The interior of the rectangular structure was now pitch black, though a fetid, tangy scent hung heavy in the stagnant air. Ser Griffiths reached for his pack to light a torch, though it was nowhere to be found.

“Cursed vampires. Harold, stay put, I’ll go get…” the former paladin trailed off as a leaf covered arm extended a flaming torch through the doorway.

“Don’t just stare at it,” Irobu squeaked.

“Uh, right. Thank you,” Ser Griffiths said as he grasped the torch in his right hand. The flickering orange flames cast light up and down the expansive rectangular room, though the far reaches of the open chamber were still shrouded in darkness. Piles of bloodstained leaves dotted the floor. “Harold, stick by me.”

“Okay,” the former shepherd acknowledged, following Ser Griffiths as he walked towards one end of the stone chamber. Gradually, the torch illuminated the far side of the room, exposing a quivering huddle of men. Stubble coated their pale faces and soiled robes hid their emaciated bodies.

“Who are you?” one of the feeble looking men asked.

“I am Ser Griffiths, from the Kn—err from the Sodality—err excuse me, the Esteemed Sodality of Excursionists,” he bumbled. “We’re here to rescue you from whatever ransacked your caravan.”

“Those things then, they’re all gone?” another one of the weary men questioned, nervously peering past the former paladin.

“Seemingly, with Buain’s guidance—” Ser Griffiths started.

“And Hekal’s guidance,” Irobu broke in.

“—we were able to route the undead monstrosities keeping you captive,” Ser Griffiths ended.

“What’s that on your shoulder?” the first captive asked. “A fairy?”

“I’m not a fairy you snivel—” Irobu rebuked.

“Unimportant for the moment,” Ser Griffiths interrupted the angry Sanusite. “We need to clear the other end of the room, then we’ll be back to escort you to safety. Stay put.”

“What of Hedd and Carion?” one of the men queried.

“And Rhys and Edryd?” another chimed in. “Did you find them? Are they alright?”

“And our caravan? What befell it?” a third piped in.

“Enough, we can answer your questions later. Stay put and keep quiet,” Ser Griffiths repeated sternly. He turned and walked past Harold, who fell in behind him. Treading lightly, the pair edged towards the other side of the stone chamber. “You’d think they’d be grateful for being saved and all,” Ser Griffiths mumbled under his breath, though Irobu heard him loud and clear.

Smoke from the knight’s torch swirled around the ceiling and trickled out the chamber’s lone egress on the left. While the opening offered a refreshing taste of clean air, the fetid, tangy stench of the lair returned as they moved past the portal. Barrel sized piles of leaves were concentrated in this half of the chamber. Ser Griffiths mindfully stepped around them, whereas Harold carelessly stomped through them. Ser Griffith’s torch soon revealed that, apart from the piles that extended to the far wall, there was nothing else on this end of the chamber.

“Got to be sure,” Ser Griffiths whispered as he wove his way to the far wall, the rustling leaves announcing his presence. Gently, the former paladin put an ear to the facade.

“Uh…Griffiths,” Harold broached from behind.

“Not now, Harold,” Ser Griffiths dismissed. “And it’s Ser Griffiths,” he corrected as he tapped the stone surface with his warhammer. “No hidden rooms it seems,” he decided after a short while. The former paladin did an about-face. “What did you want?” Ser Griffiths asked the shepherd, who was bent over one of the mounds.

He watched as his companion dug through the pile, shoving heaps of dead leaves to either side. “Harold?” Ser Griffiths questioned again; annoyance creeping into his voice. Both men froze as Harold’s digging unearthed a bare shoulder. Immediately, Harold raised his bone club over his head.

“Oi Harold! Not so fast! We don’t know what this is yet!” Ser Griffiths directed hurriedly. “It might just be someone still under their sleep spell!”

That would have ended with the death of the last vampire, Thrun denied. Just like how most spells cease when their controller dies. Irobu kept silent.

Lowering his club, Harold took a step back, and proceeded to use his boot to disperse the rest of the leaves covering the body. Harold’s efforts revealed a sallow man curled into a fetal position, completely bereft of clothing.

“By Buain…” Ser Griffiths muttered. “Harold stay alert,” he instructed as he crouched over the figure. Harold in turn raised his bone club and squinted suspiciously at the other piles.

