Laughing at the foolhardiness of the God of Despair was all fun and games until the real question arose: "Why are you associated with this evil deity in the first place, Clearstrike?"

Farren's grin froze.

This was when the actual despair struck, as the many curious-- even suspicious-- faces stared at her, of an old captain, of an alchemist, of twin mercenaries and a flamboyant bard, and the most worrying of them all--the forsaken God whose lover's immortal soul she had trapped within herself.

The captain looked skeptical of the acquaintance between Farren and Xenro, who she believed to be the happy-go-lucky son of a former member of the company. Nevertheless, she moved onto the more pressing concern.

"What's Lord Atruer's deal with you, exactly?" asked Captain Walric. Xenro's eyes reflected the same question, even if he did not voice it.

Farren had no answers to offer. Not easy ones, at the least.

How would she tell Xenro she willingly trapped Dresius in herself without him going into a vicious rage? Or Ryffin, that the wards in his house did not work because she was a Vasaen by definition-- immortal soul in a mortal vessel.

She realised she'd been baring her teeth for an entire minute and thus, busied herself with a flagon full of spiced mead, eyes travelling over the crystal bladed swords, daggers and axes suspended from the baldrics of the mercenaries. Sacred Blades-- which would cleanse her soon, if they knew what she was.

Farren chuckled. I'm as good as dead.

This time, it was no petty brawl at an inn that she could slither away from with her sorcerous wiles.

The captain folded her hands over the table. Taut, cord-like veins lined her rich, brown skin. When she spoke, her voice was measured and calm. "How did you know Lord Atruer is the one who has been mistaken for you? Last time I checked, he was this pale bloke in a cloak, not some red-haired Midaelian lass."

Farren leapt at the opportunity of a diversion, eyes flashing. "Sounds like you know him better than me. Meet him often?"

The woman, however, was not one to be swayed. "That is irrelevant. My question is-- why of all the people of this land, he chose to masquerade as you?"

Trust me, lady, it'll take all night to explain, and will likely end in manslaughter.

"No clue," said Farren. "But...all this mess right now-- it explains why I came across this sorcerous conflict when I was wandering the forest."

Xenro placed his tankard down. "What did you witness?"

"Didn't see it directly, but I sensed the magic. It seemed as though Atruer was fighting a mage... and he lost."

His eyebrows rose. "To a mere mortal mage?"

"Apparently," said Farren. Then it clicked. "Remember him hollering about the Countess kicking his arse?"

Captain Walric's frowned. "First, Atruer, now the Countess? My, is there any questionable character you are not associated with?"

Hilda came over, wrapping an arm over Farren's shoulder and taking a huge swig from a bottle of Goldcrest Whiskey as though it were water. "Bold words coming from you, Cap'n. Your whole company is questionable, ain't it?"

--"And you're the cherry on top, love!" cheered the mercenaries, to which the bard answered with a strum of her lute and a swift bow-- the motions converged into one, graceful movement.

Raucous laughter rose from the company, as well as its leader. But Xenro seemed to pay no heed to the rowdiness that engulfed the hall as cups emptied and spirits ran amok in warrior blood.

"Atruer..." he said to Farren quietly, "he was in a mortal's disguise when the Countess kicked him off his boat, was he not?"

"Aye, of a fortune teller. Rather handsome too. Almost fooled me once."

"Why am I not surprised?" He shot her a tired look, before resuming, "next, when he came across that mage you speak of, he again must've been disguised as a mortal-- which is you."

Farren leaned closer, cogs churning in her head. "I see what you're getting at. This must mean Atruer's powers are limited while he is in the mortal form."

"And I suppose the mages who have him in custody must put up wards, too. Poor fella has no way out."

Captain Walric cleared her throat, and placed her tankard down with a loud thunk. The chatter quietened down, and attentive eyes turned to her. "Right now, the fate of some shady God worries me not, gentlefolk--" she nodded to Hilda, Farren and Xenro, "--and feral children."

The captain elaborated the plan of establishing contact with Princess Lysandra, and taking their place as a secret force to remain at her side-- an ace in the hole to deal with the Royal Guards when the situation called for it.

