"That is a lot of people," Orlantha commented.

"Now who's making the obvious statements?" Milligan chuckled.

A constant annoyance to be sure. Always making a joke out of everything. "Be quiet," Orlantha retorted before covering her mouth to cough. It was a violent, ugly thing, and when she was done, she felt the taste of blood on her tongue. She swallowed it and continued. "You and I both know that there have not been that many people in a single mustering since Jore was sunk. The King is doing something."

"Well, we have a good while before he finishes, whatever it is. We're five days ride from the border, so let's get this done. There's an inn just up the way. I've frequented it. Hopefully, it's still got the same quality service. And the same quality wenches." His face contorted into a vulgar, almost sadistic expression.

Disgusting animal. Treating people like toys to break. Perhaps you should kill him regardless if given the chance. "Can you be any more repugnant?"

"What? Upset I'm not fancying you?"

"No, only that you do the same routine at every place we stop."

Milligan snickered but kept quiet all the same as he snapped the reins to get the horses moving again. To their west, filling healthy fields of green grass and colorful flowers, banners beyond count flew in the wind. Many belonged to the forces of the King, which had nearly tripled over the years from fresh recruits and the previously injured. Many others belonged to royal houses that Orlantha could not name, either on account of them being recently raised or being entirely foreign from Aslofidor. Tahririan designs could be seen in great quantity, as could Belanorian. Dekunian was less present but still more so than Veorisian, of which Orlantha could actually count. Five. Five Veorisian flags. Less than the invasion. Orlantha could only guess as to how many soldiers served under those banners, her best guess being at least one hundred thousand. There were likely more, truth be told, but Orlantha cared not to find out the total number.

The road was sparsely traveled this time of day, which the pair were thankful for. Every previous encounter on the road was one of turmoil, death, and exhaustion. Every day on the road was a worsening of Orlantha's growing condition. Milligan had no answers for her as to what exactly was ailing her, expressing annoyance with her more frequent coughing fits - though when suffering the worst of it, Orlantha sometimes found Milligan patting her back and offering water to cool her throat. A normal person would have appreciated their companion for doing this. Orlantha silently hated him for it, feeling that he was pitying her when she didn't want his pity. However, she often felt that even this silent hate could be hidden from the man, for every time he looked into her eyes, she knew that he saw every part of her. Though he could not seemingly act on using that against her, she found that fact to be the most terrifying thing of all about the man who could rip people limb from limb like snapping twigs in half.

Roughly three hours later, as the sun began to die down behind the horizon, the inn that Milligan had mentioned came into sight. Surprisingly, Orlantha could see that it was well-maintained even at the distance they were from it - a significant difference from the previous ones they had stayed at. Closer, Orlantha could make out the name on the slightly swinging sign. The Gray Shield. I wonder how it is.

"It's a classic place," Milligan said on cue. "Ale was fantastic last time I came here. Food too. You should get their stew. So many beef chunks."

She said nothing. Her eyes were locked onto the man tending the stables on the side of the inn, watching him ensure the protective raincoats were secured to keep the horses from getting ill or choking. She appreciated him for this and, when the two turned in their cart and horses for tending, gave him three extra gold coins for his trouble.

Inside was elation for the red-haired woman. Warmth flooded her body, and the illness that plagued her melted away for but this one moment of calm. At least twenty people filled the first floor, each one of varying size, build, and color but each distinctly Aslofidorian in their faces and voices. Orlantha felt a calm come about her when she noted this, feeling greater comfort in the presence of her own people - loyalties be damned. Any one of her kinsmen was better than the people who had invaded her home in the name of the accursed King.

"Take a seat anywhere, folks!" she heard the portly red-faced innkeeper behind the counter shout to them. His voice was jovial and parental, his inflection of the words reminding her of her grandfather, who read her the stories that inspired her to be a knight. "I'll be with you in a moment with some ale to soothe your weary traveler's ache!"

She nodded to the man and followed Milligan to a nearby table. It was round and completely smooth. The yellow-tinted wood appeared to have a veneer of sorts around it, which Milligan described as a sort of preservative to keep the structural integrity intact.

"Why have no other inns used this method?" she asked him.

"Because no other inn is as good as this place," he said with a wide, toothy grin.

The innkeeper appeared, carrying two mugs of foaming ale which were placed down in front of them. Milligan drank his immediately, belching loudly to the delight of the innkeeper. "Is there anything I can get for the two of you? Mutton? Meat pie? Porridge? Perhaps a slice of blueberry pie that my dear daughter prepared this afternoon? It tastes extra sweet given its newfound rarity."