The former paladin put a hand to the man’s neck. “He’s cold…but he has a pulse,” Ser Griffiths whispered. Respectfully as possible, Ser Griffiths disentangled the man from his fetal position and laid him down against the stone floor. Now that he was uncovered, Irobu instantly spotted two purple puncture wounds overtop his heart.

Is that how they turn the living into those monstrosities? Sucking the blood from their victim’s heart?

Indeed, with the addition of more primal magic. These wretches have already begun to transform, Thrun declared. There’s no hope for them.

None? Not even your magic can cure their affliction? Irobu questioned. Hekal’s priests can cure any ailment.

Well of course it's possible, though the spell is far beyond your capabilities. Not worth the risk to save a few commoners, Thrun explained haughtily. Irobu focused back on the scene at hand, noting Ser Griffiths and Harold both stood staring at the naked figure lying before them.

“Blast it, I was holding out hope…they’ve clearly begun to turn,” Ser Griffiths stated grimly.

“Those…those marks,” Harold paused as he extended a shaking hand towards the puncture wounds on the man’s chest.

“What about them?” Ser Griffiths quizzed impatiently. “We still need to find out how many more of these people are waiting to transform, and to let the survivors say their goodbyes.”

“Same marks on man I found at home,” Harold whispered, eyes going wide. “What do they mean?”

“It means that they were bitten by a vampire and are destined to become one,” Ser Griffiths explained carefully while rotating to put himself between Harold and the door.

“Vam…pirs dislike sun? Stay inside during day?” Harold needled urgently. His pupils flickered between Ser Griffiths and the lone exit.

“That’s right. But there’s no cure for vampirism, save for a miracle. The man you found must have gotten bitten somehow,” Ser Griffiths continued cautiously.

“Need to save Baba! She was with vampire!” the former shepherd boomed.

“Don’t try to run!” Ser Griffiths shouted back. “It’s too late!”

Regardless, Harold shoved Ser Griffiths aside and bolted for the exit. Irobu was nearly flung from Ser Griffiths’ shoulder, but a hand was able to find purchase among the links of Ser Griffiths’ maille. Ser Griffiths quickly regained his balance, allowing Irobu to see that Harold’s mad dash had ceased after two strides. Harold was face down in a pile of leaves and was frantically clawing at his throat.

He has spirit if not brains, Irobu assessed.

And how long will that last now that his purpose for coming here is gone? Thrun contended.

Perhaps knowing a cure is possible would keep him going, Irobu mulled.

And yet you know it’s practically unattainable for him. That reeks of manipulation to me, o noble Sanusite. What was it that you threw a tantrum about earlier?

I’m not the same as that oaf! Irobu contested. Enough chatter, let’s see his reaction.

“It pains me to do that Harold, but you can’t keep trying to run off!” Ser Griffiths chided, stepping to his debilitated squad member. Harold stopped clawing and took a deep breath. “I know it’s traumatic, but you need to keep it together, man! If your ‘Baba’ was stuck with a vampire, it’s far too late to do anything about it! It must have been weeks since you left; it’d be many more weeks before we got there. This caravaner was captured barely a week ago, and they already turned him. You need to face the facts. Besides, we’ve still got plenty of innocents to protect—here and now. Come on, get up,” Ser Griffiths requested, offering Harold his hand without the collar ring.

Harold took his hand and stood. “Okay,” he muttered in defeat. With a frown, the former shepherd dusted off the leaves clinging to his tattered cloak.

“Now that that’s over with, clear the rest of the leaves,” the former paladin instructed. “Lay any bodies you find next to this fellow.”

Harold nodded and began methodically rifling through the piles of dead foliage. In the interim, Ser Griffiths returned to the survivors with Irobu still in tow. The haggard band of men had risen to their feet, but were continuing to nervously scrutinize Ser Griffiths and the rest of the chamber.

“Where are the rest?” one of caravaners pressed. “Didn’t you find them?”

“We found at least one of them,” Ser Griffiths solemnly informed the band. “Though there’s no way to put this lightly. They’ve started transforming into the same type of monster that held you captive.”

“By Buain…” one of the men spat. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Yeah! Didn’t you say you were Ser Griflord or something? I see Buain’s seal on your hammer. Can’t you ask Him for help?” a different man pleaded.

