"This way," said Alastair as he waved the mage over to him, "I think I saw someone."

Just as Farren thought he couldn't sink any lower, he'd proven her wrong. Back pressed against the cold stone of the camp walls, she whispered the most vulgar of curses the mortalkind had possibly ever innovated.

This is how you repay me, you blue-blooded bastard! I was foolish enough to feel bad for you.

The mage was riding up to him, a questioning look on their face. The archer strode forward to tell them something in a hushed voice she couldn't hear, but Farren did not need to hear to know what was being said.

I told them all you weren't an assassin-- when you were spitting nonsense the night they caught you.

I told them you were innocent after I overheard your loving big brother.

With shaking fingers, Farren grasped the nails she'd scavenged from the wanted posters. Holding one between each knuckles, she readied herself for a last, gruesome attack before she would inevitably be dragged to the Council and be thrown into one of their torture dungeons. She wished she had her spiked helm to do it more efficiently.

"This way, quick!" said Alastair, and hurriedly led the mage in the complete opposite direction of where Farren stood hidden.

Both disappeared around the far corner.

Farren seethed in vengeance with her rusty-nail-knuckles for a whole minute before her frayed mind registered what had just taken place before her.

Oh.

With the realization settling in, her head cleared up and off she went, sprinting into the shelter of the shadowy woods, not wasting a moment of the time her unexpected ally had bought her. Farren didn't know what to think of it, and thus was grateful to simply focus on finding her way back to the Witch-doc's cottage.

Yet little did she know, the twilit forest had more in store for her.

✦✧✦✧

Farren wished to be within the safe confines for Ryffin's house as soon as possible, away from the camp swarming with mages and from the woods which were darkening by the minute and coming to life around her. Glowing eyes blinking open from treetops, crickets chirping, wolves howling and trees whispering, the forest stirred like a giant beast with many a gnarled limbs, waking from a slumber.

If one thing her exile in the wild had taught her it was that woods looked lovely only when one gazed leisurely upon them from their window, with a hot mug of tea in hand, a roof over their head and a warm bed to sleep in. To the survivor with skills so poor as hers, it was quite a different tale.

And thus, she chose to take a short-cut, one few of those at the camp knew of, except Farren of course, until she'd later shown it to her trusty little apprentice, Helmer. Down she went the forest trail, dry leaves crunching underboot against all her attempts to tread noiselessly.

Despite being a trail hardly ever frequented by people, today there lay fresh boot prints left not too long ago. Here and there grasses were flattened, branches cut short with precise blows to make away. Unease crawled at the pit of her stomach.

Someone had passed through here.

One thing she could be sure of: these weren't the tracks of the Council Mages. Hardly walk a step without horses, those pompous arses.

Close observation told her at least two people had walked the trail recently. One pair of heavy, possibly studded boots, another smaller, dainty moccasins.

The tracks vanished from sight a few dozen steps ahead, ominously enough.

Silverknife instincts kicking in, Farren scampered away from the trail at once and leapt for the sweet shelter of shadows. Gods, I should never have taken this shortcut.

With small, noiseless steps, she began to scoot away from the trail, one hand closing swiftly around the vial of invisibility draught tucked in her belt pouch. Prying off the stopper with her teeth, she downed the aromatic solution in one gulp, but it wasn't enough to take effect in her resistant system, of course.

Somewhere nearby, leaves rustled under someone's footsteps. Farren took out another vial for a swig. Still, no effect.

With the exception of occasions where she had the chance of showing off her strength or skill with the axe, or dodge a deadly spell mostly unscathed, she usually regretted having the immortal soul nested within herself. This was one of those regretful moments. The back of her throat felt like it was on fire, head reeling from the cloying smell, but the draughts had no effect yet, thanks to the resistance her deal had posed upon her.

She needed a bigger dose-- go through the same ordeal she'd endured before entering the camp earlier.

The stopper of the third vial got stuck.

The footsteps were getting closer.

