The pebble is a glossy black, and underneath the blackness hides an abyss deeper than all that has depth, for after being so filled with souls, the pure whiteness it once possessed has eaten itself up wholly. It seems to be the perfect ornament to be hung on a necklace; a necklace that had a pink-silver thread, perhaps.

‘Grant me a chance at death, at least. I will either come out redefined, or I will fade.’ And with that Greufard left the Bonfire for the forest, without any directions in mind, to see if he could lose himself in the wild uncharted midst of greens and browns. After intent observation, the knight passes the glossy black pebble to the goddess who receives it with similar interest, and the sensation lifts like a boulder from his shoulders. He looks around, wondering if a daydream had suddenly fallen on him. It was quite the eventful day, after all, and the Bonfire could heal not the fatigue in the mind.

“The bodies?” Iacy turns her head to the left and then to the right. “I don’t suppose we could do that all on our own; there are too many. Let us…procrastinate…that notion. There is so much on my mind that I haven’t yet figured out anyway. Give me a second.” She sinks back into her thoughts, then her eyes light up and she turns around to look. “Ah, company. I knew it. I thought I saw someone spying from there a while ago; must be a scout. Soldiers too, but not the same colours.” She gazes down at the chunks and tatters of red armour and purple cloaks littered around the bloodwashed battlefield.

The Bonfire dims down to ashes, and the pair stand up to greet their unexpected visitors. A large patrol of armoured blues stream between the trees in an orderly fashion despite the tangled messes of roots and vines. Among them are Yosetians, Varians and Men alike, each equipped with a shortsword at a waistbelt and javelins behind a rectangular shield. “Hereby halt,” a voice commands, and the soldiers obey neatly. A tall Varian approaches, blue-black skin showing on his fingertips which his padded gloves expose. “Identify yourselves,” he tells the pair.

The goddess steps forward. “I am Aiva, a priestess of the Lady Luck, and this is my knight companion, Ser Diastre.” The explanation proceeds, and she looks to where the Varian is pointing. “Yes, it appears so. We are what remained from the battle. Can I implore you and your company to aid us in giving them a proper burial? Oh, you recognise their colours?” Her tone shifts. “An advance army from Romant? ‘Romant’? Do you mind elaborating?”

“Politics; best we priestesses stay out of it.” A Yosetian in white gold-trimmed robes comes from behind the Varian, her amber-red eyes glistening under the shade of her hood. She bows. “Well dawn, my fellow sister. Let us lead you out of this gruesome scene. Were you the ones that tied your horses to the broken pine tree? The nutbrown mares and that handsome stallion, yes? That’s right, we stumbled upon them. Come, shall we?” She nods to the Varian commander and the soldiers turn back in the direction whence they came, but not before another group that flashes the same cloak colours brings forth a man with a limp leg, which the knight recognises at once. The man is chained to be pulled along even as he struggles and stumbles, but a firm hand prevents the knight from acting.

With his own hand, the knight holds the goddess back, preferring to trail behind at a fair distance, but she objects with a reassuring shake of her head. “Nothing we can do now, Knight Diastre. It’s blessing enough that they aren’t hostile to us, and that lady seems friendly. No, I have no clue as to what Romant is. An enemy kingdom to these soldiers, or a sudden aggressor, sounded like. We need to learn more, so let’s.” They pace up to the fireskin priestess. “I appreciate the help. May I know your name? Well dawn to you in return. The Other? The Shade. Yes, we managed to defeat him. It’s a sorry loss that so many have to give their lives, but…Oh, I assumed that is the case, and you said there are more coming? A skirmish vanguard, I gather? And are you with the Melacunids?”

“A flask of luck for each, and The Lady Luck belongs to all, doesn’t she?” Yesannae of Isfaalben observes Iacy with an arched eyebrow. “No, I just happened upon these soldiers from Melacun, and I am personally acquainted with Commander Junta. I was asked by the temple to track down the Miracle-user involved in that incident by the well, she who saved the young woman. Still, this is such the coincidence. You see, the Golden Temple Of Evaeba is famous for the main sculpture of the Lady Luck, said to have caught to the extreme detail the likeness of her beauty and grace. I spend much of many days praying beneath its gaze, so…” she trails off and tilts her head, pretending to think.

But Iacy need not hear more to understand, though she remains cautious and avoids making any firm conclusion. “Is it not overly bold of you to reveal your task to this Miracle-user, which I assume you assume is who I am?”

Yesannae hums in approval. “But I’m an ally, my Lady. I will handle my task discreetly, now that I see that they should not concern the temple. At all.” She emphasises. “But we must still pay it a visit, for there we can safely talk. I might know much of you as well, Ser Knight. There is a lot to share. Can you trust me, my Lady?”

“My curiosity does not allow me to decline.” Iacy smiles with an acknowledging sparkle in her eyes and nods to the knight, who nods in return.

Once more with his elbow supporting the goddess’s balance, the knight finds himself thinking of Greufard and Erdent. ‘There are many mysteries still left unanswered by Greufard’s constant running, yet he cannot be blamed, can he?’. ‘If we hadn’t chanced upon him, would he have kept running, all by himself?’. ‘Might it be difficult for anyone else to not do the same?’. The knight did not respond to the goddess’ questions then when they were resting by the Bonfire, but nor could he now.