Dried fish wrapped in broad leaves, some stale bread and pieces of fruit, all of this he devoured, then washed it down with the salty-sweet berry wine. He spared most of the wine and used the leaves to collect drops of the falling rain, quenching his thirst without clouding his mind. He stood slowly, favoring his left side and carefully stretching his tender back. The ogre's lightning had burned a scar down his spine and the skin felt seared as if from a hot skillet. His tunic and armor chafed against the wound like sack cloth.
He would need the shadow road's healing touch soon. It looked as if Targris's temple was empty, or its clerics had burned along with it.
So where would he go? This region was unknown to him. Where might he look to find those behind Logfell's and Targris's attacks? He looked toward the old man, who still studied the ruins of the temple and the charred remains of its gardens. Steeling himself and checking his equipment, patting the scabbard of the sleeping Bedlam, he descended the steps and made his way to introduce himself. Dreading interaction with someone who did not threaten his life, Quinsareth made sure to walk loudly through the puddles to avoid startling the man. An unnecessary concern, as the man was obviously aware of him. Absently, he rubbed at the patches of dried blood on his face and lamented the loss of his traveling hat, most likely washed away in the flood along the side of the road. He dipped his head low, allowing thick strands of wet hair to obscure his unnerving eyes. The man saw Quinsareth coming near and didn't move aside or turn away. Quin sighed and cursed himself for not carrying at least one map. The burnt smell of the temple was strong but tempered with the scent of rain on the cool air.
Quin stood awkwardly, staring into the broken windows and the steaming blackness within. The old man regarded him for a few moments and turned back to the burned temple, as if sensing the aasimar's troubled demeanor. A low-hanging branch from within the temple's garden shielded them both from the worst of the downpour. "You fought well."
The man's voice was low and emotionless, but it startled Quinsareth all the same. "It was what it was, little more." Not fond of compliments, he could not help the edge in his reply. "As you say, stranger." The old man turned to the aasimar. "This attack was wild and unexpected-perhaps its end deserved to be so as well. You are injured?" "I will heal," he said, adjusting his left arm behind his cloak. "See to your own, elder. I must be leaving soon." "Fair enough.
Where will you go? You'll find naught but plague near the forest, and Derlusk is shut up tight for fear of it." Plague. He'd sensed the familiar smell of it in Logfell, but hadn't placed it. There was indeed something else beyond ogres and gnolls at work. He doubted this was any ordinary plague. "Where else does the forest run? South, to more towns?" "Aye, south, where you'll find Littlewater, most likely as tight as Derlusk. Beyond that is Brookhollow, the city of the oracles and the Hidden Circle. This ruin was one of theirs, but it has been months since their last visit." Quin studied the temple, still not comfortable meeting the elder's gaze. Beyond the burned wood and stone, he could feel the presence of the forest. South it would be.
Whatever held him in this region would be close to that forest. "You should leave this place, lest the rest of it fall to some strange foe as well." "Perhaps, but we will stay. We will rebuild. It is the wisdom of the Qurth that keeps us going, along with our faith in the oracles." "Where are your oracles now-where were they today?" Quin asked, snapping the question out before he could stop himself. This man's faith was none of his affair, despite his misgivings. The elder thought a moment, then answered, "I honestly do not know. It is not my place to question the oracles, but Savras always provides despite hardship and danger. You came to us, and I no longer believe in coincidence." This time, Quin did bite back his reply, angered by the complacency in the man's tone. He had seen towns destroyed for lack of help or preparedness. He simply motioned to the temple and the people in the distance, some crying, some dead in the street, and said, "I did not come soon enough." "Sometimes it takes flame and death to awaken that which has lain dormant for too long. Occasionally, the destruction of that which we hold dear brings us closer to what we really are. I do not mourn a burned temple or momentary pain-I see opportunity. You came when it was necessary and no sooner." Quinsareth turned to face the elder, ignoring his pain to stand straighter and brush the hair from his eyes. Dried blood still stained his fair skin, and his gaze of milky pearl settled on the old man. The elder met the stare, but he could not suppress a brief shudder. A few people nearby glanced at him but quickly regretted their boldness, scurrying away from Quin's menacing visage. He focused on the chill again, the ice in his blood, calling the shadows to open his path, directing it south toward Littlewater. He did not know exactly where he went, but the shadows would carry him true, knowing the roads he did not. The old man backed away, obeying the fear Quin carried about him. The puddles near Quin turned black as did the rain which fell upon his head and shoulders. The aura of a darker world haloed his body. Quinsareth spoke before turning to disappear in the shadowalk, shaking his head slightly and reaching a hesitant, though oddly troubling, conclusion.
"I am not like you." In a flash of distant lightning, he was gone.
For the first time that she could recall, Elisandrya had lied to her sister. She gripped the reigns and spurred Morningstar to greater speed, galloping through the muddied plain beyond Brookhollow's walls, followed by several others. These few who doubted the high oracle had left secretly in the dead of night, flirting with blasphemy in the face of Sameska's edict. Riding behind her was Rhaeme Fallow, with whom she'd discussed the late night ride after the gathering's disturbing conclusion. Though they agreed on the necessity of their actions, the pair's tumultuous history with one another had caused curious stares from passersby. Rhaeme had vehemently cautioned against speaking with Dreslya before leaving. Reluctantly, Eli had agreed. She had left a note for Dreslya, attempting to explain her absence, but guilt rode with her as she headed north along the forest's edge. There were more reasons than she could justify that spurred her to action.
Most of these had little to do with Sameska's recent performance and much to do with that one day. The day Eli's world had died and after which nothing seemed right anymore. Dres would not understand, she thought. I barely understand myself. Rhaeme and the others had their own reasons, but all of them had agreed, soon after the gathering, that something was wrong. Lord Hunter Baertah was too trustful of the inconstant Sameska and would never violate her word, especially if it threatened to involve getting dirty. They all watched the forest on their left warily, wondering what new horror lay within its tangles and thorns. None of them doubted Sameska's claim of encroaching evil, but these were warriors of action, unable to sit still. Several moments passed in which Elisandrya had almost stopped to turn back, still unsure of her own instinct and fearful for Dres. She never pulled the reigns, however, never acted on fear or insecurity. She sought the guidance of Savras many times but did not truly expect an answer. His answer had already come-plague and evil and mysterious warriors from the north. All that was left for her in that answer was nothing, to do nothing. No, she thought, I'll do what I can, prophecy or not, Savras forgive me. She would seek the Hoarite, the ghostwalker. New rain lashed her face as she rode. She felt a little freer, a little more in control of her own life as the ground rushed by beneath churning hooves, carrying her farther and farther from Brookhollow. Temple life would never be hers, not now and maybe never.