“He said Ser Griffiths, you idiot, the one that supposedly died out in the Spellmarsh. You know, part of that patrol that vanished,” a caravaner with white hair corrected.

“You speak truly; I am Ser Griffiths and I was once a Knight of Buain. That time has passed,” Ser Griffiths exhaled wistfully. “I will of course attempt a prayer for a miracle, though that in and of itself carries the risk of a magical ‘mishap’. You may accompany me while I make the attempt, or you could wait outside if you fear for your lives.”

The former captives exchanged looks. “We’ll see it through,” one of the older men announced. “They’ll have a better chance if we all pray.”

“Fair enough. The longer we tarry the closer your companions are to completing their transformation,” Ser Griffiths prompted.

On those grim tidings, the remaining caravaners, along with Ser Griffiths and Irobu, crossed the putrid chamber and stopped beside Harold. Ser Griffiths’ torchlight unveiled six bodies that Harold had uncurled from fetal positions and laid out side by side. All six were naked and deathly pale, and each one bore the same set of puncture wounds over their slow beating heart. The caravaners gasped at the sight of their fallen comrades; some turned away while others cursed or prayed for mercy.

“Join me in prayer to Buain. Kneel in a circle around your afflicted comrades,” Ser Griffiths requested gently after he handed his torch to Harold. The six survivors listened to Ser Griffiths, though the older caravaners complied more quickly than their younger counterparts. Once they were all in position, Ser Griffiths followed suit, kneeling slowly so as not to dislodge Irobu. She in turn was watching the ceremony closely, and was comparing it with the rituals of Hekal. The caravaners closed their wet eyes and joined Ser Griffiths in clasping their neighbors’ hands.

“Great Lord Buain above, praised be you in your eternal majesty,” Ser Griffiths initiated and the caravaners echoed. “Your humble servants call to you in a time of great need. Forgive us for our plea, but six of your devotees are plagued by vampirism. Please Lord, do not let my…failings preclude these men from salvation. Only your divine aid, the power of your holy spirit, may deliver these men from their plight. Blessed Buain, show mercy on these innocent lives. I beg of you.”

“I beg of you,” each of the men echoed. Eyes kept closed, the assembly lingered on their knees.

They have to do all this for a chance at a simple cure? Irobu remarked when fifteen minutes had ticked by. Neither the caravaners nor Ser Griffiths had moved. Surely a priest of Hekal could cure them all with a snap of a finger, she thought, staring at the rise and fall of the proto-vampires’ chests. The priests of Hekal were right about one thing at least: the other gods truly pale before Him.

And yet something is happening, Thrun pointed out. Look down to the paladin’s hands.

Leaning forward to peer over Ser Griffith’s shoulder, Irobu saw that his hands were glowing faintly with a soft white light. The light spread to the hands of the caravaners on both sides of him, and subsequently to their neighbors, until all the men’s hands glowed with the same divine luminescence. Radiant tendrils then sprang from each of the caravaners’ palms; the assembly opened their eyes and goggled at the display in silence. The twelve tendrils converged to six, and proceeded to curve through the smoky air of the chamber. In unison, they ventured towards the afflicted men at the center of the circle and pierced their punctured hearts.

Four of their drained hearts burst, causing blood to splatter the prayer circle. The other two afflicted caravaners however, were much more fortunate. Their fang wounds sealed shut and color returned to their skin. Both inhaled sharply and sat up, gasping as blood began circulating through their veins once more. Coughing heavily, their eyes shot open and they frantically surveyed their environment.

Buain can only save two. Pitiful, Irobu scoffed.

Indeed, that was certainly underwhelming, Thrun agreed.

“Rhys! And Carion!” the six caravaners exclaimed joyfully.

“Thank you, Lord,” she heard Ser Griffiths whisper gratefully while standing up. “I know my path to atonement is far from over; this time I will not falter.” The former paladin rubbed his eyes then studied his surroundings, searching for signs of a dangerous mishap. Luckily, the search was fruitless. “It looks clear,” Ser Griffiths proclaimed, a grin splayed across his slightly wrinkled face.

