After the healer had hurriedly taken Crowder to the infirmary, Farren collared a new recruit named Helmer from the group of soldiers who had rescued Crowder.

When the boy of only fourteen had first arrived at Kinallen a few months ago, very nervous and jumpy, she had taken one look at him before taking him under her wing, or rather, cloak.

"Alright..." She looked Helmer in the eye. "Tell me all you know. From the top."

"Sure, Corporal. We were at the construction site, right, and this guy runs up to us--" he said between heavy breaths from having run all the way up. "And there's blood gushing out of his head. Shouts for help and falls right on his face, this guy."

"Run up to you, you say?" Rendarr frowned. "Somebody chase him?"

Helmer shook his head, blond curls swaying. "He was alone."

✦✧✦✧

"Absolutely not. Doc is now tending to the fellow and wants no trouble; especially not you noisy lot," said Foxward, the healer's young apprentice, as he stood blocking the door to the camp's infirmary. He wouldn't let them pass even though Crowder was heard to have regained consciousness. Farren had half a mind to give his ponytail a yank, but figured it would do much better to take a gentler, more civilized approach.

"Now listen here, Foxy-" she said, but got no further as some of her squad members arrived along with the sergeant. Rendarr and Farren approached their sergeant, Klo Wolturs.

A woman from the Brihurst Isles south of Midaelia, her skin was a deep brown; her tall, strongly built frame towered over the other soldiers.

"Searched the whole village. No sign of this horseman you two speak of," she said, brows knitted.

Rendarr and Farren stared at each other. "But we both saw him," said Rendarr, "I'm pretty sure he's the one who attacked Crowder. No one else was there when we left."

"We passed him on the way," said Farren, "assumed he was just a Dark Saints worker, though."

"Makes sense he would not tarry here long, not after what he's done. No matter, I've reported to Lieutenant Evander. He'll relay that to the nearest stations," said Klo, "we'll catch him. Unless the bastard's gone o'er the hills, into Drisian territory." With a nod, Klo dismissed the other soldiers.

"I get the feeling the damned Drisians sent him," said Farren.

"To murder a carriage driver and fail miserably?" said Klo with a small smile. "There's got to be more to that."

"There is," said Rendarr, holding up the package addressed to Commander Karyk he'd been carrying. "Some vampire historian's sent something to our commander. But of course, he's not around."

Klo examined the package with squinted eyes, before handing it back to him. "Hold onto it. Give it to him as soon as he arrives."

"Aye."

While Rendarr continued to reason with Foxward, Klo took off her leather helm, and sat down on a bench outside the infirmary. Her rust brown hair was piled high in a bun. She looked up at them, her eyes a brilliant black, their radiance worth composing poems about.

Which Farren actually had done, some years past.

Not long after their acquaintance, she'd presented her with a wonderful poem woven with a heartfelt confession-- which Farren's older, wiser self would come to regard as a literary disaster.

Farren's proposal, however, had been turned down by Klo. Not because of the terrible poem, nor the countless spelling mistakes. Romantic relationships had never really interested the sergeant, nor the prospect of a tumble in the hay. Nevertheless, the two had been friends ever since, their bond unaffected by their difference in rank and Farren's questionable past.

Now Klo gave them a curious look, noticing only now their argument with the doctor. "What're you two doing here anyway?"

"Exactly," said Foxward, "you tell them, Sergeant. They want to see Crowder right now, and he's only just come round--"

"He's awake?" Klo stood up, "what're you two doing outside then? Go question him."

Foxward choked. "Sergeant Wolturs--"

The sergeant rose from her seat. Her considerable height towering over him, she gave him a death stare. "Need I repeat myself?"

Foxward didn't budge.

"D-doc said no," he said firmly, despite the visible terror on his face. Farren had to admire his audacity. The young healer heeded his mentor's words with an unmovable determination.

"Say, Mr Foxward," said Farren, "what if I tell you I'm injured, huh? Surely you will let me in?"

"You're not injured."

"Not on the outside, no," said Farren, bringing a hand to her chest, and with that she sank into the bench, as though the burden of sorrow alone was dragging her down. Yet not all of it was part of an act.

Foxward remained unmoved, watching them with unamused eyes.

"One insensitive fellow, you are," Farren grumbled, "for a healer."

Klo sighed, and Rendarr snickered, mouthing, 'change of strategy.'

While Rendarr and Klo decided whether to go get Lieutenant Evander or to wait it out, Farren stepped out on the yard in front of them. Yard would have been a generous term, for it was no more than a stone studded patch of land in front of the infirmary that stood under a wooden shed, conjoined with one of the barracks.

In one corner stood a stump used for chopping firewood. A rusty woodcutter's axe lay propped up against it.

With the patient air of someone merely getting ready for a wash, she took off one of her leather boots.

"Farren, what are you doing?" Klo asked from across the yard.

Oh, nothing. Just making the God of Despair do his part of the deal.

Now to explain that to her would be rather troublesome. Farren didn't like to lie to Klo, either. Without a reply, Farren reached for the rusty axe; decided it was too extreme and stopped, grabbing a heavy bundle of chopped firewood instead, which she brought over her head with a grunt. Aiming for her bare foot, she released her grip.

"Farren, what in the name of Rhilio-"

No, not Rhilio the merciful.

This is for Atruer.

To any other, it might seem like sheer masochism or downright insane. But to Farren it was perfectly reasonable.

The deal Farren had once struck with Lord Atruer, the God of Despair, was the cherry on top of the many-layered, rotting, crumbling cake of her bad decisions. Nevertheless, the deal came with some perks, one of which granted her a heightened pain tolerance.

So I might as well make the most out of the deal. Make the God do his part.

The weight struck before the other three could reach her. Pain coursed through her leg, yet not to the extent usually expected from a crushing blow. It hurt, but it was tolerable.

Farren grimaced as Klo lifted the load off her foot with alarming speed, nearly throwing it halfway across the yard.

"When I said 'change of strategy', I did not mean crushing your own foot!" Rendarr cried.

"Now can we go inside? Please?"

"You're insane, corporal Clearstrike!" Foxward shouted.

"'Resourceful' would be a better word," she said with a grin even as tears stung her eyes. But her smile did not waver.

It was said Lord Atruer fed on the pain and suffering of mortals who made deals with him. But from the very first day of her deal, Farren was determined to make sure he would get not one morsel from her.

A cruel game indeed, for both God and mortal; one that she loved to play.