The weather turned as they walked.

Rain dripped slowly through the upper branches down onto the path, a dull but constant shower. Faint fog drifted here and there, wisps that came out of nowhere and faded again just as quickly. Clouds blanketed the sky, yet sunlight still glowed through brightly onto the drizzle and the fog.

Moods on the ground were not good.

Raceel walked near the back with the Stitchdoctor, a smoldering tower of bitterness. Her eyes were locked on Eany as the silver paladin walked ahead with Metcenzerin, joking with the somehow jovial bard about what, to everyone else, had been a horrifying revelation upon discovery. Daerth trudged along just about halfway between the front of the line and the back, hugging her cloak close with shoulders up and head down. The snares had been empty, and there was something else bothering the huntress, but she refused to talk to anyone.

Kwanai walked just behind Daerth, and of all of them, she was reacting most... interestingly to Teru's meddling. Daerth was understandably upset, Eany and Metcenzerin made a joke out of it, Raceel had come to something approaching terms with it, and the Stitchdoctor was the Stitchdoctor. Kwanai, however, was becoming almost unrecognizable.

“Ku'eb, who ends all life after life is ended, take this twisted flesh and devour it. Acchash sadaarisksh ashse seshee... consume for yourself this first-flesh before it falters forever.”

The constant string of muttering, Kingdom-speech mixed with the near-incoherent rambling of south-marsh language, had begun late in the morning, well after they left their 'camp', and it had continued almost uninterrupted for an hour since. The plaguemancer had also flipped her already-long hair over one shoulder and had spent nearly as long braiding it into elaborate, twisting designs as they walked, braids she then tied in place with threads torn out of her own southern robes.

Thankfully, her low string of murmurers were easy to ignore if there was anything else to focus on – other conversations or even the occasional burst of nearby bird song – but in the moments of silence in between Kwanai's quiet words seemed to sink right into the minds of her companions, whether they wanted to pay attention or not.

Which, in turn, led to normally untalkative people attempting to initiate conversation with whoever else was closest, just to try and cover up the southerer's unnerving mutters.

Daerth fell to the back, next to Raceel. “So, you're a Paladin of Koruen,” she began, clearly desperate for anything to start a conversation. “Never heard of one of those before. What does that entail?”

Like Daerth, Raceel was eager for any chance to drown out Kwanai, so she seized the conversation where she would have normally deflected.

“I went to Koruen for patronage after Rahena turned his back on me, so I actually brought all my Paladin training with me into his service. Koruen has no structure such as the Rahenians have created on this lowly earth, save the structure of nature's pecking order forged by strength, so he took me as I came. I act for him and myself, and no one else, so the only laws and creeds I am forced to follow – the only rules, as you said, being his servant entails – are those I have taken upon myself.”

“You mean... no one could have trained to become a Paladin of Koruen, then?”

“I do not know. I have never met another who claims that position, nor do I expect to. Koruians stand alone, and it isn't exactly safe to declare yourself a follower of Rahena's rival.” She paused, then backtracked slightly. “I follow Koruen, and I am a Paladin. For that reason alone, I am a Paladin of Koruen, and there is no more to it.”

Daerth had no response at first and fell silent. Then, when Kwanai's disconcerting chant drifted back to them on the air, she drew in a sharp breath.

“I don't understand this obsession with the Circle. You dedicated years to Rahena only for him to abandon you, and then you turn right around to find a different god to dedicate yourself to? Why not just... live for yourself? Become your own patron.”

She realized early on that the question could be seen as insulting, but thoughts kept moving through her mouth despite that realization. It just needed a little more explanation and Raceel would understand, right?

“And I don't just mean you,” she added, wondering where her sentence was going as she said it. “The closer to the center of the Kingdom you get, the more focused on the Circle everyone is. Out on the border, the Circle has never done anything for us, so we don't even bother with them anymore. Well, except for lip-service from a few elders. But we're doing just fine, living without them, so why doesn't everyone else?”

Raceel smiled at the question, a thin, bitter kind of smile. “Because, my naive border friend, the closer you get to the King's Circle, the more obsessed everyone is with power. The Circle is a source of small amounts of practical power, yes, but they are also an icon, a symbol, of power beyond human comprehension, abilities beyond the laws of our understanding. The idea has been planted, by the traces of power we can gain through current understanding, that with a greater connection to the members of the Circle, more of their power will be available to mortal man. Hence, the Rahenian structures dedicated to learning, training, and perfecting the Rahenian Ideal. Hence, the organized efforts by the Kingdom to prevent all other followers of the Circle from gaining that same level of structure, for fear of a hostile Ideal gaining a superior level of power over the Kingdom's approved and favored.”

She became more and more impassioned as she spoke, her voice rising steadily until she finally and abruptly stopped. She looked at Daerth, as if expecting some response or reaction, but Daerth was too busy trying to organize that explanation into a simpler format. Then,

“City folk are fighting over who is allowed to beg the gods for magic more?”

Raceel sighed. “You aren't wrong. There is far more to it then that, but... you aren't wrong.”

“Seems like a good way to make everyone miserable.”

