Lysandre stood beneath the god's downpour, watching as the dwarf's golden gaze locked with his, almost as if she saw through his lie. A smirk danced at the corners of her lips, a faint chuckle escaping as she took in his claim. Doubt gnawed at his insides as the truth of the lie seeped through his skin and into his bones. In the depths of despair, he recalled how the mortals had etched the name of Magniadas' Champion into their hearts, a fragile beacon of hope to cling to in absolution.

"You, Magniadas' Champion?" she scoffs, pulling her hand away from the tarp.

"Aye, and I've seen a goldfish lift a boulder!" she retorts, rolling her eyes.

"Really? Well, that's the first," she chuckles before pointing at him, looking at him from head to toe before continuing. She steps forward, craning her head up to look at him.

"So Magniadas sends their champion wandering through thick brush and down dirt roads in nothing but his knickers? I thought they'd be better off sending their champion head-to-toe with armour made of the finest metals of the mountain and magic crafted from the darkest towers, with a sword in hand—but this," she motions to him with both hands before continuing, "is ridiculous. You expect me to believe you're Magniadas' Champion just 'cause you've got a haunting look and a knack for stumbling?" she chuckles, unaware of the lack of presence in front of her.

"Where are you going?"

The stranger's brows knit tightly together as she watched Lysandre's long strides down the road, his back retreating before she could voice the rest of her swirling doubts.

"To find the nearest village." Lysandre lifted his right hand, palm open and facing ahead. The back of his hand swayed gently, but his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

"Wait!" she shouts before glancing down at the ground, her eyes narrowing. Lysandre stops in his tracks, cocking a brow while he waits to hear her plea. She shakes her head, frustration pooling in her gaze as her lips form a thin, unwavering line. A heavy weight of doubt settles in her chest, tightening like a vice, realizing that she might regret her next decision even though his claim is quite peculiar.

"The nearest village isn't for another six miles!" she shouts over the heavy rain, causing Lysandre to turn around.

His deprived gaze stares over at her short form, standing out in the rain. A flicker of something deep in his chest stirred, a spark of longing or perhaps a foolish hope. He turned his head slightly, battling an internal war. Lysandre chided himself for even considering her; she was just another soul uninterested in his plight, her every expression a silent question mark, mocking his efforts and taunting him in question if he had a heart.

"Pity," he folds his arms against his chest, his voice rough with disdain.

"I was really starting to enjoy the weather in a land that is already doomed," he replies sarcastically before striding over in her direction.

"Although. . ." his words trail off before he stands before her. "I'm not as heartless as I may seem. Unlike some mortals," he remarks, stepping behind the cart and curling his fingers over the edge of the weathered wood.

The dwarf rushed over, her boots splashing through the muddy ground as she joined Lysandre. She pressed her palms firmly against the cart, feeling the rough texture of the wood beneath her hands, carefully avoiding the possible splinters. In a silent countdown from three, they readied themselves to push the cart. Lysandre dug his heels into the cool, damp earth, the squelch of mud echoing around him as he rooted himself into the dirt. As he pushed, a low grunt rumbled from his throat as he dared to let something like a measly cart challenge him. Together, they leaned forward into the cart, muscles straining in the process. Slowly, the wooden wheel creaked and rolled, scraping over the stubborn clumps of mud, dragging them along with a reluctant slowness.

"Just a little more. . ." she grits her teeth, putting her back into it.

Sucking in another short breath, Lysandre's stiff muscles pushed against the cart, refusing to give in, reminding himself of the accusations that ran hot through his veins. Feeling his feet slowly start to slip, he repeated each word under his breath, fury building in his gut.

Traitor.

Digging his feet into the dirt, he pushes forward.

Demon.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Lysandre bares his teeth, pushing his last resort of strength into the cart.

King Slayer.

His eyes snap open, and glowing green embers burn brightly as a spark of strength flows through his veins. A gust of air swirls around him, slicing through the raindrops and whipping his wavy hair off his shoulders. The hairs on the back of his neck rise while hot fury kindled within the forge of his heart, spreading through his chest and veins like wildfire. With a final push, Lysandre threw his strength forward, whisking the wooden wheel out of the hole.

