods, and who fall into themselves— those without Mercy in their hearts. I'm speaking of humans who prey on others. Those who let their emotions rule them. They trigger the Catalyst. I've seen it. Most of us have."

Celegwen's ears twitch. Her silver eyes have a flame in them. "I have seen it. This 'Catalyst' you speak of."

Your eyes go wide as you look intently at the elf. She stares back at you as you uneasily scour her face for a lie.

She slowly stands. "You don't believe me, Father? I know your kind are dangerous. This is not news to anyone who has spent any time with humans. You all are in isolation— contending with your darkness. I've seen men like you turn into monsters. These so-called 'demons.' What do you intend to do about it?"

You rise, relieved beyond words to not be in any pain when you do so. Looking slightly down at her— your long limbs shaking slightly with emotion— you fix your gaze on a pair of her star-shaped earrings. You think to the sky Storm blessed you with. The encouraging thought tightens your hands into fists. "I intend to cure it. There's legend— legend of a time when we could feel, and hurt, and love without fear." You look between Celegwen and Ofelia. They're both utterly silent. "...without fear of losing our humanity. I've come here to find out how."

Ray yawns in your companions' nervous silence. The fire crackles.

Ofelia hesitantly notes, "we did find something weird, awhile back."

"We agreed to not speak of it." Celegwen's snap is downright disturbing— for someone with such a pleasing voice to sound so harsh.

"Hey, Dick— I mean, Richard— is trusting us. I might be a little rough around the edges, but I got a heart, y'know? My own Pa wouldn't be happy with me if I didn't tell him." Ofelia looks up at you, and crosses her arms. Celegwen also crosses her arms, but doesn't interrupt any further. "There's some weird shit down here, Richard. Really weird. We've been keeping away from it, but maybe you'd wanna check it out?"

"Please. What are you referring to, though...?"

Celegwen is exasperated. "There's something wrong with the space in the ruins. Many passages do not connect as they should. I strongly suspect a form of Magic is keeping this place together— but I cannot discern how, or why. The room we stand in is one of these anomalies. I've inspected it, and contained it." She gestures to the passages leading out on either side of the small room.

You realize that the light and smoke of the campfire disappears into the door frame— much like many of the other doors you've encountered thus far. Ray looks relaxed, but your nerves are on end. "Are we even safe—?"

"It's safer than the area we discovered you in. Exiting is easy enough, but re-entry has proved difficult. We've found many spaces like this, however."

"That's not the weird thing though, Gwen." Ofelia says, "Tell him about the library."

Annoyance and disgust faces her. "Fine." The sorceress ignores a kiss that's sarcastically blown in her direction. "There is a room we have been unable to explore. This is important, Father. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes. Just—" You're recoiling at your own words, but their incessant stares are unendurable. "Just— stop staring at me."

Both women look to each other. Celegwen seems respectful enough, and returns to the campfire. You want to die. She's impossible to ignore, and returns to immediately sit right beside you. "Sit. Eat." A cup of wine and a plate piled high with roasted vegetables are shoved into your hands.

Ofelia snickers, and plops down beside the elf. You slide your back against the wall, and force yourself to painfully comply out of necessity alone. Your discomfort must be visible. The chef— apparently Ofelia— sounds disappointed. "Is it not good enough...?"

You shake your head. "It's good. I— I prayed to Agriculture. Many years ago. The country was in a famine. It's— it's a long story. Eating has been difficult since then."

Both women brazenly stare. Celegwen catches herself, and nudges her friend to stop letting her jaw hang open.

"No! I will not stop staring!" Ofelia gestures with her hands as she speaks, and nearly knocks her own plate over. "That's insane!"

"Excuse her, Richard. She has no tact. As I was saying—"

"Unbelievable. Can't even eat. Horseshit Gods. I have half a mind..."

Warmth spreads through your limbs as you wince, and ignore the halfling's incessant muttering. The wine is better than anything you've had from the Church of Mercy in your many long years with them.

"As I was saying." Celegwen keeps her eyes downcast. "The library. It's difficult to reach, and closely guarded. But perhaps— if you're seeking history— it could be a fine place to look. The space and time around the area is terribly warped, however. I feared for our safety, venturing as closely as we did. We barely made it back."

The cracked, empty exterior along your cup is a sharp reminder of your own reflection. Ofelia takes your gaze away by refilling your dishes without prompting. She leans towards you, teasing with wide eyes. "Whaddya' say?"

Ofelia's teasing has you completely flustered, but you do your best to maintain your outward composure. Leaning back and putting some distance between you both suffices. There's no need to lie. These women have been enormously helpful, but their lack of faith is equally disturbing. You can't abide by their company— not even if it's safer. "This library— I'd like to see it, but I don't want to endanger either of you. Do you have any maps, or— or could you tell me which way you went to reach it?"

"Yeah. We got some maps." The woman beside you makes a point of leaning back, and crosses her arms. "We can hold our own, y'know. But I get it." She pokes your shoulder firmly. "Keep eating. Let me get some stuff." Her eyes dart between the bowl and your gaunt face, while moving towards her things. You haven't touched the rest of the food. She refuses to dig through the pots, pans, assorted scrolls, and what's obviously several hand-drawn maps. "I mean it. I'm not showing you a thing until you eat."

Celegwen waves a hand dismissively, and moves to spread out the scrolls. "Leave the man be. You're not helping him by hurting him."

