Dawn broke over the rim of the valley, casting pale morning light over the little river and the camp by the trees. Birdsong and river babble, the smell of dew and damp leaves... all the ordinary usual morning sensations came flooding in as the party began to stir.

Metcenzerin was used to sleeping in ditches when the need arose. It was never pleasant, but he did appreciate the morning life that came after. He stretched, carefully tiptoed around the sleeping forms of his companions and over the ashes of their fire, and then strode off merrily towards the river to whistle at the birds.

“Good morning, Iylihe,” he sang once well away from the rest. Everyone else would find it odd, he was sure, but Iylihites had a very comfortable, very casual relationship to their god. No prostrating yourselves in dark temples below the earth, no sacrifices, no solemn ceremonies or pretentious hierarchies. Just a free man and a free god, and the music of both on the wind.

Metcenzerin often felt poetic in the mornings. Today was no exception.

He had a drink from the chilly river water, then, seeing the others still weren't up and about, sat on a flat rock by the water to sing for a while. It wasn't anything special – just a duet he had written for himself to practice testing the limits of his Blessing – but he enjoyed the simple, familiar challenge.

A walk upon a moonlight pier, beside the waters cold and drear,

White and cold... gleaming so...

She walked with hair of silver light, a maiden pure of darkest night.

She walked... She walked alone.

It rambled on, verses on verses born of ideas from his dreams. Few of them connected in any meaningful way, but they didn't have to. It wasn't a ballad or song for others to hear and understand, but Metcenzerin's mind set to music, each new verse a different format, a different story, a different tune.

He lost himself in it for a moment, more then a moment, but then a harsh call broke into his serene morning ritual.

“Bard! Bring some water back with you.”

Metcenzerin closed his eyes, silently wondered if the boorish criminals he'd been saddled with would ever stop treating him like some kind of errand boy, and then rose from his stone perch. Water it is.

The others were, more or less, busy by the time Metcenzerin made his second trip back to the trampled circle of grass that constituted their “camp”. Raceel was just visible among the trees, a stack of branches under one arm as he weaved back and forth, occasionally stooping to pick up more. Daerth sat cross-legged on the ground under the nearest tree, knife in hand, with a half-skinned rabbit in front of him.

“Checked my snares first thing,” the hunter explained, unnecessarily. “Most were empty, but we'll have something for stew.”

“Naturally, eat the rabbits,” Metcenzerin retorted. “Teru will be pleased.”

Daerth shrugged. “You don't have to eat any, then.”

Metcenzerin set the pot of water he'd fetched down next to the newly-rekindled fire, then looked around. The Stitchdoctor was still lying, curled half-fetal in his blankets, but Kwanai was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is our southerner?”

“Sulking,” Daerth replied, almost sounding amused. “He didn't say a word after he got up, and refused to acknowledge me when I suggested he get branches for the fire. Had to ask the Black Mountain instead.”

The Black Mountain...? “Do you have trouble remembering the names of other people?” Metcenzerin asked, allowing a hint of irritation to slip in. “Raceel and Metcenzerin are not difficult names, and yet you seem incapable of using them.”

“And what do you have against nicknames? Raceel is a pretty ordinary mid-upperclass name, sure, but Metcenzerin? How do you manage not shortening it?”

Iylihe around me, this man is an uncultured thug...

“We're not friends, bard, but we all want to get through this alive, so we might as well act like we are. And, as not-friends, I'm telling you honestly that I'm not saying Metcenzerin every time I want to address you. Do you prefer 'bard', then, or 'Zerin'?”

“Met. Cen. Zer. In.”

“Metzy, it is.”

“Poacher...”

“The name's Daerth. It's shorter and easier then poacher. Try it.”

The temptation to kick the burning sticks into the self-satisfied hunter's face was thankfully quelled by the rather noisy return of their paladin. Raceel walked into camp, his boots thudding with every heavy stride, and tossed a fair pile of broken twigs and thin branches onto the ground.