"We'll take two meat pies," Milligan said. "And a slice of some of that blueberry pie for my companion here. Oh, and another ale for me, please."

The innkeeper smiled brightly and walked away with the orders. Orlantha kept her own smile to a small, tight-lipped smirk. "Blueberries are rare now," she said. "That is disheartening."

Milligan shrugged. "I think the bastards who did everything didn't take into account some of the necessary logistics. Won't be long before meat is rare as well, and then the kingdom will likely have to start pulling from the neighboring lands. Don't think they're gonna appreciate that."

Orlantha took a drink of her ale. Tastes good. Maybe Milligan was right. "Maybe that is what the army out there is for."

"For what?"

"Bringing about the new world. Solving the inevitable food crisis. Maybe they found a way to do it."

"Well, we have three years to stop his death, so let's hope nothing happens until after that."

Orlantha nodded and shifted her gaze to the sound of the inn's door opening. Seven people entered, each dressed in dark black studded leathers with black iron pauldrons and uniquely shape nasal helms - the nasal plate resembling rounded keys. Three of them removed their helmets. An older man with slicked-back black hair and a face full of scars lead the pack. A greatsword as long as his leg and forearm combined was sheathed on his back, and his eyes - harrowed and lined with age - surveyed the room like a hawk surveyed the field for its meal. He turned to the man at his left, a younger fellow with long, absurdly luxuriously blonde hair, his youth hidden only somewhat by a mustache and goatee that gave him a visible age far more than he likely was. They exchanged words, and those words were passed to the four other men behind them. On the leader's right, curiously, was a slender woman of distinct Veorisian heritage, her brown hair cut short with spiked bangs that ended just above her eyes. The four men in the back moved passed the three and took their seats at one of the few remaining tables while the others moved over to a table near Orlantha and Milligan. The massive blade the older man carried was leaned against the table.

The younger fellow, closest to Orlantha, was nearly as slender as the woman who Orlantha noticed was practically clasped to his side. He had youthful power to his arms and legs but boasted a physique more akin to that of an archer rather than anyone fighting on the front lines. No such weapon appropriate to that build could be seen on him; only twin daggers of substantial length on his hips were visible, their hilts pommeled with bright orange jewels.

A young lady appeared some moments later, carrying a tray with Orlantha and Milligan's food and placing the dishes in front of them. Naturally, Milligan ate his immediately and belched even louder than he had before. Orlantha thanked her, apologizing for her companion's behavior with a single expression, and slowly began eating her own portion.

"You been here before, Gos?" Orlantha heard the younger fellow ask the older man at the table after they had placed their orders and received their ale.

"No. Never had the pleasure."

"Shame. It looks nice. Maybe would've kept you from being so damn sour if you enjoyed places this warm more often."

"I am not sour."

The younger man laughed. "Yes, you are. The sourest man I know."

"Leave the poor fellow alone, love," the Veorisian simpered. "It's not his fault he's owly."

"It absolutely is."

"Let's just order food and get some damned sleep," the older man ordered.

"I'm just saying, I would like to see him at least smile once. You know the last time I saw him smile? Seven years ago, at-"

"She knows the story, boy."

"Alright, alright. Sourpuss."

"Sour-look, we've been wandering the continent for years. Searching and getting nothing."

"We know. We were there."

"Shut up. Tahrir was a dead end. Belanore was a dead end. Veoris was a vacation. Dekun was the closest we got to finding the fucker, but we missed him. Now this army shows up on cue, like your woman said, which is probably our best chance at figuring anything out. I want that to be a happy thing, not go into it feeling lambasted for having a dour disposition."

"Oh, fine," the younger man laughed. "But, on that note, are you sure you want to put so much trust into that army? What if it leads to nothing?"

"Don't ask me, your woman is the one with the fever dreams saying that we should."

The Veorisian sighed, annoyed. "It's not fever dreams, Gos."

"Well, I got a fever in Belanore because of your dreams, is what I got."

Orlantha saw Milligan raise a brow and lower his half-filled mug. "Dreams, eh?" she heard him whisper. "I have dreams. Are they doing a quest based on a dream? That's what we're doing. We should talk to them."

Orlantha swallowed her drink sharply, her nostrils flaring with immediate panic. "No. No. Everyone has dreams, Milligan," Orlantha whispered back, pointing her finger at the man who crossed his arms and leaned back, his fangs pressing against his lips. "Maniacs have dreams. They could be maniacs. Do you know who else had dreams? Oudet. Look at what happened to him. Except you cannot because he is missing entirely."

