Light attacked Redmun's eyes. “Get up, Possessor.” Redmun rose, blocking the beam with his hand, peering out at the hands that held them. “That's it? One night?” he asked the captain.

“Like I told your friend, the church can hardly complain about being hurt, just disrespected, and disrespect ain't a crime. At least, not here it's not.” The cell unlocked, and swung open on crying hinges. “Come on.”

Redmun rose and stretched. He hadn't been in the dark that long since he was thirteen, and a joy rose in the prospect of being out in the light, even if it was only torchlight. Though his headache wouldn't be helped by it.

“You alright there?” Brooker asked.

“Yeah. I'm fine. Just … thinking. Where's Jessa?”

“The infirmary. Sleeping off quite a night, from what I hear.”

Redmun nodded. Talking to him like that had probably set her temper rolling, and there's nothing she liked attacking more than a bar or tavern's alcohol supply.

“What about me, Captain?” The young man's voice came, causing both men to stop and turn. “How long 'till I'm allowed out too?”

“A day more, Celric,” the Captain said. The young guard started to speak, but the captain stopped him with a shake of the head. “Not another word of complaint, lad, or it's two.”

Redmun could almost feel the sullen emanating from the cell, and left with a smirk. He glanced about the bright room, at the various guards and secretaries, working at shelves carved from the rock itself. It struck Redmun how incredible the planning of this room must have been, each pillar and doorway and shelf planned and carved with the utmost craftsmanship, almost more aesthetically pleasing than if it had all been crafted from wood. To have made all of Lutmouth in this manner… it seemed more miracle than genius.

Brooker passed him and ducked into a side room, coming back with Redmun's belt, which still had his knife, as well as a few pouches of odds and ends he kept. The Captain tossed it to him with a half-smile. “That's it, right? You didn't keep much on you.”

“It is,” Redmun said, and started putting it on.

“Then you're good to go.” The man slapped Redmun on the arm. “My advice would be to leave quick as can be. Rest of the world needs to hear about Potsdoor, and, you know, there's…”

“The church, I get it.” Redmun said, already heading for the door, keeping a faint smile on his face. Let Lutmouth see the Possessor leaving in good mirth.

That smile dropped as soon as he was in the hallway. He shivered, trying to get rid of the strangeness he felt. Things were changed, and it didn't seem to be sitting well with him. No more wandering, no helping when they wanted to, no nice calm nights, talking to Jessa. They had to stop Gelstadt. First they had to figure out how.

The sounds of market bounced towards him, and the hallway finally opened up into the Great Chamber. He dashed through, dodging through the crowds. At least until someone patted his shoulder. He spun to see who it was, and saw a gangly young man, grinning. “Nice one with the priest,” he said, and continued on his way. Redmun stared at the man's back for a moment, and saw now the looks others were giving him. Some few still had neutral, or even scowling expressions on their faces. Quite a few more gave him a smile, or an appreciative nod. That put a grin on his face. Lutmouth had been Church-free for most of its history, and now they had a congregation of their own, preaching and proselytizing. It seemed the populace had been waiting for someone to turn around and punch them. If only it could be the same elsewhere.

A few of those appreciative looks dropped, and the crowds dispersed from him. Redmun spun, feeling as if he knew what was coming.

“Good afternoon, Evil.”

Redmun took a deep breath, but didn't feel like mustering a smile for the Saint. He merely nodded. Her two lackeys – still wearing full plate armor, with their face-obscuring helmets – stood at her shoulder. They were even symmetrical in height. Cielaine herself still wore the ripped, dirty dress she came in. Had she even washed? And how did she manage to look so graceful despite it? It sent was a chilling effect, especially paired with those eyes of hers.

“Evil?” he asked, trying for nonchalance.

“It is what I would call all Possessors, but I worry the meaning would be lost on most. I hoped you would appreciate it, being from Khelvorias.”

Redmun kept his face bland, uncaring. “I'm not from anywhere, really.”

“Yes you are. Khelvorias. It is where you were born, where you received your training, where your mother lives now.”

Redmun wrinkled his nose, looking down at the petite, pale, freckled little Saint before him. “How do you know me?”

“But aren't you famous? At least amongst Possessors.” Cielaine stretched her quaint smile into a knowing one. “The youngest Possessor of his time, and present at the end of the Dead March. You and Miss Jessamine both, I hear. The only survivors.” Redmun tensed at that. Memories of the Dead-March held nothing but misery for him. Misery and guilt. “How could I not know of you?”

A warm, angry flush rushed up his face. “What's wrong with you?” Redmun found himself asking. “Why are you like this?”

He'd expected shock, or perhaps indignation. Even the Soldiers beside her flinched as if he'd raised a hand to strike her. But the Saint just kept smiling. “Orth-tet and Sephelia showed me the way, and I only hope to show you, too.” The woman reached up with her dirty, pristine hand, and tried to touch his cheek. Redmun shifted away.

About them crowds were gathering once more, only trying to be discreet about it. As if seeing a Saint and a Possessor talking were some sort of spectacle. Redmun felt the urge to shout them away, but felt he'd already let slip enough aggravation for now. He decided to end this confrontation before it went too far.

“Look, Saint Cielaine, I'm sorry but I don't have time for this. My partner and I have to be off soon, and I need to get supplies gathered. Excuse me.” Redmun turned, starting away.

“Did you appreciate it?”

Redmun stopped in his tracks. Could he just walk away? He didn't think so. “Appreciate what?”

“Being called an Evil.”