The burst of energy shatters the silencing of the air, whipping through the branches as it disperses, causing all remaining crows to take flight in a flurry. Slowly, the burst of energy began to fade, causing his body to slump forward weakly. Attempting to keep his breathing at bay, places his forehead against the gate of the cart.

"What was that?" she asks, baffled by witnessing such power.

"Chantry's wrath," Lysandre states, threading his pale fingers through his damp hair.

"Gifted by Magniadas themselves," he raises his hand slightly, observing green wisps fade from his fingertips. Lysandre knew it was the very thing flowing through his veins; whatever it was must have brought him back to life. He knew very few of his race possessed such power when a soul could not pass into eternal rest. However, the reason for his resurrection was not apparent.

"I've naught heard of such a thing," she murmurs, shaking her head. So many questions lingered on the edges of her mind as she dared to speak.

"Nay. But you didn't answer my question. What is it?" she questions, tilting her head slightly.

"Knowledge is power, dwarf. Should I gift it to you, you may well, perhaps, have my life by the edge of a blade," he replies languidly, leaning against the cart.

Holding up her hands in defence.

"Aye, fair game, lad. I'm just merely curious since your claim is proving true," she comments before reaching beneath the tarp and grasping onto the thing she was looking for.

The dwarf's eyes dart as she flicks her wrist, sending the item spinning through the air toward Lysandre. To her surprise, Lysandre's hands move instinctively, catching it without a glance. As he looks down, the fabric of the cloak reveals itself—a heavy, well-worn garment, its edges frayed and loose threads peering out of the seams.

"Put it on. You'll freeze your ass if you don't," she states, securing the tarp further by pulling a piece of rope tighter.

Blinking twice, he throws the material over his shoulders and fastens it together by interlacing the broach, a resilient filigree of silver adding a graze of timeless grace and culture. Lifting his hood to shield the god's anguish, he brushes stray, damp strands out of his eyes before circling the other side of the cart. To his surprise, the cloak was very close to his size, stopping just below his knees.

"Hop on," she urges, flicking her head to the side in a fluid motion.

Raising his brow slightly, he considered her proposal, knowing it was going to be a long walk if he refused. And yet, it wasn't something he preferred to do, taking the long path.

"You would have me join you? To what purpose?" he inquires, wondering what changed her mind.

"Look, I don't know who you are or rather what you are, but you stopped to aid me. And with that," her gaze points up, rocking left and right in her skull, debating on the rest of her chosen words.

"It's only right if I return the favour."

He climbed up from the side and settled beside the dwarf. His eyes darted towards her, catching the way her lips were still moving. Words spilled forth as she continued her conversation.

"I'd imagine you would like to get a move on," he comments, watching as she takes the reins in her hands to direct two obsidian mares.

"Aye, before a monster decides to cross our path, we'll travel to the next village," she explains, raising her finger. "Ah, that doesn't mean I fully trust you, though."

"Reasonable," Lysandre states dryly, knowing she had every right not to trust him.

A quiet sigh left his lips as Lysandre maintained his focus for the next hour and a half, vigilant along the road for anything that lingered in the shadows. The dense forest fades into an open countryside, the rain dissipating slowly. The grass, dry and lifeless, swayed with the wind across the prairies. Scattered throughout the fields were several familiar piles reminiscent of those he had encountered before on the grounds. A thick wave of smoke and iron strikes them, flowing around them, causing the dwarf next to him to grimace in disgust. 

Closing his eyes, whispers of the prairie flowed around him. Silent cries and pleas from the dead echo through the air. Mothers, fathers, children, dwarves, elves, gnomes, all lives threaded through life's divine tapestry, only to be cut short by pestilence's blade. Each life held a purpose, a kindled flame, a once-beating heart, and a reflective consciousness, all that no longer existed. Through the darkness of his lids, each wispy figure glows blue, reflecting their undying yet wandering soul. A jolt raced up his spine, and he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck bristle. A feeling clawed at the walls of his gut, indicating that he wasn't alone, a chilling awareness grasping into the dark depths of his mind.