Strange, were they simply lucky in having an unnoticeable mishap, or is Buain too able to circumvent this land’s enchantment when he desires? Thrun pondered.

Ecstatic, the surviving members of the caravan rushed to embrace their freshly healed companions. They all loudly and repeatedly thanked Buain for his intervention. Subsequently, the initially un-afflicted guided their dazed friends to the door for fresh air and clothing. As the rejuvenated men dressed, their companions recounted the tale of their salvation, and the fate of their less fortunate comrades. Concurrently, Harold stepped to Ser Griffiths, who was preoccupied rubbing his knees.

“So there is cure!” Harold blurted excitedly.

“Yes and no. First off, the great Buain himself granted us a miracle. Even then, only two of the six afflicted were saved, and they weren’t full vampires yet. I imagine that may have made the reversal easier. Your Baba has most definitely completed her transformation if she was bitten,” Ser Griffiths elucidated.

“Teach me about…‘great Bu-ain’,” the former shepherd requested emphatically. “Must do anything to save clan.”

Ser Griffiths skeptically examined Harold anew and shook his head. “Who am I to judge who is worthy of Buain’s blessing,” the former paladin sighed. “I will tell you about my Lord if you seek to learn.” Harold nodded vigorously. “Not in here though, this place reeks of death,” Ser Griffiths decided, and thus the pair started for the door. Irobu groaned at the thought of listening to the lecture, although her grumbling was cut short as a prickling sensation flared across her skin.

“Griffiths put me down!” Irobu demanded in a high-pitched tone.

Ser Griffiths paused and turned his head to the left. “Ah right, I almost forgot you were still there,” he mumbled as he lifted a hand to his shoulder. “And how many times do I need to remind you all that it’s Ser Griffiths?”

“Not important. Put me on the ground,” Irobu ordered as the prickling increased.

“And how many times do I have to remind you that I’m the squad leader, and I give the orders?” Ser Griffiths pressed without lowering his hand.

Placate him for now, Thrun advised. Enlargement while touching another being can lead to unforeseen consequences.

“Fine. Ser Griffiths, please put me on the ground,” Irobu said through clenched teeth.

“Much better,” the knight smiled and lowered the miniscule Sanusite to the leaf covered floor. “Returning to normal size?” he asked as he and Harold stood over Irobu. Ser Griffiths’ question was answered by Irobu’s rapid enlargement to her regular meter and a half height. Startled, both men took a step back.

“Finally,” Irobu sulked. She stretched her muscles and surveyed the stone chamber, though it appeared much the same as it had from Ser Griffith’s shoulder. Irobu did note that the surviving caravaners cast her worried looks, that Harold’s mouth was agape, and that Ser Griffiths was shaking his head disapprovingly. They were all sights which she promptly ignored; her sole goal now to leave the stuffy chamber.

With that in mind, Irobu strolled over to the surviving caravaners huddled around the door while behind her Ser Griffiths taught Harold about Buain. Joyously, these caravaners were celebrating Buain’s miracle and were reminiscing about their fallen comrades. Irobu slipped through the throng right as a bestial roar thundered from outside. The inhabitants of the stone chamber quickly fell silent. A bowstring twanged and another roar resounded through the forest a heartbeat later.

“What now?” Ser Griffiths barked while hustling towards the exit. Harold accompanied the former paladin, torch in one hand and bone club in the other. In turn, the caravaners sprinted past the door and cowered in the far end of the chamber. With the survivors no longer blocking her path, Irobu was able to peer through the open door and into the dark clearing beyond.

Initially, she couldn’t discern anything in the faint moonlight, but the crunching of gravel caught her attention. She observed a pair of glowing green eyes to her right that were rapidly closing the distance to the stone building. Swift’s bow twanged once more as she unleashed another salvo at the creature. The elf subsequently ducked inside the building and slammed the wooden door shut.

Did you recognize those eyes? Irobu quizzed hurriedly.

Unless lions have grown, I doubt it, Thrun denied. Perhaps there was a mishap…

Emerald eyes wide open, Swift’s chest quickly rose and fell beneath her golden cloak. “It’s a huge cat!” Swift breathlessly informed rest of the company, who had assembled around the wooden door. “It was walking around the building then charged—GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!” the elf shouted exigently, jumping away from the egress. Harold dropped the torch and joined her on one side of the door wheras Ser Griffiths dove towards Irobu on the other side, who had kept her spot beside the aged doorframe.