Panicked, she made to crawl across the forest floor, but it only made more noise. Whoever was the owner of those heavy boots got alarmed, and now they were coming right in her direction.

Putting the cork stopper between her teeth, she pulled and yanked and sputtered and cursed. The bastard vial held onto its determined vow to remain unopened for all eternity.

Very well! Farren spotted a nice boulder a few paces ahead. Bringing the vial over her head, she crept toward it to break the glass upon the rock. Just a little crack, and she could become invisible, safe from every non-sorcerous being.

She was close to Ryffin's house indeed, for a thin ribbon of chimney smoke could be seen drifting over the treetops not far ahead, so close--

One of her legs sank through a ridiculously deep pile of dry leaves, and with a twang a rope shot forth to tighten around her ankle. Before she knew what was happening, a net made of thick ropes engulfed her, and with a violent jerk, the rope at her ankle yanked her into the air, and the scene of the woods whirled upside down in her vision.

The vial flew from her hands and smashed against the rock.

And thus she ended up hanging upside down from a tree branch, ropes squeaking slightly under her weight, with the rock, now sprayed with broken glass directly below her head.

"Brilliant! Just brilliant!" she cried into the deepening gloom where no one answered.

✦✧✦✧

Sergeant Wolturs strode toward the infirmary in hurried steps with Rendarr and Gray following not far behind. The cool evening air did naught to calm the raging storm brewing in her. Just as she'd thought things were going slightly better, with the interrogation being successful, Helmer had come and shattered that fragile sense of peace with a light tap on the glass-- 'they have captured Corporal Clearstrike days ago.'

The thought about informing Lieutenant Evander first had crossed her mind, but he was rather busy and much troubled already, chalking up plans to rescue Commander Karyk ever since proof of his abduction had been found. Hence she now headed off to find Linder instead, only to find the infirmary empty.

She chose not to rouse Eliora, who had dozed off to a much needed nap on the steps outside, arms propped up on a cane. His bed was neatly tucked, as though nobody had lain there at all, and the windows were open, panes creaking softly in the wind. His cloak was not hung on the chair.

"What in Rhilio's name is this?" she hissed.

"Jumped out of the window I reckon," said Rendarr, shaking his head and grinning, despite the sweat beads breaking out all over his face in worry. "All Farren's bad influence."

"Over here," called Gray from outside, and motioned toward the mess-hall. And true enough, there was the black-clad man at the far end of the table, his back facing them, sipping something from that one bucket-sized mug, deep in thought. His gloved hand rested upon Pickle's soft fur, who purred happily in his lap.

Klo cracked her knuckles and made her way up to him. He remained clueless, all his attention focused on his thoughts and the cat. Rendarr and Gray stepped back with the excitement of an audience about to watch a play.

"Sergeant Valerius Linder," said she, "what do you think you're doing?"

He sputtered, drink spilling over the tabletop, and causing Pickle to launch himself from his lap. "How goes the interrogation?” he asked.

A brilliant attempt to change the subject, but Klo was merciless. "What are you drinking?"

With a look of a man who had nothing to fear, he drained the mug-- keeping eye contact all the while, not caring if the scalding liquid burned his throat.

"Tepid water," he said at last with a gasp. “It's good for your stomach, you know?”

It would have been rather convincing too, if not the suspiciously dark stains left by the spilled drink.

"Sweet Draedona, you're unbelievable," said Klo, pinching the crook of her nose.

The sight of him awakened a bittersweet memory in her.

When she'd first set foot in Kinallen, Farren used to have a hard time coping with the gruelling training. Her solution to all that had been, of course, alcohol.

Their first meeting had been when Klo had found her at the Olde Weasel, hammered senseless after many a rounds of ale. She'd carried her back to the barracks--mostly to save her from the Second Lieutenant, for her wrath would be unimaginable if she caught a sixteen-year-old recruit drinking. After helping her through a disastrous night of being sick and a brain-racking hangover, she'd found Farren drinking yet again.

When confronted, her answer had been: ‘Just--hic--water, my love!'