Milligan stuck out his bottom lip in a pout. "But my dreams are special. We're on a quest because of it."

Orlantha shook her head and gulped a large portion of her ale. "Your dreams do not make you special, Milligan."

The man pointed back. "That is rude and a complete contradiction to your current joining of me on this trek. I'd say that a woman of your tenacity and skill joining me for what amounts to a vision of the future makes it and thus me very special."

"Oh, please," she grunted.

"Now, I have questions. Excuse me!" Milligan said loudly, clearly attempting to get the attention of the three next to him and Orlantha.

God, please shut him up. Please make him stop. "Milligan, stop."

"Excuse me, gentlemen and miss?"

"Yes?" Orlantha heard the younger man say back.

Milligan rose to his feet and adjusted his vibrant green coat, removing his hat to place on the table. He walked to their table and sat in the empty chair between the older and younger man. Orlantha buried her face in her hands. "My apologies for listening in; I just had some simple questions regarding something I overheard. Something about searching for someone and dreams?"

Orlantha nervously turned her eyes to the other three, expecting to see them annoyed by Milligan's interjection. Instead, she found the young man smiling back at the man in the green hat, the older man drinking his ale, and the woman donning a confused but interested expression.

"You heard nothing that you should care about, sir," the older man grumbled. "Go back to your meal."

"I'm all finished," Milligan said, motioning his hands around the empty dish. "I'm a quick eater."

"Fantastic. Get another portion."

"I'm not hungry anymore."

"Then go to sleep upstairs."

"I haven't rented a room yet."

"Then go do that before I break your fuckin' nose."

"Gos, would you please try to be a bit more amenable to interaction with strangers?" the Veorisian requested. "It's not the first time we've been asked questions."

"A good half of those times led to me having to kill people."

"I assure you, I am not seeking to harm any of you. I merely have some questions."

Orlantha rose up from her seat, taking care to grab her dish of blueberry pie, and moved to the empty seat between the older man and the Veorisian. The three looked at her with confusion as she angrily devoured her dessert - hiding the joy of the delicious taste that irradiated her tongue. A pleasure that will soon be lost to humanity. Perhaps it is better to live in E'aura. Should I consider buying a ticket overseas?

"Can we help you?" the older man asked.

"Just making sure he behaves," Orlantha said, making a show of motioning for the rapier on her hip. "He's jarring to the senses on the best of days."

"Well, I say we haven't had a good jarring for while," the young man said, slapping one hand on the tabletop with joy and sticking his other out for Orlantha to shake. His voice was chipper than anyone else Orlantha had encountered during the past seven years, chipper than Milligan. Even he was surprised at how gleeful this young man sounded. "My name's Alden."

Orlantha took his hand into her own, cautiously with tension in her arms to unsheathe her blade at any moment. "Orlantha," she said. To her minor surprise, this Alden simply shook her hand and turned to the man in the green coat.

"I'm Milligan," he said jovially, giving a quick surprised look to his companion.

"Memin," the Veorisian said, gently shaking Orlantha and Milligan's hands.

The older man gulped down the last of his ale and groaned, clearly unhappy with this development. "Goscelin," he said after a long moment.

Alden turned to the table where the other four - completely unaware of the situation - sat, now unhelmeted. "Those lugs over there are Kedel, Neden, Zorim, and Serae."

"Veorisian's all?" Milligan asked with a raise of his brow.

"Honor guard to our lovely lady here," Alden said, grinning as widely as an ax-head towards the Veorisian woman. "She's royalty."

Goscelin snorted. "Yes, tell the strangers everything about our most useful companion, Alden."

Milligan attempted a disarming smile towards the older man. "My good man, I did say-"

Goscelin breathed deeply, the volume of it interrupting Orlantha's companion. "I don't give a rat's ass what you said, boy. I'm not keen on strangers or people in green coats with stupid green hats. Ask your stupid questions."

Milligan stuttered for a moment, wrong-footed by the sheer rudeness displayed by Goscelin despite flashing his best smile and using his best tone of voice. Orlantha felt a surge of joy at seeing it. "Well, I merely wanted to ask what it was that you are looking for. Or...was it who?"

"We're looking for a fellow of import," Alden said, interrupting Goscelin, who was surely about to answer in the blandest, sternest way possible. "An um...a Drayheller."

Orlantha's eyes narrowed as she chewed a sweet, sticky chunk of the blueberry pie. A Drayheller? There's no Drayheller on Khirn anymore. "Why are you looking for a Drayheller?" she asked through a mouthful.

