They all think they're so clever.

Tyr spat into the fire, saliva hissing off the coals pleasantly. A bit early to start one, but it was his favorite element, he liked to stare at the flames. It felt like a brother to him, like he could see his family dancing in the roiling crimson. He liked watching the lights. At least they were quiet for the time being, those voices, far away now and he wasn't sure how or why, but they hadn't returned.

They weren't bad, truthfully. They let him know things that he hadn't realized, watching his back because it was their own. Stakes in it to them to keep to the plan, that's how he knew he could trust them.

Whoever the group stalking him belonged to was wealthy. Triple warded, catstep enchantments in all likelihood, no cracking sticks or rustling leaves. That wasn't what caught his attention though, it was the smell.

Most humans smelled so fucking awful. Wet dog or fresh pork that someone had poured sugar on and left in the heat for a while. Not enough to cook it, just enough to make the aroma fill his nose and stick to the back of his throat, in the process of beginning to rot. He'd been long enough on the road in the cool, fresh air, with no men around to sully his nostrils with their rank stench. A few figures of the mixed bag of malodorous simians were earthy, like turned topsoil. He liked that smell, but there was always the undercurrent of human beneath it, those would be the women among them.

Tyr didn't hate humans, didn't look down on them necessarily, but he very much would prefer not to be around them. Or anyone else for that matter.

To put it simply, he wanted to be left alone. He'd always wanted the peace and quiet and yet they refused to give it to him. It was mostly because of their general unpleasantness, but also because he was a poison, and he knew it.

Their mouths were the worst. Even a 'clean' human mouth was like a chamber pot. Human. Tyr chuckled lowly at that, perking up a bit. As if he wasn't one, or had been once and had stepped beyond them in a way. Perhaps he wasn't one at all. If he wasn't anymore, what was he? Something foul, surely. A demon, a ghastly thing. Long fingers tapping on the window at dusk.

Tap, tap, tap. Let. Me. In.

Spooky and all that, making him laugh even louder, the sounds of his mirth echoing through the snowy forest. He felt them flinch, laughing even harder to himself.

Going insane, probably, it shouldn't be that amusing.

Or perhaps he was an angel. Perhaps this was all part of some grand divine plan that he'd finally see one day. Couldn't stop it, and he didn't want to. He felt the same way they did at this point, the voices. That what Hastur was doing was innately wrong, even in its necessity. That the cycle itself was wrong, all he felt was contempt for it. Something he barely understood. All of the others agreed on this in its entirety, even those that begged him to kill and bleed people freely until none were left.

An odd consideration of morality, whatever their motivations.

That seemed universal.

Tyr snapped his fingers and the fire exploded into eight individual orbs of blazing mana, popping and flashing at irregular intervals, throwing hot sparks through the forest. “I don't like being spied on, fellas. You know, it's so strange. You people keep trying to sneak up on me and it's always 'I know you're there'. There's a lesson in that, right? Why not just say hello or challenge me directly?”

Tyr appraised them by eye as the fire vaporized the snow and made his would be stalkers hop about on hot feet. His mastery of the flame had truly come so far, wielding it freely as he breathed, and there was some pride to be felt in that.

A creative lot if nothing else. Some were coming up through the ground, some through the forest, and he was sure there were more in the air. Further afield. Most had simply buried themselves in the powder, oddly enough, crawling around on their bellies like the worms they were.

KILL.

I probably will, but for now you should shut up.

KILL!

“Apologies, it would seem we mistook you for someone else.” One of the men approached, bowing respectfully. A paladin of Vanator judging by the golden scythe emblazoned on his breast, a crown of lit candles framing its edge. No... Vanator had inquisitors and witch hunters, not paladins. Right? “I am Knight Commander Daelin, Paladin of Vanator and acting knight commander of the of the Wrought Lantern. We had no intention of disturbing you, hunting a monster in these parts, y'see. Do you mind if I ask if you've anything strange?”

Religions are so confusing...

Tyr raised an eyebrow, quick and fast. He was wearing his black leathers because the snow glinted off his helmet a bit too fiercely, and it was marginally more comfortable, lighter as well. But he was... Well, him. Quite a recognizable face, everywhere he went people saw Tyr and either exclaimed some nonsense about a 'hero' or spat in his direction and cursed his name. Many more beyond that simply avoided him. It all suited him just fine regardless, the duality of man, and he was no different. “Paladin, knight commander, and inquisitor? Not enough staff around to share your titles?”

