The wind howled and the woods groaned. Trees swayed, reaching out with their gnarled hands to snatch at Farren's hood, spreading out their twisted roots to trip her in the midst of her sprint. The cold sank its silver talons onto her face, frost threatened to bite into her limbs so full of life.

She ran.

Shouts and cries echoed not far, snow crunched beneath thundering hooves. A sorcerous presence was drawing ever closer, and Farren didn't need to turn for a look to know it was the Council Mage.

Farren leapt to one side just in time for a silvery bolt zoom past her face and hit a nearby tree, which went up in flames as though struck by lightning. Another missed her by mere inches, rebounding off a rock.

Try all you want, spellcaster, I ain't getting dragged into torture dungeons no more. One branding was bad enough.

On she scurried, her path drawing a jagged course through the trees. She skittered through the undergrowth and rolled below low-hanging boughs. Every soldier of Kianllen knew these woods as well as they could count the dents upon their shields from every battle ever encountered-- Farren was no exception.

Ego bruised by a mere low-ranking soldier, the mage cared little for the breach of the magical laws-- now he was simply out for vengeance. But he was having trouble leading his horse through the dense woods, and the soldiers tailing him dragged him down with their incessant attacks.

"You cannot escape the law!" he bellowed, getting stuck behind a web of low branches caked with snow.

"Gods, are you mistaken about that, sir," she gasped, muscles aching and breath catching from the exertion, "you've no idea how good I am at running from my problems!"

Snowflakes caught in her coppery mane still frizzling from the mage's missed spells, her legs carried her unerringly to the one place where went the folk of Kinallen when despair struck their miserable, mortal lives. The shrine of the Unnamed at the waterfall.

The decision to flee in this direction was not one Farren had made deliberately. Something buried deep in her subconscious tugged at her strings, like a marionette in a pair of masterful hands.

Although, it was probably the fact that across the stream was a shortcut to the trader track-- easy access to an escape route-- rather than devotion to the deity. He doesn't give a damn about us mortals anyway.

Yet when Farren reached there, she wished she could rely on the lifeless stone statue, like the villagers did in their blind faith-- because her legs could carry her no more.

She sank to her knees on a crest just beyond which rumbled the waterfall. Even the immortal soul, encased within her mortal one, had its limits.

O Unnamed, have mercy. I can't go on any more.

A horse neighed nearby. The mage was gaining on her.

The snowy woods swam in her vision, lungs hurting with every shuddering breath she took. Every joint in her ached with cold and a wave of exhaustion swept forth to douse the flames that had led her through this chase.

Farren dragged herself across the snow to the edge of the crest and peered at the waterfall. A couple dozen feet below ran the stream, thin sheets of ice drifting afloat in the plunge pool.

Her hair stood on end as lightning crackled in the air. The mage was just around the corner--

Even if she did manage to climb down and cross the stream, what then? Would she outrun him on the trader track while he rode on horseback and Farren had but her weary limbs to count on?

The mage was close, readying a spell so strong she felt its jolt right down to her bones. He had outrun the soldiers of her squad, leaving them behind, someplace far in the vast woods.

Farren did what he would not expect a sane person to do-- not in this untimely return of winter, in the face of the onslaught of the north winds.

She leapt from the edge of the crest, and dived into the plunge-pool.

Even as she hovered in mid air, she heard the mage utter a scream-- not in anger or frustration, but in agony.

A dying roar.

Someone had attacked the Council Mage.

Ice magic erupted behind Farren, but she did not have the chance to take a look at the mysterious wielder of ice who had apparently come to her rescue-- for the next moment, glacial water assailed all her senses as she plunged into the depths of the pool.

✦✧✦✧

Stunned silence ruled above the crest in the wake of the fading ice magic. A few heartbeats later, hooves clattered off into the distance. Whoever had the ice-wielder been, they were riding away from the scene, fast.

Crouching chin-deep in the water, Farren dared a glance above, peeking through rows of frosty cattails. No one in sight. The soldiers chasing the mage had long since been left behind.