You sigh, set the bowl aside, and finish a third cup of wine. Warmth and relaxation takes hold of your tone as you scoot over to inspect their work. "It's fine. Thank you for sharing these with me."

These two have clearly been diving through as much of the ruins as they could. Their maps depict a labyrinth that rises and falls upon many levels. In addition to countless, small, detached chambers (much like the one you're currently in), there are also a few enormous spaces depicted. While the small rooms are connected by long and winding corridors, the larger spaces are isolated. There's no clear means of entering them. One other odd feature stands out: an impossibly tall column, that runs off of the top of the page.

"Is that...?" You point to the highest spot on the map.

"Yes. We're here—" Celegwen points to a small circle on the opposite corner of the map. Her finger traces along the entire length of the parchment, right up to your own observation. You quickly draw your hand back as she murmurs, "it's a long trip."

"May I— may I copy this?" A quick glance around for your things is made in alarm. It's nowhere in sight.

Ofelia wiggles her eyebrows. "You need yer stuff, right?"

A dramatic flourish is made as the small woman tosses aside a shift of fabric from what appears to be a boulder. It was merely her cloak. Your things are safe and dry beneath them. Bloody shield, filthy mace, and hand-sewn pack (which has been opened). The rogue makes a slight bow, to yours and Celegwen's utter lack of amusement. It's hard to say if it's more impressive or worrisome that she hid your things.

"Just a precaution. It's all dried out now. I don't think you can tell— but you were asleep for four days." Your wooden shield looks bone dry. She can't be lying, and darts her eyes full of annoyance at Celegwen. "So eat some damn food and come get your stuff."

Paling, you place a hand to the knotted scar in your side.

Four days?

It takes a few moments to regain your composure, before you go look over your things. The herbs and medicinal tinctures are all laid out neatly in like-colors. The sorceress responsible smiles slightly. "Your healing ability surely dwarfs mine. I couldn't help but look through the medicine you carry. We've seen your maps as well."

You frown. "I was going to offer. Since you've already helped yourself..." You gather up your things, and make a point of taking out a few map-making tools. Adjustable needles. Pens. Parchment. "I might as well ask you a few questions while I copy this down."

The entire pot of vegetables is shoved down next to you in irritation. Ofelia sits right down along with it. You frown deeper. In between consolidating a new sketch of the maps before you, you choke down some more of the food. It's extremely difficult, but it cheers up Ofelia as she inspects your drawings. "Whaddya wanna know, hotshot?"

"Have you met anyone down here?" Your eyes glance over to your dog, as he lazily spreads out in front of the fire. He seems to be enjoying himself. "Aside from finding Ray."

Celegwen replies on her behalf. "You're the first human we've encountered that hasn't been subject to the Catalyst. There are many demons— fully formed, and in their infancy." She has that flame in her eyes again. It's almost frightening.

You're more curious than anything. "There was a demon that guarded the entrance to the ruins. Did you meet the Master of Webs when you entered? Or... perhaps you came another way?"

Ofelia perks up. "Master of Webs? I don't know what you mean. There's plenty of webs near the surface, though. Lots of nasty spider things, too. Made getting around a real pain before I ran into Gwen. I came in through the south, closer to Spira." She trails off, looking pensive. "I don't even know how long I've been down here, to be honest..."

"I did not encounter this "Master" either." A polite stare goes to the side of you. "I entered through the eastern ruins— closer to my home within the Verdant Dominion. I have traveled far through this place, and no demon has spoken a name to me. What did he look like?"

The question is polite enough. "He was a colossal spider, with a stony face that looked like a man's. Split jaw, lots of teeth—" You unintentionally make a grotesque gesture thanks to using your hands to mimic a demon's face. Both women laugh at the motion. Both hands are quickly put back down in embarrassment. "He was willing to leave me alive after speaking with him. It was remarkable."

Both women calm down. Their laughter subsides. Celegwen seems only slightly alarmed. "That is remarkable. Where did you say he was, again?"

You both exchange as much information as you can regarding the demons you've seen.

After a few minutes pass— choking down a few more mushrooms— you softly ask, "you didn't see an orc down here, did you?"

Alarm discolors Ofelia's features. "An orc?"

"He meant well." The wine takes the edge out of your voice as you recall Orgoth skewering you with a javelin. "He professed to be the greatest warrior to have ever lived. I didn't doubt it. You might want to exercise some caution if you encounter him— of course."

Celegwen makes a note of it on her maps. "Did this orc have a name?"

"Orgoth." Guilt creeps down your back. You stare at your hands.

The elf is oblivious to how uncomfortable she's making you feel. "Was he poor company?"

A long moment passes between you all. You gather your things."I'd better get going."

Both women give each other a look that makes you want to leave even faster.

"Thank you again," you mutter, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "Come on boy."

He skips to your side. Ofelia starts, just as you go to walk out of the passage. "Richard—"

You wordlessly take a bundle of fresh-smelling food from her hands. It's a long road to the library. Ray trots alongside you as you exit, ducking your head slightly as you return to the ruins through a narrow passageway.

Just a short walk away, the heat and smoke of the fire vanishes. A cold shift in space creeps over you in pitch-blackness. You take out a torch for the light and heat, and walk for another hour or two. Eventually, the passage opens back out.

You're surrounded by stone on all sides, fish your map out, and plot your course.