"Because apparently, this one is going to bring about crakat'da'nor," Goscelin rumbled, motioning for the finally arriving tavern wench carrying their food. Stew, bread, and mutton were placed down in hearty quantities for the visibly weary and well-traveled trio.

"What the hell is crakat'da'nor?" Milligan asked, wincing after Orlantha smacked his hand away from the mutton.

"The Veorisian concept of the apocalypse," Memin answered, smiling at the display. "Or, rather, the old concept, but some houses in Veoris still accept it as the concept."

Milligan sucked on his teeth. "So you think this Drayheller is going to bring about the end of the world? Doesn't that seem atypical for them?"

"Which is why it's a dangerous thing," Alden said. "I knew a Drayheller personally, and if this one is as threatening to the world as Memin says, then we have to stop them."

Orlantha took the last bite of her blueberry pie. "And you saw all of this in a vision?"

Memin nodded. "It took these two a long time to believe me as well, but once I was able to guess facts about them that only they would know, I got them on my side."

Goscelin made a noise and took a large gulp of his stew, slowly chewing the beef chunks and potatoes that came with it. "You still could have done a better introduction of yourself than 'hello, I saw you in a vision of mine. Join me to stop the apocalypse.'"

Memin took a dainty sip of her own stew. "I did not say it that insipidly."

"Practically how you said it."

Milligan reached for the mutton again, only to be smacked on the hand once more by Orlantha. "So where do you think you'll find this Drayheller?" he asked, rubbing the back of his hand.

"We're hoping it has something to do with that giant army mustering near Holmgan," Alden said. "According to her dream, they'll be moving into Veoris, but we're still not sure how we're going to find out if the Drayheller is leading them, among them, the reason why they're even mustering."

"We're planning on getting into the city to find information there," Memin added. "We figured we'd have a better chance of succeeding than just following them."

Orlantha crossed her arms on the table. "And what happens when you find this Drayheller of yours?"

"Stop them. Kill them. Whatever we have to do," Alden said. "I don't like the idea of killing a Drayheller, but if it stops the world from ending, might as well suck it up."

"By the way, where the hell are you two headed?" Goscelin suddenly changed the subject. "You got these two blabbermouths talking, but you ain't saying shit."

"Funny enough, we're headed north as well," Milligan answered. "We're going into Veoris to find something."

Alden leaned forward. "Isn't that a coincidence. Interesting. What are you looking to find?"

"A place in the mountains. The northern mountains that keep us from the Hell Pit. Like dear Memin here, I, too, had a dream about a place I needed to be."

"Great. Another dreamer," Goscelin grumbled through his teeth.

Alden flapped his hand at the older man. "What's the place?"

"A church. I can't say why I need to be there exactly, only that it somehow ties into the whole 'keeping my father from dying' thing I have going on for me."

Alden's smile lessened but remained all the same. "That sounds like a hard adventure."

"It certainly has been so far," Orlantha frowned.

Milligan pointed at his companion with a somehow wider grin. "The lass here is my ever-helpful guardian through it all. A real kind heart, she has."

Alden lifted his mug in a toast. "Well, I hope you find success in it, my friends."

Memin smiled. "I, too, wish you luck in your venture, Mister Milligan. And you as well, Miss Orlantha."

Without any more exchange between the two parties, Orlantha and Milligan quickly made their way to the rooms upstairs after renting one for the night. In the cold darkness of the evening, Milligan slept soundly and snored under his blankets. But Orlantha, once again feeling the effects of her illness, remained wide awake, staring at the ceiling of their room. Before long, she felt restless and rose from her bed to go sit by the window, looking out into the wide stretch of darkness pocketed by flickering torchlight and distant campfires.

One hundred thousand soldiers, marching north into Veoris. If the Veorisians were as strict on their border control as Milligan had said and were as savage as any of their migrating barbarians, Orlantha could only imagine that another war could be on the horizon. Upon a time, this would not have bothered her as gravely as it did now, for, upon a time, arcaenomancy was a forgotten forbidden art.

Now, it was widespread and used in the name of God Almighty. If Veoris decided that such a large-scale movement into their territory was too drastic and dangerous for their liking, this alliance between Alsofidor and the others could fall apart in an instant.

The thought of it was enough to keep Orlantha awake for the entire night, watching the sun rise over the crest of the horizon and paint the field with light.

Soon, Orlantha concluded, the light of the sun would do little to break through the darkness of the death that would soon fill the world to its brim.