"Clearstrike was to serve as a token of entry to the capital city, for as you all are aware, she is wanted by the Council. And thus the City Watch would not trouble us much, if the Council has our back. Such was my initial plan."

"To hand me over to the mages and leave me to rot, yeah," mumbled Farren wryly under her breath, twiddling her thumbs. "Like a criminal."

The captain's hand landed on her shoulder. It seemed very little escaped the her notice. "If this company went by such rules, I would've been the first to swing from the gallows. Rest assured," she said. "No one's gonna leave you to die--"

She cut her off. "No. No need for assuring words. I have made the decision to go along with this-- because we need your Sacred Blades to deal with the legions of the undead," said Farren sagely, bringing her hands to her chest. "I am willing to make this sacrifice."

Farren concluded her words by looking forlornly skyward-- only there was no sky here. A wooden chandelier hung from the ceiling, un-dramatically.

"Marvellous performance, my dear." The captain clapped, a bored look on her face. "You and our Hilda would be great at cabaret."

"In any case," began Captain Walric again, "I've chosen to inform Her Highness, Princess Lysandra about this... complication. See if she sends someone."

Gunvald grunted. "This Clearstrike look-alike foils the whole plan, doesn't it? The Council will believe they already have her. We'll make a fool of ourselves, if we enter the city now-- or worse, they'll think we're harbouring some evil doppelganger creature."

"Not if we reach the city before them," said Hilda with a smirk, placing her empty bottle of Goldcrest Whiskey on the table like a grand trophy--which it was.

"Very well. How many days has it been since the mages captured this fake Clearstrike?" asked Bjorn.

Eyes turned to the blond-haired youth, Helmer, who was tentatively sniffing at a goblet of ale, seated beside Ryffin. "The mages I spied on didn't specify. But Corporal spoke of a fight between a Council Mage and Lord Atruer. If we count how many days have passed since then, we have the answer."

"Brilliant!" Farren clapped his shoulder. The previous events leading up to this point arrayed out like a series of pictures in her mind. She snapped her fingers with a loud click. "Two days, at most."

"They can't have reached the capital within that time," Xenro added. "Security has been heightened at the checkposts, this I know for a fact."

"Fair point, that," Gunvald said. "Took us more than half a day just to get from the Lakefront to here."

Recalling her arduous journey to Byton, when Lieutenant Evander had sent her to the Henris manor, Farren shook her head in relief. "All is not lost yet. We can delay them further."

"How?" asked Captain Walric and Gunvald in unison.

Farren rather liked it when the entire hall held its breath and had its attention fixed upon her. She flashed them her dimpled smile.

"Considering they've managed to slog through Lakefront Outpost, their next stop has to be Brittlerock. Yes?"

"Go on."

"This rickety, old wooden bridge just so happens to be on the way," she said, each word drawn out-- a mannerism acquired from the Countess-- "it'd be a shame if it...collapsed. Not a problem for the locals-- there's a ford to the east. But I doubt those city-dweller mages would know of that-- even so, a roundabout way."

The twins Bjorn and Gunvald grinned at that. "Won't take us more than a few hours. Leave the bridge to us."

But the captain interrupted. "And if the mages have crossed the bridge already?"

"Very simple. Folk from the Brittlerock garrison can put up another checkpost like Kinallen, I need only ask. We can handle it all," said Farren. "If you set us free-- me and Helm. Just him, at the least. Someone needs to inform the garrison."

Captain's features took on a skeptical look. "You speak as though the soldiers of Brittlerock will move at your will. You pals with their boss or something?"

"Oh, more than just pals," snickered Farren.

When the captain still looked indecisive, she pressed on. "Look, things would get a lot simpler if you work together with my people. They're good folk, and they want the black-blooded ones dead as much as you do. Surely you'd trust the people Eliora works with?"

Captain grunted. "I suppose."

Farren glanced at the people, at their weapons which would prove vital against the Vasaeni, if only they joined forces with the Midaelian army.

Her friends, squad members had risked their lives to help her escape the Council mage that day.

Now was Farren's turn to pay them back.