“You... aren't wrong.”

“But you still are going to keep yourself tied to Koruen.”

Raceel hesitated. For a long moment. “With Koruen,” she said finally, “on my side, embracing the grim side of what Rahena paints so clean and bright, I feel like I have left a tiny stain of rust on Rahena's shining, perfect armor. A Rahenian Paladin fallen to the side of crows and vultures is my legacy, my satisfaction, forever.” She paused. “Koruen offers what I crave, so it is in my own best interest to align myself to him and, in the process, gain a powerful ally against the Rahenians. To use the silver paladin's term, it is a win for everyone, except Rahena.”

She fell silent, satisfied by the explanation, and Daerth had nothing to say as she contemplated the discussion. When the silence was broken, it came from an unexpected source.

“The Circle weakens. Limits men.” The Stitchdoctor continued to stare straight ahead, and her tone was odd and flat, as if she was only barely interested if anyone else heard her. She wasn't quite addressing them. “The Circle... offers fake power. Real power is Beyond.” Then, she did turn her head to look at them. Slowly. “Power to fix... problems.”

“Can your outside god fix this?” asked Raceel sharply, annoyed. The Stitchdoctor's head tilted to one side, as it always did when she was pondering something.

“Haven't tried yet,” she replied, and there was a sudden eagerness in her voice that both Raceel and Daerth instantly hated.

“Well, don't,” Raceel snapped, quickly before the Stitchdoctor could say anymore.

A burst of loud laughter from the front of the line broke the growing tension for a moment. Daerth listened to it for a few seconds, then made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

“And I thought Zerin had an annoying laugh before. That giggle is nauseating.”

A shiver of bitter wind drifted past them, and Daerth hugged her cloak closer again. But what seemed a moment of unpleasant chill to her struck Raceel very differently.

The black paladin flinched, stopped dead still, then took a step backwards. Her eyes widened, her face turned pale. Then she shrieked.

Up ahead, Eany turned to face the others. In his expression, Daerth saw the same dread that had stricken Raceel, but he could only say in a dead, hopeless tone, “Run.”

~

It was like a dream. In a dream, you are more certain then any other time, despite the fact that what you are hearing and seeing make no sense. A real bald man may appear in a dream as a woman with flowing locks, and yet you are certain you know who it is.

“The gods are done with your kind. Your patron will always abandon you.”

What Raceel heard, what she saw in the shadows of the trees, was one thing. Logically, the eyes might belong to any innocent creature. And yet she was certain that they were not. She knew they were the accusing eyes of her distant brother, tied to the doorframe of his burning estate to die a slow, agonizing death. The eyes of her distant sister, taken by the Paladins alive because women were not to be killed... only never to be seen again. The eyes of servants, doomed to death for merely associating with those who harbored her...

Blame, guilt, fear. Even a moment of rational thought would have been enough for Raceel to realize what was wrong, but not even a moment was permitted her. Twisted emotion bombarded her, breaking down every mental barrier she had been trained to raise in defence of the Ideal.

“Unwanted, unloved, unimportant. Just who do you think you are, that anyone would want you?”

Her heart lodged in her throat. She cringed back, clapped her hands over her ears, but the voice was inside her head. It only laughed at her. She was the fool. There was no escape.

~

Eany felt cold.

Pain pounded behind his eyes, sharp as fishhooks, but it paled in comparison to the terror of what he knew was behind him. He could feel the breath, the cold, dead breath, piercing through his armor and clothes and skin and muscle... right through his bones. The eyes were fixed on him, diseased and yellow with black pits for pupils, and there were worms. Drip, drip, dripping from between the teeth...

His stomach churned. He felt something fall on his shoulder and his vision narrowed, his mind went fuzzy.

“I'm coming, Eanith.”

He tried to swallow. There was a worm in his throat. He fell to his hands and knees, gagging.

“I'm coming for you like I came for your father.”

It was right above him. They were crawling on his back, beneath his armor. Writhing. Thousands of them.

“Here I am...”

~

Kwanai dropped to her knees, threw down her staff and raised her head to stare into the sky. “Ku'eb is come!” she screamed, primal fear and fierce joy combining. “Take them, my lord! Haccesh e ahsh! Devour them all!”

~

“What in the...?”

Metcenzerin froze, staring in shock as the paladins fell apart before her eyes. Raceel staggered backwards, tears visibly filling her eyes as they fixed on some distant point beyond the path. Eany had gone sickly pale, shivering violently, and seemed almost paralyzed with dread. And Kwanai...

It was impossible to know whether the plaguemancer had been affected by the same thing as Raceel and Eany or not, for though it was clear some kind of fit had seized her, the wild, wicked glee that filled her expression was far from the sickening terror of the paladins.

Daerth, the moment Raceel let out her terrified shriek, reached for her bow. Deft fingers drew an arrow and set it loosely to string, then Daerth, too, stopped moving and scanned the trees for any sign of a physical threat. When she saw nothing, she glanced over the party again, briefly exchanging a puzzled glance with Metcenzerin, then turned carefully towards the Stitchdoctor.