And thus Klo dealt with him the same way she'd done with her. She flicked her finger, striking him between his brows.

He flinched back in amused surprise, rubbing the spot, and Gray snorted. "That hurt, ma'am."

"I need you all to come to your senses, for I have a news that requires so," she said. "Farren has been captured by the mages."

Color drained from Linder's face. "When?"

"Days ago, Helm says," said Rendarr, sinking into the seat beside him.

Disbelief now flooded his expression. "Impossible. This has to be a mistake."

"I had a feeling the Council Mages would not communicate with us, so I sent Helmer to see if he can pick up something. And this is what he's heard."

"Then he must've heard wrong." He shook his head. "I spoke to her mere minutes ago."

"Really, now?" Klo said in a drawl, not bothering to hide the disbelief in her words.

"Yes, I have!” said Linder firmly.

He could barely stand on his feet that afternoon, and he was apparently hallucinating now. Splendid!

"Then why haven't you told any of us about it until now?" she asked nonetheless.

Linder averted his eyes. "I needed some time to...process it all. Besides, you were busy with the interrogation." Brows creased in a hard frown, a sour look crossed his features. The one thing that seemed to irk the otherwise cool-headed sergeant was someone doubting him.

"I have no reason to lie to you, do I?" he said.

Frustration surged through her. This would never have happened if he'd not been obsessed with going back to work, and adhered to his treatment. Had he not been so reckless, he would have been completely healed by now, back in his senses, and together they could come up with a plan.

Foxward stumbled into the mess hall, a look of horror on his face as his eyes found Linder. "Gods, you gave me such a fright. Thought the black-blooded ones snatched you right outta your bed."

Neither sergeants paid him heed.

Klo stepped closer, precariously balanced on the last frayed knot of her patience. "So am I to believe Farren paid you a visit in your sleep?"

"Yes, because she did," said Linder curtly. "We... talked--"

Now Klo's temper snapped. "Oh, and was she perhaps on top of you too? Smelling like flowers?"

He choked on air, face reddening. "How--how did you know?"

"Gods, snap out of your wet dreams!" she said, "we need to come up with a plan, and get that brat out of the clutches of the Council Mages!"

"Why on earth do none of you believe me?" He looked furious, no doubt about to snap too.

Foxward stepped between the two fuming sergeants. He shot Klo a pleading look and turned to Linder. "Okay, let me explain what might have happened to you in your sleep. No one's doubting you, you are absolutely telling the truth," the young healer began explaining, color flooding his face despite his clinical tone, "you may have experienced--what the common folk call, uh... an encounter with a succubus."

"Oy!" yelled Rendarr, "did you just call Farren a demon?"

Rendarr made to lunge at him, but Gray held him back by the collar effortlessly, as though he weighed nothing. "He ain't wrong," said he with a drawl.

"No--that's not what I--ah, nevermind," continued Foxward, as Linder's frown creased deeper and expression became angrier, "the demon thingy, that's just peasant superstition, Sarge. This is a totally normal thing, when you have a lot of pent-up--"

The group turned at the sound of hurried steps, and Alastair burst through the back doors of the mess-hall, red-faced and panting. He threw a tentative look around the mostly deserted mess hall before dashing up to the group. "Just what is she doing, sneaking in and out of the camp like that? This is literally the least safe place for her to be in."

"Wait a minute," said Klo, "who is sneaking in and out?"

"Why, that fool Clearstrike of course."

Linder brightened up at once. "So you did see her?"

"Aye, clear as daylight. She's run back into the woods," said Alastair once he had caught his breath.

Now Linder cast her a smug look. "Perhaps we were both hallucinating, Sergeant?"

"Fine." She put her hands up. "Apologies for earlier. But Helmer has no reason to lie to us. I've known him for long."

He stroked his chin. "I'm not saying the information you have is incorrect. The Council Mages must have some reason to believe they've captured Clearstrike, while she is clearly roaming free yet."