The man laughed, a crisp looking burly knight with a bit of gray in his goatee. A hard face, stocky and barrel chested, with strong arms and a nice wear to his plate that showed how often he actually made use of it. One could always tell most of all by how they wore their swords, or any weapon otherwise. On their waist and held with a hooked thumb while walking was a good sign of a man familiar with carrying. Walking without a hand on your arms was a sign of the inexperienced. And there was the dimensional ring on his finger, smart men wore their weapons out and about without relying on the brief delay of pulling it free of storage. “Inquisitor is a temporary posting for the most part, not enough witches to go around these days I'm afraid. Paladin is a lifelong commitment for most, as is knight. Thought I suppose both the latter are one in the same in context of faith.”

“I haven't see anything strange. Hobs in the upper valley keep the area nice and clear, good hunting but nothing larger than a bear in these parts.” Tyr shrugged. “I'd have figured you were here for me.”

“I'm afraid I don't know who you are. Lady...?” Daelin leaned forward, smiling thinly with a hand outstretched. Tyr stared back at the man quizzically, wondering why he was being mocked by someone who seemed so initially friendly. Lady? Perhaps this nobleman was playing some sort of game, regardless calling a man a woman in terms of insult was inherently problematic. Tyr felt very little insult, more confused than anything else.

“...Tyr Faeron, second prince of Haran. One eyed bastard and all of that, however you please. But I'm sure you already knew that, despite your claim otherwise.” He replied warily, and the man gave him a confused look, but nodded. Mumbling something about the 'youth these days'. Not once had they shown him any true suspicion, even at the first meeting, and even after a high level silent cast fire spell.

Surely they had enchantments to prevent the simple magic from threatening them, but really? A mage out in the middle of absolutely nowhere just hanging about? Odd that paladins, let alone inquisitors, wouldn't have a few questions for him about that.

It was extremely suspicious regardless.

“It's fortunate that we found you here in any case, I can appreciate your need to keep your identity discrete. After all, dangerous folk about in parts such as these, especially for a fine young woman like yourself.” The man nodded toward one of his subordinates being helped along the game trail by his fellows, looking ragged and sickly, hanging about their shoulders. There were a lot of these men on observation. Forty two by initial count and surely more ranging about the flanks. “My name is Daelin Host, and I notice you've great skill in magic. One of my boys here... Bettany, bring him here to the lady mage. My lad has been wounded on the trail. Big scaly beast on two legs, nipped his leg just the smallest bit and it's been festering ever since. Gods blessing that we encountered someone of some talent, as we are not permitted to turn back.”

“Can't paladins...” Tyr gesticulated with his hands, trying not to be overly rude. They hadn't shown him any rudeness of their own, other than calling him a woman, he didn't see a point to butcher these men or create conflict where there didn't need to be any. He wouldn't be opposed to a fight, but he liked the old man at first glance, even through all the sugary pork. “You know, heal people, and... Stuff? What's the point otherwise?”

“Surely we can.” Daelin nodded, gesturing toward a group of robed figures following them. Must've been priests or anchorites, most had some capability for healing, cleansing, giving blessings. All of that 'nonsense', except it wasn't, it actually worked. Magic that came from a god, one of the least understood phenomena of mana. “And we tried that, but see here...”

Daelin let his palm hover over the torn leg of his subordinate. A skinny youth with reasonably handsome features if the eyes hadn't been so far apart, just a little imperfect. The shock of shaggy red hair and freckles, well tanned skin was quite pleasant though. That color was rare outside of the hill tribes of the republic. The cairn men, or something like that. Nice folk, though they tended to shoot first and ask questions later. Great with music, played the lyre like none other. The youth did look familiar though, Tyr just couldn't quite place it, once upon a time he had definitely seen this boy. That much was certain, and the fevered eyes pointed back at him seemed to have drawn the same conclusion as they locked directly onto Tyr's own and the breathing hitched.

“I see.” Tyr nodded. The young man had a fire in his blood and the wound would heal, become perfect skin if not a little pink, before splitting apart again. “You said it was a scaly beast on two legs?”