Lysandre's celestial gaze observes each spirit wandering in the darkness. Their groans echo hauntingly throughout the air, almost as if they were searching for something. Peering through the darkness, he notices a large structure in the distance.

A gate.

Furrowing his brows, he felt his gut churn tightly, noticing it wasn't like the same gate he witnessed. Towering higher than giants, a black sludge oozed from cracks in the beams as the door ceased shut, refusing to let the remaining souls pass through to the afterlife.

"Leave now," he mutters under his breath as his voice travels.

A sickening golden glow erupts from the abyss below, seething and bubbling like an infected wound. The light dances in grotesque waves, casting an eerie radiance that illuminates the darkness around it. It pulses with a life of its own as if the very essence of dread is oozing from the depths. Each bubble that forms and bursts sends ripples through the air, releasing a faint, sickly iron scent. Suddenly, a blast from the sickening glow slices through each soul, blinding Lysandre as each soul fades.

The dwarf's brows furrow, turning her attention towards Lysandre, noticing he's been muttering something under his breath.

"Are you alright?" A voice snaps him out of his thoughts, causing him to turn his attention to the side.

Peeling open his eyes, he sighs heavily. Without a doubt, his series of thoughts was proving to be true. It wasn't just a sickness that plagued the realm; it was something much more sinister.

"A mere apparition, nothing more." His tone remained flat and detached, yet there was a hint of unease beneath it.

"The darkness in this world is nothing new, dwarf. It's merely another shade amongst the threads of this realm. Yet I fear something more is planting the seeds of pestilence." His jaded gaze met her golden ones, noticing she no longer wore her hood.

"First of all, it's not 'dwarf.' And second-"

In a split second, Lysandre lunged his arm forward, snatching the quivering stem of an arrow that had been aimed directly at the dwarf. Cursing under his breath, his head snaps toward the road, noticing four opposing figures blocking their path.

"Insolent fools," he sneers, narrowing his gaze as he snaps his wrist to the side, discarding the arrow.

Startled like a deer in headlights, the dwarf regains her composure, tightening her grip on the reins with her fists clenched slightly. Anger boiled in her chest as she questioned how blind she was not to see the attack coming.

"You're a difficult target to miss, dwarf," Lysandre remarks dryly, a hint of amusement lacing in between as he disembarks from his seat, the soles of his feet gracing the dirt below.

"Either that or these mortals simply have terrible aim," he remarked, observing one of the men before him, his expression twisting into one of anger.

Chuckling slightly to herself at his remark, a familiar ember lights her golden gaze.

The dwarf cups her hands over her mouth.

"Oi! Even a blind goblin could aim better than you! I bet your mother would be proud of your skanky ass!" she shouts to the archer before reaching behind her for something.

"You imprudent wench!" the archer bellows.

"We'll see how long that sharp tongue lasts when you're screaming for mercy," he growls, baring his yellowed teeth as he steps forward and draws another arrow.

An arm slings forward, halting his steps as the leader gives him a disapproving look.

"Stay put," he commands before his attention turns back to Lysandre and the dwarf.

"You could walk away with your lives. Hand over your gear and the wares in your cart, and we might just let you live," the leader demands, elevating his voice with authority.

"Last chance," another warns.

"Fools," Lysandre chuckles, stepping forward before continuing.

"You dare threaten one under my protection?" he inquires, cocking a brow as the question lingers in the air.

"Or what? You'll kill us?" the archer scoffs.

"Oh, I'll do much worse," he states dryly, a cold smirk coiling at the corner of his lips.

He stopped in his tracks before the leader, his weary eyes narrowing as they met the bandit's piercing blue gaze. An unspoken challenge hung in the air between them.

"You want the cart?" he questions, motioning with a flick of his head.

"Come and take it."

Word Count: 2340