"Now," she said, "considering you're holding up Helm here, they're gonna turn up in search of him sooner or later. Sergeant Wolturs and Sergeant Linder will do anything to track him down-- of that I'm sure. Whether you wish to greet them with a smile or a sword-- it's your decision."

An affirmative murmur rose from the men and women. Captain Walric was silent for a long moment, twirling the contents of her tankard. At last, she sighed, looking at Helmer. "Can you find your way back, my boy?"

He smiled.

✦✧✦✧

The hideout of the mercenaries, constructed with exquisite sorcery of Space Manipulation, rose like a gargantuan, hollowed out tree from the main hall. The walls were enchanted to look like the gnarled surface of an ancient oak, painted a dark ochre to further give the impression of being inside a trunk. Farren recognised the candles that burned in the alcoves; likely purchased in bulk from the Silver Knife Square. Their flames never burnt out.

Winding, round-walled hallways spread out in many directions from the hall, some ending in wooden stairs leading to the upper levels, through one of which Ryffin now led Farren and Xenro.

A hint of magic-- Ancient Sorcery, to be specific, ever lingered in the air, yet it was not overbearing. Rather, it was pleasant, like the scent of incense, of rain-soaked earth, of sun-kissed grassy meadows-- all combined together in a soothing ambience.

"So, Witch-doc sir. What part do you play here in this rowdy bunch? Seeing the shelves full of invisibility draughts-- you must sneak in here often," said Farren, a new bounce in her steps, having just struck the deal with the captain.

"Same thing I do at the village. I'm no healer-- but I can brew healing potions, thanks to my time back at the academy. House-calls truly. One of them was having a hard time with a twisted ankle. And in my free time...a bit of practice with Ancient Sorcery." He waved around at the walls around himself.

"Captain spoke of having such an expert of Ancient Sorcery among her folk. I take it's you?" asked Xenro amiably.

Ryffin gave a nervous laugh. "Expert? She is too kind."

"You've built this all? By yourself?" In the God's voice there was fascination.

The alchemist was looking anywhere but at him, eyes bashful.

"Who else?" Farren piped up. "Gods, Ryffin. You're too modest for your own good!"

Ryffin flashed them the same shy but proud smile he gave Farren when she'd marvelled at the hidden floor of his house. "Well, yes. It's the least I could do for the captain. After all, she is the one who provided me shelter, when I was on the run from the High Sorcerer's men."

"Ah, we are all runaways of a sort," said Xenro. "This is splendid."

Ryffin let out a good-natured laugh and Xenro joined in. But Farren wanted answers. Plucking off burlap fibers stuck in her hair-- aftermath of her merry time inside the sack-- she asked, "nice place and all, but care to explain where on earth I actually am? Damned bard carried me in with my head shoved in a bag."

"Gladly, my trespassing friend. We're inside this small hill, off to the northern edge of the woods." Ryffin flung his arms about. "All this-- was part of the excavated ruins of an old castle Captain Walric found. But staying inside those mouldy, crumbling walls was anything but comfortable or safe. Her men did most of the work, really, fixing up the walls, mending the cracks. I changed up a few things to give the place a cosy look."

On he strode, forest-green eyes taking on an excited glimmer as he spoke. "Space Manipulation is simple. As a rule of thumb, you can alter the shape of a given space-- granted the volume remains the same. I merely warped it into this model of a tree from my hometown at Wickhills. The main hall you saw is the stem, and upper levels branch out from there."

"Simple, you say?" Xenro threw his chlamys over his shoulder and spun where he stood, trying to take in all of the many-leveled criss-crossed stairways above, openings set into walls in even intervals for ventilation, charmed candles illuminating the passages in a warm light. He let out a very un-godlike, low whistle. "We need to have a talk about what you call simple."

Ryffin flustered redder than his hair, a shy smile on his face as he scratched the back of his neck and looked at the floor. "The hour's late. Let me show you to your rooms."

He led them to the topmost level. The corridor ended in a stepladder leading to a hatchway on the roof. Their rooms were small yet comfortable, each set with a bed, a small fireplace fitted into the wall, and one round window-- looking out into the star-studded night.

Yet Xenro's focus was elsewhere. "Letting your hostages sleep with that escape route open?" He gestured to the stepladder and hatchway.