A split second later, a large paw smashed through the lone entrance at head level. The claw swiped down to the ground, barely missing the elf mid jump. Unfazed, the paw clawed to the left and right, but the squad had wisely taken several steps back from the inlet. A frustrated growl rumbled the stone building. Both the Sodality members and the caravaners crouched in silence; the gravel crunched around their safe house as they waited.

“It must be too big to fit in here,” Swift surmised. She had taken up a spot on the wall opposite the mangled door. “Anyone catch a look at the claw?”

“Black as pitch,” Ser Griffiths answered as he moved between the door and the survivors. “And as big as my head.”

“Like no cat I’ve ever come across,” Swift marveled.

“And it’s not a lion,” Irobu added. “It must be a magical beast inadvertently summoned during the resurrection.”

“That seems like the most plausible explanation,” Ser Griffiths concurred. “Thank Buain that it didn’t appear in here, and that you spotted it in time, Swift.” Having stabilized the situation, the knight calmly walked over to the survivors to reassure them, while Swift, Harold and Irobu kept watch over the door. A minute became ten, but the cat persisted in pacing around them. Ser Griffiths finished his pep talk and returned to his increasingly impatient companions.

“Enough of this inaction,” Irobu complained. “We can’t wait around like this all night, we’re all exhausted. I’ll turn invisible and end that pest with another lightning bolt,” Irobu decided as she commenced her invisibility spell.

Ser Griffiths moved to block her path. “Not so fast,” he interrupted. “We’re safe in here. The beast will eventually grow tired and move on. Besides, our use of magic caused the problem in the first place; casting more spells may only worsen our situation.”

“Fine,” Irobu groused.

“But my arrows!” Swift bleated. “There are three lodged in that thing.”

“You can make more on the trip home. I have no doubt you figured out how during your sojourn in the woods,” Ser Griffiths replied. “We’ll have to camp inside. I’ll take first watch, then Swift and lastly Irobu. Watch the door but don’t venture outside. Go on, tell the caravaners to get comfortable. We have a long day of travel ahead of us remember, so don’t tarry,” Ser Griffiths ordered as he waved them off.

Swift reluctantly retreated towards the huddle of survivors. Irobu instead looked to the door, though Ser Griffiths’ stern gaze and Thrun’s cold logic dissuaded her from disobeying. Thus, she and Harold followed after Swift, who curtly informed the survivors of the change of plans. While the eight men loathed the thought of spending another night in their stone prison, they begrudgingly agreed this was for the best. Several of the survivors decided to use this respite to say their goodbyes to their fallen brethren. Some of their counterparts fell into fitful slumber, whereas others were too frightened or anxious to rest, and instead watched the shadows dancing on the walls from Ser Griffiths’ flickering torch. Back by the door, the former paladin was softly whistling an upbeat tune while he counted the number of times the magical cat circled their camp.

Between this watchful sentry and the caravaners, Harold hastily assembled a pile of leaves to rest on. Once it was satisfactorily thick, he curled up and went out like a light. Irobu moved a safe distance away from the snoring shepherd and cleared a space on the ground for her bedroll. Coincidentally, the spot she chose was barely a meter from Swift, who was preoccupied with rubbing a white substance on her bow. Unsurprisingly, the elf ignored the nearby Sanusite.

Just go to bed, Thrun yawned. You need to recoup your strength, not waste your time bumbling through interactions with this living fossil.

Get your rest, demon, Irobu retorted. It’s my body. I’ll do what I want with it.

I haven’t the patience for your idiocy at the moment. I will slumber even if you will not, Thrun declared.

At last, more time away from him, Irobu thought with relief. She took a moment to collect herself before again seeking to break the ice with Swift. Irobu’s heart thumped in her chest and her palms began to sweat. “What are you doing?” Irobu finally asked sheepishly. She felt emboldened now that she was free from Thrun’s harsh judgement and yet was still notably nervous around the captivating elf.

Swift looked up from her bow and settled her gaze on the young Sanusite. The pair were far enough from Ser Griffiths that the orange glow of his torch was faint, but nonetheless it reflected in Swift’s large eyes. “I’m polishing my bow,” she answered indifferently. “I must have scratched it in the woods.”