She shook her head, offering him a tired smile. "Stinks of sorcery."

Strangely enough, Helmer seemed to have vanished right after giving her the news. She'd looked around to ask some more questions, but found him nowhere.

✦✧✦✧

After the disagreement between the sergeants was resolved, another rose among the corporals.

"You gave Farren away to the mages, didn't you? Tipped them right off?" Rendarr broke free from Gray's arms and went for Alastair. Now it seemed he simply needed someone to let out his bottled up anxiety turned rage--which was unfair.

But Alastair made no attempt to lash out, or throw any threats his way. Neither did he defend himself as he grabbed his collar, only staring at his hands clasping the fabric.

Klo regarded the archer with narrowed eyes. When he'd been set free from captivity, and the truth of Dion's identity and motives had been laid bare to him, along with those who had risked their lives capturing the real culprit, Alastair had not uttered a word for days, closing himself off completely.

Yet no one checked up on him, or bothered to talk him out of his silence. Despite being declared innocent, he remained friendless, and had only himself to blame. It would be a lie to say she did not feel bad, yet not enough to forget how the noble-born had insulted and belittled her squad members, time and again.

When he'd emerged from that solitude and rejoined the ranks, he was a dead-eyed archer; smug smiles and dignified struts gave way to scowls and weary steps.

"No," Alastair now said to Rendarr. "I clearly said she has fled to the woods. Which part of that do you not understand?"

Rendarr seemed eager to be angry, but couldn't find a good cause. So the men ended up doing naught more than staring at each other haughtily.

"Tell me, Tonlin," he drawled, a flicker of his former personality shining through, "and I shall endeavour to make you understand--just let me bring a few parchments and charcoals. Thick-skulled as you are, surely you'll interpret pictures?"

Now Rendarr had found cause to be angry, and perhaps Klo would sit down and watch, too-- if not the loud crack that thundered across the training ground the next moment.

Reenergized by his bucket-full, loading dose of caffeine--pardon--tepid water, Linder dashed out first, like some giant crow gliding upon its dark, enormous wings. Everyone else followed in tow.

Outside, many soldiers had gathered, all alarmed by the sound. As they neared its source, it turned out that it came from the spot where the mage frozen in the chunk of ice had been placed for Crowder to try and un-freeze the not-so-poor fellow.

Now the group got their way through the crowd, thanks to a recently awakened, foul-mooded Eliora whose brandishing of a cane was enough to clear a way even through a roaring thunderstorm, let alone a handful of young soldiers.

They sidled away to reveal a flabbergasted Crowder, who had possibly been thrown off by some sorcerous explosion, and had landed on his bottom. Face blackened with soot, hair standing on end, he coughed and smoke puffed out of his mouth.

"Did... I pass?" he asked the old lady. She made her way up to him and put out an ember caught in his hair with her sleeves.

"Hm, let's see," Eliora said, turning to face what remained of the block of ice. The crowd's attention shifted with hers. For a few moments there swirled only opalescent smoke, and a few shards of ice fell off to shatter on the ground.

Then a curse. A very vulgar, incestuous one which must not be put into writing.

The mage, who'd attacked Farren with thunderbolt and chased her down to the waterfall emerged from the mist--on all fours, coughing, gagging and soaked in ice cold water.

"Eh, good enough," said Eliora, and pat Crowder so hard he yelped. "I'll teach you! Just try not to blow up any patients though. That's quite irreversible."

"Ah, and you imply this is reversible?" spat the mage, still coughing out water--and making a grand show of gasping and groaning.

Eliora gave him a look colder than the ice he emerged from. "Considering you have crawled out of it alive, aye. Pretty much. And do not give me that dramatic shite, if you got air for cursing, you got air to breathe."

"So this is the man who tried to capture Clearstrike and drag her to the Council's dungeons?" Linder asked matter-of-factly, eyes boring into the mage's face.

"Aye," said Klo. A shadow crossed his features. "Let's see, he also called her a mutant freak, peasant-born commoner and attempted to kill her," she added coolly, knowing full well she was tossing firewood into an already blazing hearth.