"That?" Ryffin shook his head as he placed one boot over the step and swung the panel open with a chuckle. "See for yourself if you can really escape through here."

Steps squeaking underboot, Farren climbed behind them.

They found themselves above ground, at the summit of a hill. Rocky, steep terrain surrounded them, each direction a sheer drop to several feet below. Near the opening where they climbed out of, stood a giant elm tree, leaves swaying with the night breeze. Steps were attached along its trunk, leading them up to a flat wooden platform.

"Welcome to the terrace," said Ryffin.

The woods of Kinallen stretched out in every direction, tall trees like sentries, ever watchful and vigilant.

The alchemist stood with them for a while, then took a hasty leave to head home, remembering he'd forgotten to feed his chickens. "Alright, you two-- get rest, stargaze, talk deep philosophical shite or something. I'm off!"

"To tuck your chickens in?" Farren yelled, peering down, half wishing he wouldn't leave her alone in awkward silence with Xenro.

"Yeah!" His curly red head vanished through the hatchway.

✦✧✦✧

Farren and Xenro sat, legs dangling, at the highest point of the woods. Although the days had become warmer, tonight a crisp chill lingered in the breeze, growing colder by the minute. The mountaintop to the north glittered with snow. Xenro looked rather unaffected by the cold, despite the deplorable condition of his cloak.

Suddenly being left alone with him, she fumbled for things to say-- yet so much was to be said that it would take all night. Jabs at the God of Despair was a surefire way to fill the silence.

"Lord Atruer screwed up bigtime, didn't he?" she said. "Serves him right for trapping you in that statue."

Xenro chuckled-- a genuine, eyes-glittering, cheeks-dimpling smile, one that held no grudge despite their rather bitter parting of ways a few days ago, and it made her feel all the more guilty. It would've been easier to stomach if he'd been angry, or even said some well-deserved harsh words-- Farren had a few responses ready, just in case.

Instead, his face had brightened up in pleasant surprise as he'd strode into the main hall and their eyes met-- not a trace of animosity.

Thus, things had become awkward, because her well-constructed, sharp retorts had suddenly been rendered useless by his aggravatingly kind smile. She knew not what to say.

Argue, damnit! Aren't you a War God or something? Show some of that ill-temper.

He hadn't. Instead he'd laughed with her and the captain merrily like an old friend-- as though these renegade mercenaries were his fellow warriors from a battle long gone. He'd drank to his fill, firelight from the hearth glimmering in his sapphire eyes. She had quit her attempts to prove to them Xenro's true identity, for he looked content enough being a humble part of the crowd rather than being placed on a pedestal-- not that any of the warriors would believe her anyway.

The sorcery in her ring was back again, crackling like embers as soon as the God was back to the mortal lands. The sapphire glittered around her finger.

And a notion hit Farren like a well-aimed pie.

Sweet Draedona, I should apologise for the things I said earlier. Accurate, no doubt, but hurtful things.

She'd spoken disrespectfully of the Chosen Warriors he was eager to venture to the Autumnwind Plains to pay homage to. She'd called them dead-- which they were-- but it hurt him nonetheless. For perhaps the first time, Farren wanted to come clean to her own conscience.

Yes, she would apologise to Xenro. Not only that. She would also speak to Bjorn-- he called me a 'friend', bless him-- and admit she had cheated in the arm-wrestling match, she would--

A large hand, palm lined with old scars, waved in front of her eyes. "You there?" said Xenro.

"Yes," she said, more to herself than him. Apologise. It's not that difficult. "Look, I just wanted to say--"

"Hmm?" There, he was doing it again-- that obnoxiously adorable thing with his face; raised brows and a tiny smirk.

"That I-- uh--" she said, "nice weather we're having today, yeah?"

A sudden burst of ice-cold wind nearly knocked them off their seats. The moisture in the air froze up, snowflakes landing on their faces and hair. Cold air filled her lungs and whipped her hair.

With a crack, like glaciers breaking apart, a stark white portalway began to materialize at the edge of the wooden platform.

Xenro got to his feet, his expression dark.

"Well, well," said he, "long time no see, dear brother."