“I found what appears to be a path,” he said, nodding back into the woods. “It's grassy and overgrown, but there are clear ruts from where wagons have been pulled.”

“Wagons mean civilization, and perhaps civilization will have answers.” Metcenzerin squinted at the horizon, at the sunlight on the treetops. “That first dungeon was a test, I'm sure of it... but does anyone have any clue what we're supposed to do now?”

“I was hoping you'd have the insight on that one, musician,” Raceel replied seriously. “I know little of the inner mind of Teru.”

“Please, you can call me Metcenzerin,” Metcenzerin insisted, shooting a sideways glare at the poacher as he spoke. “As for insight... I'm not sure anyone but a man in the bottom of his bottle after losing his wage to a game really understands Teru's mind, but we'll soon learn more of the Great Gambler then anyone has before, I'm sure.”

“Perhaps more then man is meant to,” muttered Daerth, grabbing one of the longer sticks from Raceel's pile. “The Circle is a bunch of--”

“Careful, hunter.”

Daerth glanced at Raceel briefly, then returned his attention to shaving the bark off the selected stick. “Right, still a Paladin. Well, I'm just saying no man needs exposure to the twisted mind behind the god of gambling and random chance, whatever the situation. Here, help me get the fire hot. I want to sear this rabbit.”

Kwanai returned, still silent and glowering at everyone who dared look at him, when Daerth's wilderness stew had begun to simmer. What provisions the Judge had provided were mainly hard, dried, or salted foods, designed to last, and they had all accepted the unspoken rule that they'd eat what they could forage whenever possible.

Reluctantly, Metcenzerin mentally accepted the fact that the hunter was a far better cook then himself. Of course, this was an acknowledgment he was determined Daerth would never hear.

The Stitchdoctor, though still weak from whatever poison had coated the needle-trap, seemed able to walk alright after breakfast. They then were able to break camp well before noon and follow Raceel to the path he had discovered.

There was no question that it had, in fact, been a man-made road, but the early Spring grass had reclaimed it, at least for now, muffling the ruts visually but not eliminating them.

It was the ruts that drew Metcenzerin's gaze downward, as he had nearly broken his ankle once in a rut made by similar means. It was because of that incident that he saw the faint impression in the grass that all the others missed.

“Raceel!” he called, and then pointed when the paladin turned. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Footprints,” Raceel confirmed grimly. “Indeed... I could almost say I know this impression.” He examined the ground, and the party's own imprints in the grass, then nodded slightly to himself. “I cannot be completely sure, but from the size and weight of it, I would dare guess that these are the footprints of an armored soldier.”

Daerth hmmed to himself. “Good guess. They look very similar to your own footprints, to me... though smaller, of course.”

The footprints diverted into the trees after a minute, and (despite Metcenzerin's curiosity) the party continued on the path without following them further. The Stitchdoctor was lagging behind already, and Raceel wasn't keen on leading the group into even more difficult terrain.

And yet, Metcenzerin's curiosity was not left nagging for long. Only a few minutes further on, Daerth silently pointed through the trees, past a curve in the path up ahead, and they all soon saw the bright glint of sunlight shining off of what could only be water, or polished metal.

And there was no stream nearby.

Raceel, who'd slowed to walk beside the Stitchdoctor, quickened his pace to retake the lead. Daerth, at the same time, stopped in the road to restring his bow and allow the others to pass him.

Here we go again, Metcenzerin thought with an inward sigh.

They walked around the curve, and there in the road ahead of them stood a heavily-armored knight, every piece of armor polished to bright silver, with a full-face helm and a long greatsword already drawn and planted in the ground between his feet. Even Kwanai recognized the armor, identical as it was to the armor once worn by the dead Paladins in the final room of Teru's Dungeon.

Four dead Paladins.

Even from behind, Metcenzerin could feel the tension that had overtaken Raceel. The Fallen Paladin raised his hand to the hilt of his own greatsword, his eyes narrowing to hateful slits. He, too, had come to the obvious conclusion.