"Ah, I see," he said calmly.

Linder cracked his neck and took off his gloves before striding into the clearing. He looked at the gasping man down his nose, then back at Klo.

"You know, Sergeant Wolturs, I was thinking of planning ahead. Farren can't run forever, can she?" he began.

Klo crossed her arms, mirroring his frown. "Go on."

"Gallows, high gallows, that's where that mutant will swing!" muttered the mage as he sat on his haunches. His temper sent sizzles of miniscule thunderbolts through the water left by the ice. The crowd receded, giving him seething looks.

Linder ignored him grandly, a vein protruding on his forehead.

"Eventually," he continued, slowly pacing about like a bird of prey closing in around its quarry, "there must come a time where we'd have to testify in Clearstrike's favor if we intend not to leave her to the Council's mercy. So having a ...witness helps. Especially if said witness is a member of the Council himself."

The mage's face twisted in a scowl. "Just what are you getting at, soldier?"

"You will confess before the Council that you wrongfully attacked a soldier who was simply trying to save a fellow fighter's life. That by demeaning her, you insulted all of us. That you were the cause Dion Edsley got enough time to summon the Death Ring in the first place, for you and your companion should had been present during the battle instead of cowering behind closed doors."

The man began to howl with laughter, spittle flying from his mouth. "Are you delusional, lad?"

"Delusional?" Linder kneeled before him with a soft smile. "That's what you'll be, after I'm finished with you."

"Is that a threat? You dare threaten a Council Mage? We can strip you off your rank and throw you behind the bars to rot."

"We?" With a flourish of his cloak, he made a show of looking around. "I see no other members of the Council nearby."

The mage glanced around helplessly.

Now Klo stepped forward, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Your companions have departed to lodge a complaint against me, sir."

Alastrair clicked his tongue, eyes on the horizon. "And I've sent the last one toward the lake to search for Clearstrike. No more mages in here now."

Linder now gave the man a serene smile. "It's a long, long way to the capital, sir. Perilous, no doubt, with leagues of dense woods to cross. Bandits frequent the trader track." He gestured to the disgruntled faces of the soldiers around them. "I would not test their patience if I were you. They've endured enough from your men already."

The man trembled in silent anger, but mostly from cold.

"Your fellow mages do not seem to remember you are even alive. All thanks to our healer, Foxward, who sensed your heartbeat, or else you would end up in the corpse wagons with the black-blooded ones."

Now he shuddered from pure fright.

"So what do you say to my offer?" asked Linder. “Surely you owe us this much for our hospitality?”

Klo had to but begrudgingly admire the man's sheer arrogance. "I will not speak in favour of a filthy, low-born criminal," snarled the mage.

"Very well." Linder cracked his knuckles with loud, audible snaps. "You see good sir, having a witness who 'does not remember anything' helps too."

"What do you--"

Linder's fist slammed into the man's forehead with a sickening crunch, and he went reeling back, colliding into what remained of the ice.

They send armed and mounted mages to catch one soldier, yet overlook the Drisians raising legions of corpses with foul necromancy.

Slobber hanging in strings from his mouth, the mage was out cold.

Linder got to his feet and brushed his much-prized cloak. He glanced at the stunned faces of the soldiers, and found only Klo grinning. Soon the grin spread across the crowd in raucous laughters and hollers.

"Look away, you lot." Sighed Linder and addressed the cheering crowd, "I've done an immoral deed and am deeply ashamed."

As he plunged one hand into his pocket to retrieve his gloves, a folded parchment fell out. It didn't escape Klo's notice.

"Damnit, here I was arguing with you earlier, completely forgetting I had proof of Farren's visit all the while," he said, handing her the paper, which appeared to be a torn page of some sort of manuscript.

"Care to explain of what significance this paper might be?" she said, unfolding what looked like a front page of a book on alchemical theories.

"Expect a visitor soon," he said with a smile.