Fyren was ever a hunter who watched his prey. Executioners were hunters of infinite patience, pursuers of their targets who’s missions were guided by a simple few words: until it is done. His time spent in Dalamas had proved useful, though he couldn’t say the same for the mortals he had interacted with while there. He could not entirely blame them, though; after all, he was a god of judgement, and here in Berodyl, he had, in that capacity, served to judge the spirits of the dead, whether to send them up above to the restful hollows of the crystal sun, or to cast them down to the mercy of the hell that sat at the bottom of Berodyl’s physical being, rooted deep in the impossible void of Low’th. To those mortals, it must’ve seemed the regal spectre of death had visited them.

Now he had a plan to secure success. He turned his eye back on his quarry and waited. Long had he waited now, waited for them to come this far, for the perfect moment to strike. He had known that he wouldn’t be able to take them all by surprise, that they’d realise what was going on and group up towards the end, but now he finally had his method of smashing their last bastion, to rip it apart piece by piece… until it was done.

Before their chosen headed out on the road once more, Phyrn, Ponima, and Brightbrand would go ahead to secure the priory, for they would sense a threat there. This had not been part of Fyren’s plan… but it was a coincidence that worked in his favour.

Was this the moment he would strike? No… not yet. Infinite patience. Just a little longer… just a bit longer for the sequence of events he needed to set itself in motion. Then, and only then, would he finally commit to the end. However long he must wait, he would wait… until it was done.

For his patience, in fact, he was especially thankful; having to save the vast majority of his power to ensure the continuation of his mission - to ensure he would be able to overcome the severance - after finishing up here in Berodyl had been agonising at points. Having to rely on chosen to get the job done, mortal fools rendered feverous by the petty gifts he offered them, had been like sending drugged-up animals to fight in his stead. Despite this, however, he had still felt compelled to reward them. For you, though, my dear, he thought, there shall be no reward but the taste of power that shall be thrust upon you. Yes… he could not have hoped for things to fall into place as well as they had.

Soon it would be done. Until then, he would continue waiting.