“Ah,” Irobu muttered, beginning to grow frustrated at yet another rebuff. I go out of my way again to try to get to know her, and she treats me like I’m a pest! A Vikria! She angrily fiddled with the clasp on her golden cloak and stared down at the leaves surrounding her.

“Wha—” Irobu initiated a follow-up question.

“Please, this is important, delicate work,” Swift interrupted while haphazardly dabbing at her bow with a resin-soaked rag.

That was the last straw; Irobu’s frustration boiled over. “Stop the act! This all because I’m a spell caster, right? Can’t see past your stupid bias? I didn’t choose this!” Irobu fumed. “If it wasn’t for me you’d have ended up a husk, or worse! Is this how you show your gratitude?”

Swift dropped her rag and glared icily at the young Sanusite. “Take a hint. While I am grateful you saved me, I do not like you or want your company.”

“My company? It seems you don’t want anyone’s company! Why are you even here?” Irobu fired back. “There’s plenty more forest to cower in!”

“Because of what the Sodality’s mission is. Not this errand, but the big picture. Haven’t sorted it out yet, Miss Spell Caster?”

Irobu furrowed her brow but kept silent. Restoring their status?

“Really, nothing? The almighty Hekal didn’t whisper the answer in your ear?” Swift mocked. “‘Long forestalled contract’ ring any bells? Or how about when the old man said ‘if everything goes according to plan, then this will be the turning point for the southern ‘alf of the continent.’?”

Did Palus really say that? How can she remember that so vividly, Irobu wondered while Swift waited for an answer. It must be to…

“Clear the Spellmarsh,” Swift supplied.

“Clear the Spellmarsh,” Irobu repeated, dumbstruck. How is that possible? Even the explorers of old steered clear of that place. Though I suppose that explains why it's their long forestalled contract. This is perfect, Irobu thought as she processed the implications of this revelation. We’ll eventually be sent there and I can get rid of Thrun. I’ll finally be able to return home and this nightmare will be over.

Swift snapped her supple fingers. “Spacing out again? But yes, Palus is planning to clear the Spellmarsh. A horrid region brought about by those, like you, who were under the sway of magic. That awful place only reveals magic’s true form as a festering blight on this land. A blight you have embraced to restore honor to your precious family,” Swift charged.

Irobu opened her mouth to defend herself but her mind filled with the countless spells she had cast on her journey to Duncaster. It filled with the agonizing screams of the Mlinzi pursuing her in the library, their skin melting from the acid orb mishap. She remembered her inadvertent creation of the cloud of death that swept through the forest to Hekal knows where. I have strayed far from Hekal’s Commandments…

“You could have accepted the fate your beloved ‘Hekal’ doled out, but instead you gambled the continent’s fate as you traveled while casting spells. Barely a day ago, you caused the worst earthquake I’ve ever seen. Now your current efforts continue to endanger us,” she gestured around the stone chamber, “and the rest of the world in the process. You’re as arrogant and deluded as Aslac said Sanusites were.”

“This was Hekal’s fate for me. He would never let a faithful servant suffer unjustly, with their family’s name dragged through the mud. Surely He wants me to grow my strength and return to Gargam,” Irobu replied unconvincingly. And yet he allowed Thrun to possess me, and hunted after me with Chombo, despite my years of faithful devotion. She shook her head to dispel those critical thoughts.

“A god, whom you have constantly sung the praises of, needs you to become more powerful before he stops a coup against your family?” Swift inquired incredulously.

“Gods demand faith; this experience is a test of mine. If anything Griffiths said was true, then clearing the Spellmarsh will be a monumental task. A task a mage would be vital for completing,” Irobu asserted.

“‘Vital’ you say? For the life of me, I can’t figure out why Master Palus thinks it’s a good idea to bring you on board—you might create a second Spellmarsh before we dispel the first! The continent’s last hope could be squandered because Master Palus had a soft spot for another one of his kind,” Swift stormed.