After many a minutes of silent observation, she dragged herself out of the water.

In her heart she knew this was not over. It wouldn't be long before the news would reach the Council and soon, to King Forthwind himself. When they came looking for her in hundreds, quested forth with their sorcerous senses, where would she run?

Even if the entire encampment stood up for her, would they hold against high mages and sorcerers? Gods, all I did was help save a friend's life.

You tell me, Unnamed Lord, did I do wrong to deserve this?

There she stood, sopping wet and shivering, staring at the statue she so admired, and the stone sculpture stared back with his oblivious gaze. The day had bled into a crimson dusk, snow shimmered pink in the setting sun.

No one answered.

"Very well," she said, wringing water out of her cloak and draining her boots.

The only good thing about this situation was that she had not frozen to death...yet. The immortal soul seemed to perform some extent of work to keep the body it occupied, alive. At least somebody's doing their job. Praise be to Atruer.

A storm howled within Farren, heart heavy with the anguish of landing herself in yet another misery.

But her stomach howled louder.

If she'd learnt anything from the schooling she was given during her time as a recruit, wallowing in self-pity was to be placed on top of the hierarchy of necessities. Some scholar's theory they had had to slog through on that one, but she'd retained the gist-- sulking is a luxury better done with a belly full of food and a roof over one's head.

And thus, drying off her clothes was the least of the problems. Now that dusk had begun to descend upon the woods, she needed some place to hide-- to rest her overworked limbs. Heavens knew she could run no more. And as for sustenance--

Remnants of the tributes offered to the Unnamed the day before lay scattered across his pedestal, some of the fruits and berries still salvageable.

"You can't possibly curse me more than I already am, can you, O ever-silent local deity?"

His reply was the same as always. Crickets chirped somewhere on his behalf.

Farren grabbed the fruits-- thankfully still fresh from all the snow, stashed some berries into her belt-pouch, and after some contemplation, took the wheat-stalks too.

Wasting not a second more, she dived for cover into the shadowy nook behind the statue's flowing cloak, the narrow space between the sculpture and the steep wall of the waterfall. Here the wall was slick and uneven with cracks and rocks jutting out. Water flowed in thin trickles down them.

Questing just a bit further, she found a hollow within the rocks, barely wide enough for a lean person to squeeze through-- but it provided a shelter from the ceaseless downpour of the waterfall, and snowstorms-- in case lord Edis stubbed his celestial toe in some celestial table leg, up in his celestial realm.

And Farren would rather risk getting her butt stuck, than have a Council Mage track her down and fire a spell on said butt.

She squeezed through-- sideways, with the help of some vigorous wiggling and curses too vulgar to put into writing.

Inside, it was slightly less colder. The walls in the back were mostly dry. Hanging moss dangled from what could be called a ceiling of this little stone chamber.

Good enough for a night's stay, I suppose. Then she'd have to venture out for a new cover. If that blue-blooded bastard, Alastair can survive in the wild, so can I.

Without further ado, Farren munched into a ripe apple--

Only to find half a worm writhing inside.

"Fuck my life! Fuck everything!"

The ceaseless, deafening gushing of the waterfall drowned out her enraged screaming.

She spit out the other half of the poor worm, then threw the half-bitten apple so high it went through the ceiling.

Through the ceiling.

Only when her anger cooled down did she notice that the godforsaken apple hadn't fallen down.

She scrambled to her feet at once. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached out to part the curtain of the hanging-moss.

The ceiling gave way to a small cavern overhead, providing a sort of platform-- drier than the ground below, safer from crawling, skittering bugs and slithering snakes, with a streak of blood-red light of the dying sun peeking through a crack in the rocks. Lovely, thought Farren, well-- as lovely as it gets.

The walls were steep. The jagged rocks, slick with water and smooth with moss, provided little purchase. But so did most of life's aspects, in Farren's case.

She climbed. Boots slipped against rock, the uneven edges cut her arms and scraped her shin. Yet the most annoying were the mossy vines tickling her face.

