Correctly anticipating the spiders attempt to dodge, Beler brings down her sword, cleaving the last of the vermin in half. Blood, venom, webbing and viscera drains from the carcass onto the forest floor.

“Well done squad!” Lady Grace congratulates the mercenaries, wiping blood and filth off of her face. “I’ll be honest with you that I thought we were in trouble when that first spider bit me. You all handled yourselves like veterans.”

Damin begins praying to her god, holding her hands above Lady Grace’s wounds. As the prayer finishes, her wounds close, fully healed.

“Looks like the spiders got someone before us” calls out Gevot, gesturing at a webbed skeleton. “From the size of the bones, I’d guess it was an elf.” He begins searching the corpse, pulling apart rotted armor. In the end, after debating with himself, he takes the only item still intact - a filthy shield.

“Set up camp, people. With the spiders dead this is probably as safe an area as anywhere to let the magic user and cleric study and meditate. The rest of you stay alert. I don’t want anything catching us unaware. Gevot, if you want to scout around and see if there are any other victims or treasure, feel free but don’t wander too far away.”

Nalda carefully takes out her spellbook and begins memorizing her spell again. Kneeling next to her, Damin begins to pray quietly.

With everyone getting to work and not paying attention to her, Lady Grace’s expression softens and betrays worry. She scratches at the recently healed bite. Once more she wonders to herself whether this is what the path to glory and fortune ought to look like. Thinking about the lives that she is responsible for floods her with worry. That fight with those spiders could have gone differently, she thinks - we got lucky.

Those on guard all watch Gevot as he attempts to slip through the shadows and explore the area. He still hasn’t gotten the trick of it. A long snap echoes through the clearing as he steps on a branch and looks at his companions sheepishly.

A grunt from Lady Grace gets everyone’s attention. Nalda and Damin abandon their attempts at spell preparation. The corporal is rubbing the shoulder that was wounded and keeps flexing her arm.

“It was itching pretty badly and now it’s started to feel like it’s burning,” she explains to Damin, “I hate to be a bother, but it seems like it’s getting worse.” Damin looks at the wound with concern.

“My lady, my prayers heal injury but I am not powerful enough to cure poison.” she explains. “Does anyone have an antidote?”

“I thought about getting some at the Fort, but we had more pressing needs,” Lady Grace replies. “No matter. I’m certain it will be a momentary discomfort, then it will burn out of my system. Let’s begin to travel back to the Fort and if it doesn’t improve we can get further healing there.”

Gathering up their belongings, the group is about to break camp and depart when Lady Grace falls thrashing to the ground. The group quickly restrains her and, after a few minutes, she passes out. Worried, the party begins to construct a sling to carry her on a blanket with some nearby branches. Once it is prepared and they begin to shift Lady Grace into it, they realize she is dead.

“Peace be with you in the next world, my Lady,” Damin prays, closing the corporal’s eyes for the last time.