“Leave him. He has proven less then worthless thus far.”

Raceel eyed the small city-killer with the same distaste Kwanai had just demonstrated aloud, but their group's archer barely hesitated before hurrying back to the fallen man's side.

“Remember the test?” Daerth asked through gritted teeth, shoving an arm under the Stitchdoctor's knees and shoulders. “We need five people.” He rose with a grunt, but then walked past Metcenzerin with quick strides like the doctor weighed barely anything. “Come on, let's get out of this murder-rabbit hole.”

“I'll claim their deaths before the end,” Kwanai muttered quietly, though still well within Raceel's earshot. Raceel ignored the implied threat – Teru was clearly playing with the plaguemancer, and whether Kwanai would act on everything he said or not, Raceel wasn't willing to play Teru's game so easily. He took one more lingering look at the corpse of his old commander, then tossed the Second Stallion's helmet to one side and followed the others out of the last room of Teru's Dungeon.

And out into... somewhere else.

The sun was low on the horizon, a strange sight that didn't seem to align with their afternoon entry and the amount of time they had spent traversing the handful of rooms and corridors. Raceel wondered if they had, perhaps, left the dungeon far further east then they had entered, for – in addition to the sun appearing to be far further west then it should be - the terrain around them did not at all match the Northern Foothills in which the dungeon entrance had been set.

A hill rose at their backs, yes, but it was a craggy stone hill, not the rolling grassy hills at the foot of the Green Mountains. Long, green grass battled with tall weeds all the way down the gradual slope to a wide creek, or small river, which rushed loudly through a rough and rocky bed. Fully-leafed and handsome trees stretched from the side of the hill off to the group's right all the way down to the river, creating an arrowhead shape of clear ground before them.

The ground rose around them further on, in all directions. They stood in the bottom of a wide valley, but with no sign of a mountain range ahead, behind, or anywhere. It was a bowl, and the world beyond was out of sight.

“Well, it'll have to do,” stated Daerth matter-of-factly. He scanned the area briefly, then pointed to where the slope flattened out somewhat near the woods. “Water's close, but we've got tree-cover. Good place for a camp for the night.”

Raceel didn't necessarily agree, but he allowed the hunter to take the lead this time. There was no sign of civilization, certainly no way back through the dungeon with the strange shifting it had undergone, and now no choice but to try and make due with what nature, or Teru, had for them.

Besides, he'd slept worse places then in a green field.

“Give me the doctor,” he said, judging the distance between where they stood and the flattish spot again. “I'll carry him down. You keep your eyes out for some prey-animal. Some fresh meat would be more then welcome after that little adventure.”

Daerth looked almost surprised by the suggestion, but complied. As they all made their way to the shelter of the trees, he kept wandering off in different directions to investigate... whatever it was that had caught his eye, Raceel supposed. By the time they reached their to-be campsite, Daerth had gathered a thick handful of plants he claimed were edible.

“They're bitter, and I wouldn't eat all this raw by myself, but in small doses or cooked they'll service,” he explained, then dropped the small bundle of basic supplies the Judge had given him to the ground by the trunk of the nearest tree. “Metcen-- do you have a nickname?”

“No.”

“Zerin, try and find some fallen branches, or perhaps bramble, for a fire. We'll need water, too. Kwanai...?”

“I will fetch some from the river, if it is pure.”

“It's a wild river, how impure can it be?”

“Kingdomers are so simple.”

Daerth grimaced at the comment, but let it go without further argument. He seemed rather encouraged by the opportunity to take charge. “Raceel... can you try to figure out what's wrong with the doctor while I scout for dinner? The Judge wouldn't have sent him with us if he didn't think we'd need him...”

Raceel let the question hang for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Though I wonder at your willingness to leap into action to try to help this man,” he commented. “Do you overlook such crimes as his easily at the borders?”

“I don't know who he is,” Daerth replied simply, checking his bowstring in preparation for the hunt. “The Judge said he was a murderer in the city, but they also said I was a rebel mastermind. Out at the borders, we judge people by what we see, not by what other men say.”

Kwanai was still linger at the edge of the somewhat-trampled camp when Daerth walked away into the trees. Raceel glanced at him, expecting from the southerner's expression to hear him say something, but whatever had been on Kwanai's mind stayed there. He turned, the little pot from Daerth's pack in his hands, and headed off towards the river.

“Alright, city doctor, let's try to see what's wrong with you.”

“No.”

Raceel instinctively tensed, then glared at the masked man lying, same as before, in the grass. With his eyes hidden by those dark lens, it was impossible to tell when he'd gone from unconscious to conscious... if he had been unconscious at all to begin with.

The Stitchdoctor's rasping voice was even quieter and weaker then usual, but he still managed, “Poisoned needles... very small dose. I've survived far worse... at the Tower.”

Circle curse him.

Raceel sighed, and went to pack down a circle in the grass for their fire.

As the party, scattered, prepared for the night, a familiar yet strange voice rose over the twilight silence in song. There were no lyrics, no words, but just a voice that seemed far away and yet near, humming with the setting sun of loss and love.

Or, at least, that was what went to the hearts of everyone who heard the song. Only the singer knew what he really meant to say.