When Farren finally heaved herself onto the ledge she was ready to collapse-- if not for the skeleton in one corner who greeted her with a hollow grin. Her half eaten apple had landed in its limp, bony hand, while the other was clenched into a fist.

Clad in rotted furs and tattered leathers, with a broken, antlered helm hanging askew from its head, it had the looks of an ancient warrior, rather than an unfortunate commoner who had met their end in this miserable cavern.

It looked centuries old, bones yellowed, cobwebs spun along its ribcage. The sternum had caved inward-- possibly it had been blunt trauma to the chest that had taken their life. Farren inched closer to have a better look.

A hairy-legged spider crawled out of one eye-socket and skittered into the other.

"Sweet Mother Draedona!" She scooted away to the other end. Even the immortal soul in her tried to leap out at the sight.

An awkward pause followed, although only gods knew why she should feel that way when she was alone.

"Lovely day we're having, eh pal?" she said what she believed Linder would say, were he with her at this moment. What's that fella doing now, anyway?

Knowing his skill with the blade, Linder was probably doing fine, unless he'd suddenly got the urge to take notes in the middle of a fight.

She wished she could say the same about herself. Nevertheless, she preferred a skeleton's company rather than sleeping down on the sodden floor, or out in the wild.

Somewhere between spitting out rotten berries and picking out good ones, she drifted off into sleep.

✦✧✦✧

Ah, you've finally returned, Dresius. What took you so long? And who is the other mortal you have brought with you, may I ask?

Farren's eyes flew open.

Everything hurt. Her head throbbed and spun. Her legs felt as though someone were hammering them with a mallet. And to crown it all, she was hearing voices.

From the crack between the rocks, a clear, full moon shone its silver rays across her face. Not a cloud lingered in the star-studded night sky.

Dresius, why do you not answer me? I have been getting rather impatient here. What of your injury? Has the wound healed yet?

A disembodied voice rang in her ears. A deep, soothing voice it was, soft as though addressing a lover, yet a hint of urgency was evident.

She glanced around. No one was in sight except the ancient grinning skeleton and the smiling moon.

Please, speak to me. I need to know how the Chosen Warriors are currently doing. Are they yet prepared to march out to the Autumnwind plains?

Either the owner of this voice was insane, or she was. Last time there marched an army across the plains was during the Great War nearly five centuries ago and brought on the wrath of the Gods upon Stormvale. The Apocalypse.

Now the Autumnwind plains were naught but leagues and leagues of uninhabited grassland and ruined villages, fading to a tundra wasteland near the Site of the Culling up north.

Farren was no expert, but she thought it took about half a dozen days without sleep to go mad enough to hear voices. And she'd been sleeping like a log, not unlike that unfortunate fellow over there with cobwebs instead of lungs.

The immortal soul in her stirred and writhed in the confines of her body, resonating with the voice.

"Pardon me," she said, already halfway sure she'd lost her mind, "but who's Dresius?"

The voice fell into a confused silence.

She got to her feet, and peered through the crack in the rocks-- and drew in a sharp breath.

From where she peeked, the back of the Unnamed God's head could be seen, and the giant sword hefted upon his broad shoulders. The runes she'd seen on the statue the other day were glowing-- an azure blue.

"Wait a minute," she said out loud, "is this you I hear, Lord? The...Unnamed?"

I sense two of you, Dresius and another mortal, yet only one heart beats, and drives blood through your veins. One mind that thinks. One voice that speaks, said the voice, not quite answering her question.

So very strange. You are one within another-- an ancient soul, encased in a youthful one. I wish I could see you with my own eyes. Dulled are my senses within this rock prison.

Farren listened, entranced, hands clutching the crack's edges. The Unnamed God, silent since a time long forgotten, was speaking to her. It felt as though she were hallucinating in a bout of fever. Now he spoke again, with that mesmerizing cadence of his, softer than the moonlight now caressing her face.

Free me, mortal, so I may untangle this confusion.