SUBJECT // avon averline // valkan diplomat //

THEORY POTENTIAL // clouded //

Well. That's it for him, I suppose. Rather pointless end but I suppose that's the reward brainless heroics gets you. He could have run, could have joined me here in the relative safety of these pillars, but no. Shame about the girl, a scrubbed up Stiltian lass is a rare treat indeed. She's still alive, surprisingly. Screaming, but alive. One of the lizards is dragging her away by the leg. Heaven only knows what manner of hideous fate is in store for her. It might be nice to dwell on the subject but best not to linger. Move while they're distracted, that's the ticket.

"Not witch, not demon, not human. Nothing. Not witch, not demon, not human. Nothing."

And drag this poor babbling beauty with me, I suppose. I don't know what it is but I do tend to attract this manner of hanger-on. In civilised environs it's a nuisance, but in this situation I can see certain potential advantages. Ah, here's the wall, the edge of the arena. I haven't much of an eye for stonework but it seems passable enough, especially given how damnably ancient this place appears. Oh but look at me, focusing on the silly little minor details in the midst of a life or death situation, such a terrible habit but one I've found impossible to break. I suppose a lifetime of self indulgence has its price.

"The walls rise up but not to the sky." The girl lifts her gaze, eyes widening at the stone roof above us. "Not to the sky," she murmurs. "Not to the sky."

Fortunate to be beautiful, I suppose.

"Come along now, love," I say, taking her arm. "We'll follow the wall and pray for providence."

Glance to the right as we move, swiftly and surely. Can't see much but that odd grey mist, doesn't seem to intrude past the pillars. Magic possibly, or some quirk of architecture. Aha, but here, an exit of sorts—

"They see," the girl says, and indeed they do, a pair of the lizards stomping in past the pillars. Can't help but note that they must duck their heads to squeeze in, perhaps just as alien to this place as we puny humans are? Of course I'm running as I contemplate this, past crumbled stone and brilliant green moss and disturbingly oozey red vines, the girl to her credit keeping pace. Rather sensible clothing, now that I care to notice, perhaps a barmaid or seamstress of the less interesting variety.

Quick glance back and yes, of course they're following, having trouble with the gap but dogged in their determination. Perhaps the wrong word there, 'dogged', seems unfitting for such a pair of cold-blooded lizards—if indeed lizardmen are cold-blooded, never bothered to learn that particular factoid. Amazing the things that become so suddenly relevant, in such a life as mine.

"To the left," the girl says, and in a change of pace it's now she who is tugging at my arm. Can't say I put up much resistance, although as soon as I comply with her direction she once again lapses into submission. Seems we're in some manner of jungle, the stench of it appallingly compelling. Reminiscent of the lower (and to my mind superior) class of Wyrnic seed den, all thick and warm and bittersweet. One could rather enjoy oneself here, I suppose, if one knew what to ingest, smoke and/or inject. And of course if one were not being pursued by a pair of troublesome lizards, whose continued refusal to give us up as too much bother is as baffling as it is wearying.

"Within the earth," the girl says, slipping my grasp and disappearing into a tangle of roots. Adequate hiding place? Intimate, in any case. Rather earthy and mucky and with a catch of rot, but what is one to do? I nestle in, close enough to feel her heartbeat. Cosy, at the least, our new home beneath a tree.

Outside the lizardmen roam. You'd expect them to blend in with nature, wouldn't you? Well I would anyway. 'Huge but silent' but no, 'huge and stompy noisy snuffling beasts' is more in line with reality.

Still. Makes it easy to tell when they've moved away—and a high scream tells me they've found a less canny victim. Good good.

"Well then," I murmur. "What are we to do now?"

"Not witch," the poor mad girl replies, her breath warm on my face, her eyes bright even in the gloom. "Not demon. Not human. Nothing. We are breathing!"

I pat her hand and permit myself a sigh.

"Of course we are."