“No, Palus can see the value in magic where you cannot,” Irobu rejected, staring into Swift’s scowling, but still beautiful, face. “The risk of causing something that catastrophic is minimal. It’s not favoritism; he is no more a Sanusite than you are a Qertisian. Even Ser Griffiths isn’t as stubborn as you, elf. He acknowledged my utility when I saved you all in the forest. It doesn’t take a Gargam Academy education to see that the vampire attack would have proven successful if we had not had a mage in our party. There must be worse creatures than vampires in the Spellmarsh,” Irobu posited.

“But there’s always the risk, always the chance you could cause something like that! Not even those…those bastard mages of Qert are immune!” Swift exclaimed.

“A miniscule risk. But you on the other hand, are already squandering this ‘last hope for the continent’ by isolating yourself from the rest of us. You can’t remove the Spellmarsh alone; we’ll need to work in harmony to clear it. Remember that even Ser Griffiths’ tight knit band of seasoned veterans were annihilated. If you don’t communicate, then we will meet a similar end,” Irobu countered. Though neither have I forged bonds with Ser Griffiths or Harold. That’s something I should rectify no matter how simple they may be. Otherwise, it may be difficult to persuade them to deviate from their objective and venture to Thrun’s body.

“The last thing I need is some awkward, condescending exile lecturing me about working with others,” Swift shouted.

“No, your bias is—” Irobu started to yell at Swift.

“Swift and Irobu, that’s enough! You’re disturbing the caravaners and causing a ruckus; who knows what your fighting might stir in these woods. Be silent, and get some rest,” Ser Griffiths interrupted angrily. “That’s an order.”

Irobu and Swift exchanged glares, but then Irobu picked up her bedroll and stomped away from the elf on her aching legs. Swift returned to spitefully polishing her bow. Sighing, the young Sanusite subsequently laid down on her bedroll and gazed up at the smooth ceiling.

That stupid elf—why do I waste my time on her? Irobu ruminated. And what is this strange feeling inside me? This nervous fluttering? It must be an elven power, for why else would I feel this way around someone so stubborn and backwards? To dispel thoughts of Swift, Irobu next prayed to Hekal to watch over her family, and to ensure their well-being. Her mind then drifted back to the earlier argument, and specifically her confusion at Hekal’s behavior.

Why didn’t He intervene that day in the cave, before I inhaled Thrun’s mist? We still had a connection, and as Master Palus said, it should have worked two ways. Why didn’t He cast a spell to banish the mist? Or at the very least warn me about the consequences of breaking Thrun’s vessel—especially if He dislikes Thrun? part of Irobu puzzled.

No, no, pardon my arrogance, the demon must be rubbing off on me. Who am I to presume to comprehend the workings of a god? another part of Irobu said in defense of Hekal. Like I said to Swift, this must be a test of faith.

But that’s ridiculous. A test of faith to have me possessed by the spirit of his enemy? When the punishment for being possessed is so staggeringly high? Never mind that I also discovered that Hekal’s priests have been lying thanks to this heretical spirit? And yet they continue to use His magic daily, meaning they are still in His good graces. Thrun may be right. This doesn’t click. What other lies did the Priests of Hekal teach?

But Thrun also seems to have a bone to pick with Hekal. Something to do with that ‘ascendancy’ he kept mentioning. Nonetheless, his account is undeniably biased and untrustworthy. I’ve seen firsthand how manipulative he can be. Perhaps the lie about the Ugboku denizens was merely an error from older histories that has since been corrected. Lie or not, Hekal has obviously aided the Sanusites. His crystals and ichor enable our way of life, and ensure our technological superiority. And His priests use their magic to heal the sick or wounded.

And in return for his material support, he gets a legion of fanatics that has grown tremendously since the Holy Revolution. His magic…His priests carry out His will without any mishaps. Yet Buain’s magic still incurs those terrible accidents, as does Thrun’s and the Mages of Qert. Does Hekal control the enchantment hanging over the land?

Why would He do that? Why would He only come to the Sanusites 80 years ago with a workaround, when this enchantment has lasted at least ten times as long? Thrun didn’t have to deal with it apparently. He was too surprised when the lightning bolt appeared.

An enigma, but something is off. I still don’t know what happened to the Nzank, or if they ever existed. If they are truly as great as Thrun claims, then I would expect to have learned about them, or to have heard of an explorer uncovering one of their ruins. Nothing is as it seems, Irobu decided, though her internal conflict raged on.