Redmun turned, and faced the woman. Her smile hadn't changed in the slightest. No smugness at making him stop, no pleasure in his discomfort. Nothing. She really did just want to speak to him. It was horrifying.

He glanced away, and set to thinking. The answer wasn't hard to come by. “Because I'm the only real Evil you see here, right? The thing in me isn't the problem, I am.”

The smile deepened once again. “Very good. I must say, Redmun, you are-”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The entire room turned once more to the door, the sound of knocks echoing throughout. They came louder than before. Knock. Knock. Knock. A slow, constant battering. Within moments Redmun spotted Bo'sett head bobbing through the crowd, his warm voice shouting out soothing words as he rushed to the entrance. The harshness of the battering seemed to vibrate through the hall.

“Well, Evil, it seems we have yet more visitors to this far-flung corner of the Forsaken Continent.” Cielaine planted herself beside him, extending an elbow. “Shall we?”

Say no, Redmun told himself. He could smell her this close, filth and sweat, tinged with rot…

“…alright,” he found himself saying, taking her arm. They paced, arm in arm, towards the entrance. Redmun peered down at the Saint from the corner of his eye. Despite how chilling she was, how her smile and eyes bespoke a deadness inside, he found her intriguing, if in a revolting way. He didn't want to be anywhere near her, or ever see her again after they parted ways, but after talking to Celric about the Church, Redmun found himself wanting to give a chance. One chance.

Cielaine set a leisurely pace, and the crowds parted as they approached, funneling them towards the door.

“What was it like in the Dead-Earth?” Cielaine asked, placing her free hand on his arm. “I've never been.” She looked up at him, walking with a disciplined yet womanly gait. It was surreal, almost as if he were walking onto a ballroom floor, about to dance with this wisp of a girl.

“Hot. Dry.” An uneasy feeling was settling, slowly but surely, into the pit of his stomach. He wriggled his fingers, flexed his toes inside his boots, trying to get a feel for what was wrong. But it wasn't there. It was in his head. That buzzing…

“Nothing about the hordes of dead? Fighting the very people you once stood beside?”

Redmun talked by rote, repeating what had been hammered into his mind by his years there. “No. Any confirmed deaths were burned, or dismembered if fire isn't available. It wasn't much of a numbers issue once you figured out the right tactics, just a morale issue.” They broke the space surrounding the door, that knock knock knock still ringing out, and-

It stopped. That sound, that buzzing he'd been feeling ceased so suddenly he only then fully realized he'd been hearing it. The sudden halt sent tremors of dread through his bones.

“What was that?” Redmun asked. He cast about, searching faces, corners, shadows, trying to understand what had just happened. Yet just as he spoke, mere seconds after the buzzing ceased, so too did the knocking stop.

“What was what, Evil?” Cielaine asked. She sounded so pleasant. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Get back.” He pushed the Saint away without giving her a chance to reply, and pointed to the door. “Open that!” he commanded the soldiers beside it as he strode forward.

“Can't,” one said, sharing with his companion a look of mixed doubt and worry. He fumbled with the halberd in his hands. “Only the Mayor, or the Captain can-”

Redmun pinned the man with a glare. “Open it. Now!” But he didn’t wait. He grasped the door handles, pulling it wide, and peered inside.

Darkness. The outer door was ajar, scraps of soft morning light the only illumination. The edge of a silhouette broke the light, a shuffling thing that Redmun saw for only a second. The place was silent. Or, almost silent, except for something… Redmun turned his ear to the opening, straining…

Wet slaps, like moist rags dropping to the stone.

Redmun slammed the door shut, and slid the two heavy-set bars into place.

“What are you doing?” The soldier asked, now trying to grab at Redmun's arm. “The Mayor's in there!”

“The Mayor's dead,” Redmun said, and shrugged him off, sliding the last of the bars into place. Behind him the crowd gasped, a few cried out. The door might hold, for a while. He had no idea if Gelstadt's ichor could erode through. They had to prepare…

“You.” He pointed to the one who'd spoken. “Run and get Brooker. And free the boy in the cells. We need everyone.” He turned to the other. “Go fetch my partner, and weapons. Anything and everything you can grab.” Finally, he turned to the two armored lackeys flanking the Saint. “You two, help them. And remove that damned armor – it's useless here.” Redmun turned back to the door, his mind racing. If they got through the door, how could they stop them? Shove them into each other? That might work for the ichor-ghost-people, but for Gelstadt…?

“We don't follow your orders,” a muffled voice said. One of Cielaine's guards. The two doormen hadn't moved either.

Redmun turned to face them, and the crowd. He reached into his jacket and took out the coin he kept there. A bronze thing, etched with his name, date of birth, date of Possession, and most importantly, the Possessor insignia. His badge of office. He dropped it at his feet.

“An Evil just killed your guards, your Mayor, and I don't think I can stop it.” He turned to the guards at the door. “If you don't help me, we all die.” He then turned to the Saint, and her two bodyguards. “If you don't help me, we all die fast.” Moments passed, their glares fixed on him. “Move!”

The Chamber exploded into motion, soldier and citizen alike scrambling this way and that, grabbing children and produce on their way. Cielaine's two guards flinched as if they meant to go, but stayed put. The Saint, looking at Redmun all the while, gave a fractional nod, and the two guards joined the commotion. Redmun bent to pick up his coin, and put his back to her.

As his finger worried the surface of his coin, Redmun tried to think about what came next. Instead he wondered if it had been his attempted authority that had gotten things moving, or the horror he felt creeping into his voice.