The silver-armored Paladin, however, merely raised one hand from it's position on the crossguard of his greatsword, holding it out palm-first to the party. Then, from within the visor, an unexpectedly light, youthful voice asked,

“Am I right in guessing you were sent to confront Teru?”

Metcenzerin side-stepped around Kwanai to stand beside Raceel, hoping the black paladin wouldn't try anything hastily. “We were. And you are?”

“Sent by the Circle to help you, for I am a Knight of Rahena and guardian of order. You will need my aid.”

“So you are.” Raceel's sword flashed suddenly as he drew it swiftly from its sheath across his back. “And now defend the honor of your faithless god, wretch.”

He was first to move, lunging forward towards the paladin in silver, but Metcenzerin moved quicker. The silver paladin started and took a hasty step backwards as he yanked his own greatsword out of the ground, but he, too, was too slow. Metcenzerin had already dodged in between the two, his hands held out to stop the oncoming fight.

“Stop, both of you! Raceel, think for a moment,” he cried. “Why is it this paladin survived Teru where even your-- the First Commander did not?”

“It does not matter now,” Raceel replied viciously, not a moment of hesitation between question and reply. “He will not survive me.” His hand hit Metcenzerin like a bear's paw, batting him out of the way as easily as one would a fluffed-up kitten and sending the musician sprawling to the ground. Before Metcenzerin even realized what had happened, the black paladin had leapt over him and was charging towards the other again.

“No, wait,” cried his intended victim, backing up another step and visibly shrinking away in fear. “I'm willing to help you! Why throw away a resource when openly offered?”

Metcenzerin rolled over, groaning and dazed, but still determined. “Listen for a minute, Raceel!” he insisted, rubbing his newly bruised shoulder. “Teru killed the other paladins – all of them! – even the one who supposedly serves at Rahena's right hand. So why did he spare this one?”

“I don't serve Rahena!” The silver paladin's responding cry rose almost to a shriek, brought to desperation by the instinctive fear of the black-clad giant bearing down on him. “Teru spared me because I lied to get in on the Quest.”

Raceel caught himself, slowed, then stopped and lowered his greatsword slightly. His expression did not lighten, but it did shift from hatred to suspicion. “Explain yourself.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Quickly.”

The silver paladin straightened as much as he could after that girlish shriek and cleared his throat. His helmeted head turned slightly as he glanced over the rest of the group, as if hoping to find an ally.

“I,” he said, and again Metcenzerin picked up a strange, light note in his tone, “am a paladin, but I do not serve or defend Rahena. I talked my way into the First Commander's party, yes, but I was hoping to...” He trailed off suddenly and was silent for a moment. Then, “Is that what it looks like?”

His armored finger rose, pointing past Metcenzerin and Raceel into the middle of the party. Metcenzerin didn't bother looking.

“Do you mean the green man or the Stitchdoctor? Because we do have both.”

“The... the Stitcher? The real one?”

“I'm losing patience with you,” Raceel interrupted grimly, and the silver paladin snapped back to the topic his life was depending on.

“I was here to rob them.”

Silence fell. Raceel lowered his sword fully, astonishment overwriting even suspicion in his eyes. Metcenzerin could not hold his chuckle in for long, though.

“A paladin, somehow not Rahenian, who steals from other paladins? There is a story there that I desperately want to hear in full.”

“I'm not Rahenian,” the silver paladin insisted again, still looking at and obviously hoping to convince Raceel. “I don't know what your complaint against them is, but I am not one of them.”

“Then with whom do you stand, 'paladin'?” asked Raceel coldly. The emphasis was warning enough that all was not forgiven merely by claiming distance from Rahena. The silver paladin hesitated, then his shoulders slumped.

“Hear me out all the way, alright? I didn't mean to get into some crazy paladin-feud, I just... ah, cats. Fine. Truth time.”

He stabbed his sword firmly into the ground, then lifted both hands to his helmet. Quickly, as if second-guessing his own decision, he took off his helmet and tucked it beneath one arm.

Then shook out her sweaty city-cut blonde hair, exposing the Mark of the Thief branded across her forehead.