Daelin nodded.

“Big wide jaw like an raptid, real nimble despite their awkward proportions?” Another nod. “That was a kobold. Well, a black wyrmling to be exact. His wound is necrotic, he's got an infection in his blood. Pretty bad one by the looks of it, definitely going to die, better to put him down before the pain drives him insane. This is worse than you think.”

At that, all of the paladins flinched, the stone cold manner in which the diagnosis had been given... Tyr was experienced in healing, he'd gone through the courses but that didn't make him a healer in the same way they were. One of his 'selves' were, but not him, well... Not exactly, he couldn't spray someone with holy light and revert them, his ability to heal revolved around taking illnesses from others.

Strangely enough, the wyrmlings were friendly toward humans and this was the only reported attack since they'd been given leave to settle in the region. Tyr knew the old knight wasn't telling the whole story, convinced that they'd chased it down and cornered it while it begged them to stop. Even when they were kobolds, they were intelligent and averse to needless violence, capable of speaking in common. At least cowardly, and that hadn't much changed as far as he knew, or instead of cowardly – smarter than to engage a group of 30 holy men by themselves.

Although they did eat meat now, that much was clear by how few predatory creatures yet remained in this forest. The kobold still lived in the mountains and caverns but were slowly whittling away any competition, no shot they'd charged a man. With man came more, wildlife didn't gather up posses but humans did.

He'd found the corpse of a bear some days earlier gnawed to a pile of splinters. If not for the tracks he'd never been able to tell what kind of animal that corpse had belonged to. But he'd not smelled a dead human in his entire time in this region, and there were some hunters that passed through here somewhat recently. Hunters, poachers, they weren't supposed to be here but Tyr left them well enough alone, he was a changed man.

Or something...

“So I'd think.” Daelin agreed gruffly, sadly, holding the ginger man's hand. If anything, he cared about his men, that was a good sign. “But we've tried every cleansing ritual and benediction we know. Venom, poison, disease, none of it works – it doesn't fail – the infection just returns. Are you a healer, to recognize necrotic flesh and the source so quickly?”

“Not exactly, call it an adventurers intuition.” Tyr sighed, stretching himself before relighting the campfire. “Wyrmlings most recently sighted in this area are known to predate on the black fungus that grows in the moist caverns in the mountains. They call it mansbane morel, big patches of black fungi. Apparently it both smells and tastes quite pleasant, hence the name I'd imagine, and it proliferates quite efficiently once ingested. Even into the blood stream, indicating that his infection is fungal in nature. Mycelium are neat, you should read up on them – terribly misunderstood organisms. Got a fix for that, though?”

“Aye.” Daelin nodded. “A torch to burn it away until it and the host is dead, and that's about it. You?”

“Mmm...” Tyr screwed his lips up before his 'fuck it' moment came and he snapped his fingers again. Feeling the odd sensation of oil thick tendrils in his bloodstream. He wondered if the once-kobolds ate those mushrooms because it would be a sure death to practically any opponent they could get a good enough bite on. It made the boy's body resistant to healing and cleanse effects, acting as a very powerful poison without technically being a poison, since it was a living thing growing inside of him. More like a parasite. “All set, a night of rest and he'll be right as rain.”

“...Really, that easy?” Daelin sputtered, his men were gathered around their junior, making warding signs and praising their god. Some thanks. How strange to parade their faith around like that, as if it had all been part of one god's will in a world of infinite gods, completely disregarding the mage who cured the wound in the process. Right before their very eyes, at that, it wasn't divine providence – Tyr just wanted to be left alone and this was the most efficient manner in which to see that happen. “H-how? I've not seen healing like that in all my years. You must be a true master!”

“I'm not sure how it works, to be honest.” Tyr shrugged. “I've come to the conclusion that it's anima related. Anything living, the spell I cast extricates it from the body of the host. Viruses, bacteria, canc... Cans of worms...?” Tyr cleared his throat. “I can move bodily fluids that contain living cells as well, but it's not capable of regenerating dead cells from scratch, all I can do is simulate growth not erase damage. His body will need some rest for that.”

“Blood magic.” Daelin's eyes grew sharp. Ever vigilant, the Lantern's chosen. And all around him the paladins drew their swords and hammers, hemming Tyr in.

Here we go again.