The little citywoman was hard to read. The full-face mask hid all expression, the heavy coat and thick clothes muffled stance and muscle tension, and her eyes were invisible behind the dark lenses set into the mismatched cloth mask. And yet, despite all that, Metcenzerin could clearly see the Stitchdoctor's sudden, tense energy. Like a half-plucked lute string before it's released.

From Raceel's shriek to the moment Eany stumbled off the trail to be sick in the bushes was only a few moments, but they stretched long under the chilling influence of whatever it was the wind had carried to them. All at once, as if at a signal, everyone burst into action again.

Kwanai whipped a foreign-designed dagger out from beneath one of the drapes of her swamper robes and started quickly towards Eany. Metcenzerin saw her move and lunged at her, instinctively putting the pieces together in the split second she had to react. Raceel broke and ran, and though Daerth tried to step in and stop her, it was like attempting to stop an avalanche. Raceel bowled her over blindly, not even noticing the huntress in her way.

And then the Stitchdoctor, as quick as a hare, leapt forward and scrambled up onto Raceel's back, wrapping one arm firmly around the black paladin's throat and clamping her other hand, and the thick cloth she held, across Raceel's face. Raceel flailed to try and dislodge her, but the same panic that had caused her to flee still blinded her. The Stitchdoctor ducked and scrambled on Raceel's back to avoid the defensive attacks, but her hand never moved away and her arm never weakened.

Daerth rolled on the ground, breathless yet attempting pitifully to groan. Pain crippled her, shooting through her body from every point of impact between Raceel and the ground, but especially from her left hip.

“Daerth, help!”

Metcenzerin and Kwanai were locked together, wrestling for control of Kwanai's dagger, and from Metcenzerin's urgent yell it was clear who was winning. Daerth tried to rise to go to the bard's aid, but the moment she tried to move her leg the world went fuzzy from sheer pain. She collapsed, her screams catching awkwardly in her throat between gasping breaths.

Raceel fell loudly, her armor clanging.

The Stitchdoctor hopped off her victim and sprinted over to Daerth. The huntress was barely aware of what was going on until the Stitchdoctor shoved a broken stick between her teeth, bringing with her a strange, sharp scent. Daerth's fuzziness partially cleared just in time for the Stitchdoctor to grab her upper leg, braced herself by sitting on Daerth's own chest, and then--

Daerth's scream felt like a knife in the throat. Her teeth ground into the stick, leaving the bitter taste of green wood and dirty bark to flood her mouth.

“Godscurseyoualltotheouterabyssforever!” They barely resembled words, but voicing it made Daerth feel slightly less ready to die.

The Stitchdoctor popped a small bottle out of one of the many pockets hanging from her belts, waited until Daerth's jaw relaxed slightly, then pried the stick out from between her teeth and poured some dull brownish liquid down Daerth's throat. The huntress almost choked, but the Stitchdoctor grabbed her arm and yanked her into an upright position just in time for Daerth to successfully swallow the potion.

“Go,” rasped the Stitchdoctor, pointing at Metcenzerin, then hurried off past the struggling pair to where Eany was leaning, faint, against a tree. Daerth gritted her teeth, tried to rise, and found to her great surprise that the pain was just bearable. She tested her weight cautiously on both legs, then half-ran, half-limped towards Metcenzerin.

Kwanai had a feral look in her eyes. The glowing circles of her pupils had shrunk and intensified, turning her eyes into near-pinpricks of greenish light gleaming brightly out of pure black pits. She spat vicious words at Metcenzerin in her own tongue, unintelligible except in tone. Let go, I want to kill. At least, that was how Dearth translated it, and she was fairly confident.

The huntress grabbed Kwanai from behind, dragging both of her hands (locked around the hilt of the dagger) back away from Metcenzerin's face. Kwanai slammed her head backwards into Daerth's nose, but whatever had deadened the pain of her injured leg protected again from the sharp snap of bone against cartilage. Then Metcenzerin leapt back into the fray.

“Don't let go!” she yelped, grabbing again for the dagger. Daerth went full wrestle-with-the-wolf mode, hooking one leg around Kwanai's narrow waist and then bodily driving her to the ground. Metcenzerin twisted the dagger out of Kwanai's hands as she fell, then quickly straddled the fallen plaguemancer and pinned her legs to keep her from kicking Daerth (who was restraining Kwanai's arms) in the back of the head.

Then, finally, a moment to breath.

Daerth and Metcenzerin, back to back on top of Kwanai, gave each other concerned looks over their respective shoulders.

“What just happened?”

Metcenzerin voiced the question, but both had thought it and neither had an answer. Almost simultaneously, they turned the other direction to look at the Stitchdoctor.

She was standing beside Eany (now also unconscious on the ground) watching them. When their eyes landed on her, she slowly tilted her head, just slightly, questioningly.

Kwanai went limp beneath them. Panting for breath, the plaguemancer laid her head against the path, and again she laughed her low, watery laugh.

“He has passed us by,” she said, and quietly muttered in her own language. Then, “Enough, let me rise. It is over. Ku'eb will wait, as will I. The whispers have passed.”