The mare calms down as soon as Iacy strokes its mane. She does the same with the other one, befriending the horses with just her touch. “Luck after luck, eh? So nice of the innkeeper to send us these beauties. We didn’t ask for his name, did we? How rude of us. We did not even get to apologise to Sand for not using the rooms he prepared. Anyway, yours is this bigger one. Up you go.” She tells the knight, giving him the reins, then she looks behind him. “Ah, Ser Greufard, We were worried that you’d gone ahead without us.”

Fastening the newly-acquired and newly-blessed shield to his back, the knight turns around to meet their approaching travel guide, who has his own steed trotting behind him – a huge grey stallion with a proudly flowing mane and tail. Over Greufard’s light pad-armour is now a travelling cloak similar to the pair’s, while loosely slinging from his shoulder is a headguard. He navigates through the now-empty stalls of the waymarket as he makes his way to the gatesroad, the stallion almost knocking down two. He waves a torch at the guards manning the wall, and they move to lift the rails and widen the gates.

Iacy notices. “I assume you frequent the city? I see, so the girl was not the first victim in Evaeba. We’ll get him for good this time, won’t we? For certain. It’s time to properly put your friend to rest. Hm? I’m not saying this just for the sentiment; I believe that there’s not a single Being in this world that does ill with the entire coalescence of their soul. There are strugglers everywhere, but all of them are simply that: strugglers; as are we. Even the Shades cannot control their fury and hatred towards the concept of reality.” She gently flicks her reins and her mare trots forward, and the knight follows after. “Hm, ‘without an inkling of remorse’ is simply an exaggerated phrase. There should be an underlying story. They have to be brought down – to be defeated – for them to kneel before their doings.”

Greufard leads them out through the gates before mounting up himself. “Pray preach not, priestess of Lady Luck, though I know that’s not your intention. It took a long while to get around cutting off any sympathy I have for…for my former friend. If the thought of even trying to understand him resurfaces in my mind, I might lose it entirely. But you’re right, this is the final task.” He stops at a junction that forks to a wider route up Moonfelled Hill – the one that the knight and the goddess used – and to a cobblestoned road that crosses a plain streaked with rivers and nightlit streams aplenty until it cuts into the forest.

“I did not notice before but there must have been a lot of tree-chopping.” Iacy whispers to the knight when Greufard rides forward to scout the sky for moonlight and the road for company. “It’s for farms and livestock, most likely. I remember blessing their harvests.” She sighs with a bashful smile. “We were not on very good terms even after leaving the village. I complained on and on about going into dark muddy forests, but…I am just so eager now. Right now.” They follow Greufard on a light gallop.

The knight finds himself a tinge surprised that the goddess can handle her seat so well, as he is struggling a little with his own reins, and he wonders if it is an impolite thought to have. He seldom rides, if ever – excluding mounted practices. The legion he was in was made up of only a few mounted members, all of them scouts; even the general was on foot. As she informs Greufard of the orcs, the knight takes up the rear, but keeps close to her just in case said orcs appear. With proper contemplation, the orcs are a secondary threat, if they are even one; the Shades are ever more dangerous, while bandits and raiders could spark a problematic mess as well, this being a famous trade route. In their party of three, safety is truthfully very unguaranteed. But since the pair planned to travel alone anyway – just the two of them – an additional person joining them is all in all a good turnout.

Nearing the rivers, the collective scent of all kinds of mudberries arrives most overwhelmingly. The night’s chill has lifted, though the dry wind still wildly carries drifts of pollengrass and dandelion seeds from the farms and pastures, drawing yellow and white lines in the scenery. The goddess occasionally reaches out her hand into the air to grab at them, cryptically citing that she could use the pollengrass to make a special sort of ale, which is a strange declaration in itself. Greufard keeps his eyes on the road, though at times he could not help but observe his companions who he assumes are a priestess and her guard, a nervousness in his gaze that the knight senses.

It is a convenient cover story, and it is no actual deception, the knight concludes; the goddess is now in a way her own priestess, and the both of them are on a quest to retrieve a mythical relic, after all. Yet the sphere of ash and the Bonfire Of Dreams might have aroused some additional suspicions, as will many of their upcoming actions. Perhaps Greufard might ask a few questions soon, but for now he remains in casual nonchalance.

After crossing the last bridge, leaving the rivers behind them, they dive into the forest.